What would she look like walking through my house instead of Dmitri’s?
The image arrives instantly. Anya barefoot on the dark wood floors. Blonde hair loose over bare shoulders. That carefulcomposure finally gone. Looking at me the way she did in the corridor, only softer this time. Hungrier.
I grip the glass tighter.
Jesus Christ. I should not be thinking this way.
About her, or about any woman connected to Dmitri.
But my mind keeps returning to small details I shouldn’t even remember. The way her breath caught when I stepped close to her. The flush spreading slowly across her throat. The way she tried to argue with me while obviously nervous.
And underneath all that polish and attitude, something else.
Inexperience.
I noticed it immediately. Not innocence exactly. She’s too aware of herself for that. But there’s a hesitation to her reactions, a curiosity she doesn’t know how to hide yet.
It affects me more than it should.
I set the drink down harder than necessary and lean both hands against the kitchen counter. For one moment, I imagine backing her against it instead. Her white dress pushed up beneath my hands. Her eyes wide from the size of me, the closeness of me. That proud mouth finally breaking open on a gasp when I touch her properly.
Heat hits me low and immediate.
I close my eyes briefly.
This is insanity. I barely know her. But my body clearly doesn’t care. By the time I look down, I’m hard enough that it’s genuinely irritating.
I let out a quiet curse and drag a hand over my jaw.
All this over a girl who will belong to Dmitri in two weeks.
The thought should kill whatever this is. Instead, it makes something darker move through me.
Because Dmitri won’t appreciate her.
That much, somehow, I already know.
5
ANYA
The wedding day arrives.
For two weeks, I keep waiting for something to go wrong. For Dmitri to call it off. For his family to change their mind. For my father to come into my room with that tight, panicked face and tell me the Volkovs have reconsidered.
But no one cancels.
Dmitri stays distant, yes. Short messages. Missed calls. Excuses about work, meetings, family business. Still, every time I ask if everything is fine, he says the same thing.
Of course, baby. Stop worrying.
So I stop asking.
Now I stand in front of the mirror in the bridal suite of the Volkov estate, dressed in white, and finally let out a breath.
It’s happening. I’m getting married.
The gown is beautiful. Even I can admit that without pretending to be modest. Ivory silk clings to my waist and hips before fallinginto a long, heavy skirt. The neckline is soft, elegant, not too low, though Dmitri’s mother still complained about it at the final fitting. Lace sleeves cover my arms, and tiny pearls are sewn into the bodice, catching the light every time I move.