When the Painting Tells the Story

ANYA POV.

The darkness was thick, suffocating and inescapable.

My head lolled to the side, the world around me shifting, warping. My limbs were heavy, as if I were sinking into the ground, trapped in a body that refused to listen.

What’s happening? Where am I?

A sharp, pungent scent filled my nose—expensive cologne mixed with the stale tang of cigar smoke.

Voices surrounded me, some near, some distant, speaking in Russian. The words blurred together and my mind struggling to grasp onto anything solid.

“How much did you give her?” a man asked, his voice sharp, impatient.

“Enough to keep her quiet, but she's waking up.”

My stomach twisted. Drugs. They drugged me.

I tried to move, but my arms wouldn’t obey. A harsh tug on my wrist sent cold metal biting into my skin. Handcuffs. My breath hitched. No. No, no, no.

The blindfold over my eyes was tight, pressing into my skin, sealing me in this nightmare. My heartbeat pounded against my ribs, as each beat was a deafening drum of panic.

Footsteps neared, slow and deliberate.

A hand gripped my chin, tilting my face up. The touch was rough, impersonal, like I was nothing more than an object being inspected.

“Krasivaya.” Beautiful.

Disgust curled in my stomach.

A new voice, older, authoritative, cleared his throat. “Let’s begin.”

A hush fell over the room. And then—

“Five million.”

I stiffened. What?

“Seven.”

“Ten.”

No. No, this isn’t real.

My breathing turned shallow. The air was thick, suffocating. I tried to speak, to scream, but my throat was too dry, my tongue too heavy.

“Fifteen.”

A pause. A shift.

And then—

“Hundred.”

The room fell silent. The energy shifted. Even drugged, I felt it. A ripple of unease passed through the crowd. Someone had just walked in.

Low murmurs spread like wildfire.

“Viktor Romanov offers a hundred million,” the auctioneer announced, voice tight.

A chill swept through the room. No one dared counter him.

The gavel slammed down. “Sold.”

I was being moved. Dragged.

My legs barely worked, my body still sluggish from whatever they had given me. My bare feet scraped against the cold floor. The air outside was sharp, freezing against my exposed skin.

I tried to resist, twisting against the grip on my arm. A hand clamped down on the back of my neck.

“Ne vyebuy'sya,” a man hissed. Don’t fight it.

I fought harder.

A sharp yank sent me stumbling forward. My body smacked against something hard—metal. A car. Before I could react, rough hands shoved me inside.

I hit the seat with a thud. My shoulder slammed against the door, pain jolting through my already weak body. I gasped, sucking in a ragged breath.

The door slammed shut.

Silence.

My pulse roared in my ears. My breathing was uneven, chest rising and falling too fast. The air inside the car was heavy, thick with something colder than fear.

And then, I felt him.

A shift in the air. A presence that swallowed everything whole.

I didn't need to see to know.

He was here. My buyer.

A click.

The blindfold was ripped away.

Blinding light stabbed my eyes. I flinched, blinking rapidly. My vision blurred before sharpening into harsh reality.

The car’s interior was dark, sleek leather, smelling of something rich—whiskey, danger, power. And across from me, sitting with terrifying ease, was him.

The Viktor Romanov.

He wasn’t watching me. He was studying me. Like a predator sizing up its prey before the kill.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in all black, his suit crisp, tailored to perfection. His sharp cheekbones and strong jawline looked sculpted, as if carved by the hands of a master artist.

His lips—full, perfectly shaped—held the faintest ghost of a smirk, the kind that made women weak.

But it was his eyes that unsettled me the most—icy blue, so pale they looked almost colorless, void of warmth, of mercy.

How could someone this breathtaking be so cruel?

He belonged on the cover of a magazine, not in a world of blood and violence. But then again, devils were always the most beautiful.

I forced my spine straight, even though my body ached. Even though I could still feel the weight of the drugs slowing my limbs.

His lips curved, the faintest hint of amusement flashing across his face before disappearing.

“Ty boish’sya menya?” he murmured. Are you afraid of me?

I swallowed hard, my throat tight. Yes.

But I didn’t give him the satisfaction.

“No.”

The smirk deepened, slow and cruel. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, watching me like I was something breakable. Like I was already his.

“Lzhivaya devochka,” he murmured. Lying girl.

My hands curled into fists. “I want to leave.” My voice was hoarse, raw, but steady.

His expression didn’t change. If anything, the amusement faded.

“You belong to me now, Kukolka,” he said, voice silk and steel. Little doll.

Something dark lurked beneath his words. A promise. A warning.

I inhaled sharply, my pulse hammering.

He tilted his head, watching me, tapping a gloved finger against the glass in his hand.

“Try to run, and I will break you,” he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Ponimayesh'?” Understand?

I didn’t answer.

His fingers reached out, gripping my chin, forcing me to look at him. His touch was deceptively light, but there was no mistaking the power behind it.

“Understand?”

I clenched my teeth.

“Go to hell.”

Silence.

Then—he laughed. Low. Dark.

The sound sent a chill straight down my spine.

Viktor leaned back, taking another sip of his drink. “You’ll find, kukolka, that hell is much closer than you think."

The car jerked forward, speeding into the unknown.

And I knew—this was only the beginning.

The car moved smoothly, but my head still pounded from whatever drug they had used on me. My body felt sluggish, my limbs heavy, but my mind was beginning to clear.

Through the tinted window, I saw it—the massive estate looming ahead. The architecture was old, almost medieval, with towering stone walls that stretched endlessly in every direction. A fortress. No, a prison.

A slow shiver crawled down my spine.

“Take a good look,” a voice drawled lazily beside me. I turned to find those ice-blue eyes watching me, amusement flickering behind them.

Viktor Romanov smirked, tilting his head slightly. “Potomu chto dazhe yesli ty poprobuyesh, tebe ne sbegnut” (Because even if you try, you won’t escape.)

My fingers curled into fists.

The car rolled to a stop, and before I could think, the doors swung open. Hands grabbed me—rough, impatient. I twisted, struggled, but my body was still weak.

“Let go of me!” I hissed, thrashing as I was dragged out onto the gravel.

I heard laughter.

“Still got some fight in you, hm?” One of the men sneered in Russian, gripping my arm tighter.

I stumbled as they hauled me toward the entrance. The heavy wooden doors swung open, revealing a grand but eerily empty hall. Dim lighting cast long shadows across the polished floors.

Up the stairs. My feet barely kept up as they pulled me forward. The scent of aged wood and cold stone filled my lungs. My heart slammed against my ribs.

“Please—” The word slipped out before I could stop it.

No response. No mercy.

A door creaked open, and before I could react, I was shoved inside. My knees hit the cold floor, my body collapsing in a heap.

The last thing I heard before darkness swallowed me whole was the click of the lock.