Page 1 of Hers to Command

Chapter One

Anya

The pencil skirt I donned this morning moves around my legs like it’s trying to trip me up. It’s not a typical wardrobe problem I face, just another mind fuck in a day full of them.

Women are commodities. That much I’ve known for my entire life. It might be distasteful, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Nor does it make it feel any better now that I’m the one being sold off like a fucking racehorse.

Father has always been dead set on getting me married off so I can play housewife to some asshole instead of letting me take over the damn business the way I’ve planned.

My brother Mikhail was supposed to act as the official head while I run things.

A perfect plan gone to shit.

Fucked over by every single man I’ve ever trusted.

My heels don’t make a sound as I move over the plush carpeted floor of the private lounge of our biggest club, Downsview Park. Women are already dancing on each of the three stages that take up the large main floor even though it’s barely afternoon. The club is in the same building as my father’s office and Bratva headquarters, which are upstairs, a show of trust to the psychopath he’s invited here to fuck up all of my plans.

Well, fuck them up even more than Mikhail already managed.

“Father.” My greeting is gentler than he deserves, but it’s difficult to see him as the man he is when I look into the face of the man who doted on me as a child. The man who is now a bare shadow of himself thanks to Cystic fibrosis.

“Sit, Anya.”

He points at the couch next to his armchair and I follow his direction. Aligning my heels, I let my knees fall sideways in the demure way Ms. Bennett had taught us to sit in etiquette school.

Unclench hands. Breath evenly. That technique I taught myself. It’s a common-sense response to spending your life among predators who feed on weakness.

“When will they be here?” It’s impossible not to make the question sound like an accusation. I’ve had exactly one hour to come to terms with the bombshell my father dropped on me on the phone. No chance to ask questions. No option to argue my case. Only the click of the connection ending after my father delivered his message.

Today I will meet the man I’m supposed to marry.

I’ve known for a while. It’s never been a surprise, but it was different before. A looming thing in the future. Something I had time to deal with, especially while my father still harbored hope that Mikhail would come to his senses. Then my brother decidedto get hitched to a fucking Italian and my father pulled the trigger.

Not literally, unfortunately. Instead, I’m the one getting fucked over, while my father pretends Mikhail is dead.

“They’ll be here in a few minutes. We will greet them together as is appropriate.”

The way my father says it through clenched teeth is all the confirmation that he hates this as much as I do. Gone are the days when he could make others wait for him and enter the room when they were already seated to assert his dominance. Not when the air tank he needs to drag around with him ruins that effect so completely.

The silence stretches, interrupted only by the ragged breathing that necessitates, in my father’s eyes, this move. It’s not like either of us wants to discuss what is happening in a church across the city right this very minute. Then, a knock sounds at the door and Vlad opens it with his usual sour expression. “Mr. Solntsev is here.”

My stomach wants to revolt, but that’s hardly an option, so I swallow the bitter bile. My father doesn’t rise from his seat, receiving a frown from Dmitri Solntsev, who walks into the room with an entourage of two burly guys.

So much for trust. Not that anyone would have expected anything different from a human trafficker.

“Welcome to Toronto,” my father greets them, and Solntsev takes in the air tank and my father’s appearance, his frown changing to an expression of pity that has got to piss my father off, though impressively he manages not to let it show.

Goes to show just how screwed I really am.

Damn Mikhail for abandoning me. I’ve never been a girl that wants a guy to rescue her, but I know better than most that women are the first to get screwed over. Always. I should have acted sooner. I had intended to. Instead, I didn’t.

What is it about girls wanting to please their fathers so damn much?

“Thank you, Adrik,” Solntsev says, pulling me back into the shit-show of the present.

As I study him, Solntsev’s eyes travel to me, and I work hard not to shudder. His tiny pig eyes are lit with the creepy greed I often see in the men visiting our clubs, where women dance and fuck men for money. Showing any reaction will count against me, for sure, but when his tongue darts out like he’s a creepy reptile, I can’t help flinching back.

It might have just been a tiny movement, but the expression of triumph on Solntsev’s face tells me he noticed. Grinding my teeth, I suppress the urge to get up and walk out of here.

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