All Chapters of Crimson vows : Chapter 1 - Chapter 5

Anya’s POVI sit on the wide window sill, knees pulled to my chest, book open on my lap. The pages are yellow and soft, like old skin. Outside, Moscow snow falls slow and quiet, covering the dirty street in white lies. The radiator hisses but gives no heat. My fingers are cold around the book.Crash. Glass breaks downstairs. A bottle hits the wall, sharp like ice cracking. A man shouts; my father. His voice is thick with vodka and anger. I do not move. I know the sound. Bottle meets wall. Wall wins. He will sleep on the floor tonight. I close the book. The Nutcracker. I used to dance Clara on the Bolshoi stage when I was fourteen. Pink tights, sugar-plum crown, lights so bright they burned my eyes. The audience clapped like thunder. Papa stood in the wings, proud, not drunk yet. I spun until the world blurred. My toes bled inside satin, but I smiled. That was power. Now the book in my lap is just paper and dust. It weighs more than my broken pointe shoes because dreams are heavy

Anya’s POVPapa drags me through the big doors. My hand hurts in his grip. The Bolshoi smells wrong tonight. Not the sweet roses and old wood I remember. It smells like thick smoke, strong drinks, and something sharp; like fear. The lights are gold, but they feel cold on my skin. People talk in low voices. Men in black suits stand like statues. Women in shiny dresses laugh too loud. No one looks at me with kind eyes.We walk past the grand hall. My heart jumps. I know this place. I danced here when I was little. The stage is big and empty now. No music. No soft shoes. No flowers. We turn left instead of right. Down a hall I've never seen before. The carpet is red and thick. My borrowed shoes sink in. The walls have dark paintings. Men with hard faces. Gold frames. Their eyes follow me. Dark. Cold. Hungry. Like wolves in the paintings. I feel them on my back. My neck. My legs. My heart beats fast. Run, my mind says. Run now. But my feet stay. Stuck. I want to scream. I want to

Anya’s POVMy knees want to fold. They feel weak.I try to pull away, jerking my wrist hard, twisting it like I have done a hundred times before when someone held me too tight. But Nikolai’s fingers stay locked around me like iron. Cold, strong, unbreakable. Blood from his glove smears on my skin.I stare at the red line running down my arm like a warning. Then I look at the man on the floor. His chest moves slow, so slow it might stop any second. His eyes are open, but they are empty. Just holes where a person used to be. My throat closes. I whisper, “You are lying.” My voice cracks. It sounds small. Childish.Nikolai says nothing. Not a word. His ice-blue eyes watch me. No blink. No pity. Nothing.He lets go of my wrist. The sudden freedom makes me stumble back half a step. He turns to Lev. “Clean the trash.”Lev does not hesitate. He grabs the man’s ankles. Drags him across the thick carpet. A wet line follows; red, long, glistening under the soft light. The door opens. The