Page 29 of The Russian's Innocent Prey
I stood and walked toward the bedroom, already stripping off my shirt. Sleep first, then whatever emotional warfare waited for me in the morning. Because protecting Anya meant more than just keeping bullets away from her—it meant keeping her from knowing how hopeless our situation really was.
Chapter 8 – Anya
My eyes fluttered open to morning light streaming through unfamiliar windows, the events of yesterday crashing back into my consciousness like ice water. The attack. The ultimatum. The hasty ceremony that had bound me to a man who thought I was a mistake worth protecting but not worth loving.
I turned my head slowly, expecting to find the other side of the massive bed empty—Lev had made it clear he wasn’t coming home last night because he had ‘urgent business’.’ Instead, my breath caught in my throat at the sight of him lying next to me, finally still after what must have been hours of restless movement.
He was shirtless, the morning light painting golden streaks across skin that bore more scars than I’d realized. Some looked old, faded to silver lines that spoke of childhood violence. Others were newer, darker, the kind of marks that came from living in a world where survival depended on being faster, stronger, more ruthless than everyone else trying to kill you.
His face looked different in sleep—younger somehow, the harsh lines softened by unconsciousness. His black hair was mussed against the pillow, and his usually perfect control had relaxed enough that I could see the exhaustion etched into his features. Even his hands, still covered by those mysterious black gloves, were curled loosely instead of clenched into the fists I’d grown accustomed to seeing.
For a brief, dangerous moment, my heart did something terrible. It melted. Completely and utterly betrayed everything I’d promised myself about maintaining emotional distance, about treating this marriage like the business arrangement it was supposed to be.
In that moment, I didn’t see the Bratva enforcer who joked while breaking bones. I didn’t see the cold, calculating man who’d dismissed our night together like it meant nothing. I just saw Lev—vulnerable and human and beautiful in a way that made my chest ache with wants I had no business feeling.
I forgot about the violence that shaped him, the world of shadows and blood that he moved through with such ease. Forgot about the way he’d walked away from me without explanation, the clinical way he’d analyzed my virginity like it was a tactical error on my part.
For one perfect, terrifying moment, I was just a woman looking at the man she was falling for against her will and every instinct for self-preservation she possessed.
Then he stirred, his breathing changing from the deep rhythm of sleep to something lighter, and panic shot through me like electricity. The last thing I needed was for him to wake up and see whatever expression was surely written across my face. The softness, the longing, the devastating realization that somewhere between his hands on my skin and his mouth against mine, I’d started caring about him in ways that went far beyond physical attraction.
I scrambled out of bed with as much grace as I could manage, which wasn’t much considering my limbs felt like they were made of lead and my heart was hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape. The hardwood floor was cold under my bare feet, sending shivers up my spine that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the way Lev’s presence seemed to affect every cell in my body.
I made it to the bathroom and closed the door behind me, leaning against it like I’d just escaped some kind of predator. Which, in a way, I supposed I had. Lev was dangerous in more ways than the obvious ones—he was dangerous because he mademe want things I couldn’t have, because he made me forget all the very good reasons I’d sworn off Bratva men in the first place.
The face staring back at me from his bathroom mirror looked like a stranger’s. My hair was a disaster of tangles and waves, my lips still slightly swollen from sleep and memories of his mouth on mine. But it was my eyes that betrayed me most—soft and vulnerable and shining with emotions I had no intention of examining too closely.
I splashed cold water on my face, trying to shock myself back into the kind of composure that had gotten me through yesterday’s chaos. I needed to get to the office, needed to check on Sasha and deal with the inevitable crisis that came from having my assistant shot and my home turned into a war zone. I needed normal, mundane problems that could be solved with phone calls and paperwork instead of bullets and forced marriages.
By the time I emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed in yesterday’s clothes and armor of professional detachment firmly in place, Lev was awake. He was sitting up in bed, all that beautiful vulnerability I’d glimpsed in sleep completely gone, replaced by the sharp-edged awareness that made him so lethal.
His steel-gray eyes tracked my movement across the room as I gathered my purse and phone, and I could feel his attention like a physical weight. I kept my gaze carefully averted, focusing on the mundane task of checking my bag for keys and wallet instead of the way the morning light played across the muscles of his chest.
“Where the hell are you going?” His voice sliced through the room like a blade, carrying an authority that made my spine straighten involuntarily.
I reached for my bag with movements that were perhaps a little too sharp, a little too controlled. “I didn’t realize I was answerable to you.” The words came out cooler than I’dintended, edged with the kind of brittle politeness that was its own form of warfare. “Besides, I didn’t ask who you spent your wedding night with.”
It was a low blow, and we both knew it. The implication hung in the air between us like poison—that he’d left me alone on what was supposed to be our wedding night to be with someone else. That I cared enough about his absence to let it hurt me.
“I was at the office,” he said, his voice going dangerously quiet. “All night. Alone.”
The relief that flooded through me was completely inappropriate and entirely too revealing. I covered it with a shrug that I hoped looked indifferent. “You don’t need to change your lifestyle because you’re married to me. Be with whoever you want.”
Even as I said the words, they tasted like ash in my mouth. The thought of Lev with another woman—touching her the way he’d touched me, making her feel the things he’d made me feel—sent something dark and possessive crawling through my chest. Which was ridiculous, because I had no claim on him beyond a piece of paper signed under duress.
I was already moving toward the door when his hand closed around my wrist, the grip firm enough to stop me in my tracks but not quite painful. Yet. The leather of his gloves was smooth against my skin, a barrier that somehow made his touch more intimate rather than less.
“But you are not allowed to be with any man, Anya.” His voice had dropped to that deadly quiet tone that made smart people start calculating escape routes. “Not while you’re mine.”
My heart started pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it. The possessiveness should have triggered every feminist instinct I possessed, should have made me yank my wrist free and tell him exactly what he could do with his archaicideas about ownership. Instead, it sent heat pooling low in my stomach and made my breath catch in ways that had nothing to do with fear.
He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the lingering scent of his cologne mixed with something darker, more masculine. Close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, which was a mistake because it put my throat in a vulnerable line and made me acutely aware of how much bigger he was than me.
“And I don’t plan on letting you go anytime soon,” he continued, his thumb tracing over my pulse point in a gesture that was probably unconscious but felt entirely too deliberate. “Also, don’t leave this place without telling me. If you do—”
“Or what?” I interrupted, proud that my voice came out steady despite the way my entire nervous system was short-circuiting from his proximity.
The look that crossed his face was answer enough. His eyes went completely cold, the kind of empty that spoke of violence committed without hesitation or regret. For a moment, I saw exactly what his enemies saw in the seconds before he killed them—nothing human, nothing merciful, just predatory calculation wrapped in expensive tailoring.
