Forced Marriage Vows

15. Anastasia

CHAPTER 15

Anastasia

T hat’s a deep question. Oddly enough, I don’t think anyone’s every asked me that. I started showing an interest in photography when I was about fifteen. My father never questioned why I suddenly wanted to take classes and learn. He just bought me a camera and made sure I had everything I needed, and things developed from there.

Anthony’s never cared much about me taking pictures. And my mother…

When I look at Mikhail, he’s watching me intently, waiting. I’ve never told anyone this before. But for some reason, I’m unable to deny him whenever he flashes those pretty blue eyes at me.

“The first picture I took after getting my camera was of my family,” I start. “Back then, I always felt like an outsider looking in. It was the last family vacation we had before everything fell apart. Before Papa put a gun in Anthony’s hand and asked him to kill someone.”

Mikhail doesn’t react to what I say. I’m sure he knows all about it.

“My mother was still around then as well,” I continue. “We went to Peru. It was nice. I think we were happy, but I don’t remember if I was. All I know is that when it came to my family, I grew up feeling like I didn’t really belong.”

“Because of your mother,” Mikhail says, heat behind his words.

“That’s right. She was not the most maternal person in the world. Or at least not to me. I grew up receiving stern lectures and disregard from my mother. She preferred showering Anthony with the meager amount of love she had to give. My mother’s a bitch,” I say firmly. “My father didn’t care much, either. I’ve always been his little girl, but he never really doted on me much until he lost Anthony. Once my brother was gone, I became the object of all his attention. Basically, he cared about me before Ant left but once Ant was gone, he cared even more. And I liked it. Pathetic, right?”

His gaze holds mine. “Not even a little bit, solnyshko ,” he murmurs.

I clear my throat, trying to dislodge the sudden lump.

“Anyway, thanks to my lack of parental affection, I developed some form of outsider’s syndrome. Self-diagnosed, of course, and aptly named by yours truly,” I say with a smirk. Mikhail shakes his head, his lips twitching. “When you grow up looking in on the people that are meant to love you, you observe everything from a distance. Looking at things through a camera lens allows me to truly appreciate the beauty of things. Everything’s more admirable when you’re looking at it from afar.”

I shrug once I’m done, wondering if he understood what I was trying to say. Mikhail doesn’t say anything for a long moment. And then he’s moving toward me across the kitchen. My breath hitches when he steps between my spread legs.

The position feels all too familiar. And intimate. My heart races.

“How do I look up close?” he asks, his face dangerously close to mine.

Utterly devastating.

“I can’t tell. This is mildly disturbing,” I murmur, unable to look away from the pull of his eyes.

He smiles. “You don’t have to look through a lens to see me, Anastasia. I’m right here, sweetheart. And I see you—all of you.”

The words are sincere, soft. My breath hitches. “You can’t say things like that.”

“I can say whatever I want.”

My eyes fall shut as I try to find a train of thought that doesn’t run straight to me kissing him. I really want to kiss him right now.

“You don’t fight fair, Morozova,” I whisper.

“When it comes to you? Never,” he promises, the warmth of his breath on my face.

My eyes open and he’s much closer, his mouth inches from mine. But I know he won’t close the gap. Because he’s an asshole who gets off on me being the one to quit. I clench my fists, fighting the urge to do just that.

“Just give in, baby,” he urges.

And I’m about to when a concerning sizzling noise fills the room. I exhale a relieved breath as Mikhail steps back to assess the pot of pasta he’s preparing, which had just started to boil over.

“Saved by our dinner,” Mikhail says, shooting me a look that assures me we’ll continue where we left off.

“Let’s talk about something else,” I suggest, watching as he drains hot water from the pot into the sink.

“I’m listening.”

“How about you talk for once? I’m always the one speaking. Let’s hear about your life, Mr. Morozova,” I counter.

He smirks, turning to face me. “What do you want to know, Mrs. Morozova?”

A chill runs through me. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to having that name used with mine.

“Okay. Let’s do easy meaningless questions. What’s your favorite color?”

“I don’t have one,” he replies, which is no surprise at all. “What’s yours?”

“Green. Slytherin green.”

He looks impressed. “Harry Potter fan?”

“The biggest. I was a huge HP nerd in high school. I singlehandedly created a club for it. Granted, I was the only member, but it’s the thought that counts.”

“So… you’re a Slytherin?”

I shake my head with a grin. “Nope, Hufflepuff. You, on the other hand, are the most Slytherin person to walk this earth.”

“Guilty as charged. What else do you read?”

“I read anything, honestly. As you know, I am unemployed,” I say on a smirk. “Thanks to that, I’ve always had a lot of hobbies over the years. Although none of them ever stuck enough for me to consider it a career.”

Mikhail nods thoughtfully.

I arch an eyebrow. “You got me to talk. Again. Come on, give me something about yourself, Morozova.”

“Why do you care?”

“For one, we live together,” I point out. “Or not? I’d move back to my apartment in a heartbeat if you wanted.”

“Nice try, sweetheart,” he says on a smile. “I was actually going to tell you later. We’re moving into the mansion.”

I blink. “What mansion?”

“Your family’s home,” he clarifies. “It makes more sense for us to live there. It’s the seat of the Pakhan.”

“Oh,” I murmur, thinking that over.

I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about that. Angry? Because at the end of it, he’s doing his best to erase my father and kick him out of his position. I should probably fight it more. I shouldn’t agree with another man living in my father’s house.

But when I look at Mikhail, I know there’s not a single argument I could provide that would make him change his mind.

“Okay.”

Mikhail raises his eyebrows. “Wait, seriously? I was expecting more of a fight.”

“It’s fine. I actually like my family’s house.”

“But you moved out. Why?”

“Because I got tired of all the parties and the people who were always in the house. When we were younger, Papa didn’t let them come and go as they wished. But I guess he just stopped caring.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. It’ll be just us most of the time. I promise.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “You know you have a bad habit of making promises you might not be able to keep.”

He scoffs, “You’re talking to Mikhail Morozova, baby. I always keep my promises.”

The confidence makes him sexy. If not a little arrogant. We don’t speak again until after our meal, which is actually pretty good.

“Where did you learn how to cook?” I ask him once I’ve cleared my plate.

He smiles. “An ex-girlfriend taught me.”

I roll my eyes before I can stop myself. “Seriously?”

He leans back in his chair, the corner of his mouth twitching up in that maddening smirk he wears so well. “Careful. You almost sound jealous.”

My jaw tightens. “Why would I be jealous? I know all about your endless slew of girlfriends and conquests.”

“Conquests? I don’t have conquests, Anastasia.”

“So you’re saying you cared about every single woman you’ve been with?”

He drags a hand through his hair. “I’ll admit that I didn’t care about them. But I respect every single one of them. They weren’t just conquests to me. They were women I was with. They know the score when they get into bed with me, and I make sure to treat them right. No woman who gets into bed with me is ever left unsatisfied. You would know, solnyshko .”

The urge to throw my cup of water in his face hits me. I force myself to remain calm, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me react.

“You’re a pig, Morozova,” I snarl.

“You’re not like them,” he says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. “I chose you, Anastasia. I married you. Every single woman who came before you is inconsequential. You mean so much more than any of them could.”

There’s a beat of silence, heavy and charged, as I stare at him, unsure how to respond. His gaze locks with mine, unwavering, and I feel something twist inside of me, something I refuse to name.

God, why does he make it so hard to hate him?

The air between us feels electric, crackling with something unspoken, and for a moment I can’t breathe. His words hang in the air, heavy with implication. But I don’t want to let myself believe them. Not when I know who he is. Not after all he’s done.

“I don’t want to mean something to you,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.

“I know,” he says, his eyes softening. “But you do.”

My heart races in my chest. “Mikhail…” I start, but he pushes back the chair, getting to his feet.

“You had a long day, sweetheart. And I’ve got a lot of work to do. I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.”

He walks away and I immediately feel awful. Because I can tell he’s trying his best. On some level, I know things could be worse. I could have been forced into a marriage with someone ruthless, cruel, and inhumane. Instead, I got Mikhail.

And I know he can be all of those things. But he’s never been any of them with me.

Lucia is already waiting for me when I pull up to the yoga studio the next morning. She’s leaning against the wall, a bright smile on her face. Her brown hair is pulled into a sleek ponytail, and she’s dressed in a matching athletic set that seems more fashionable than functional. I feel a little underdressed in my plain leggings and loose T-shirt, but she greets me like I’ve just walked off a runway.

“Anastasia! You made it!”

She pushes off the wall and pulls me into a warm hug. Her energy is infectious and I can’t help but smile as I return the embrace.

“I almost didn’t,” I admit, pulling back. “But you’re very persuasive.”

I met Lucia Volkov a couple days ago at the wedding. She’s married to Ivan Volkov, who is one of the most powerful men in the Bratva. Like me, Lucia was also seemingly forced into her marriage to him a couple months back. You wouldn’t know it looking at her now, though. She’s glowing, happy and content. I saw the way she and Ivan looked at each other at the wedding. Especially him. He stared at her like she hung the moon.

“I’m glad you came.”

She invited me to hang out at the wedding because in her words, she’s been in my exact position and she knows exactly how I feel. I’m not sure about that, though.

I’m also not sure if yoga’s an activity I want to be partaking in. Lucia notices me staring up at the building with narrowed eyes and laughs, linking our arms together.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” she tells me as we head toward the entrance. “I’ll buy you a smoothie once we’re done.”

Inside the studio, the calm atmosphere instantly settles something in me. The light scent of lavender fills the air, and soft music plays in the background. It’s peaceful, almost serene, and I understand why Lucia likes it here so much. The room is spacious, with natural light pouring in through large windows. We roll out our mats and settle in, the world outside fading as the instructor guides us through a series of slow, deliberate movements.

By the time we reach the end of the session, my muscles feel looser and my mind, for once, isn’t spinning with endless thoughts. After class, Lucia and I head to the small café next door, and she buys me the smoothie she promised before we sit down outside. The sun’s still warm but not unbearable, and there’s a light breeze that makes the morning almost perfect.

“So,” Lucia says, taking a sip of her smoothie, “I heard you’re into photography. That sounds nice.”

I shrug, stirring my drink absentmindedly. “It’s nothing serious, more of a hobby than anything else.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t say that. I saw some of your pictures on your Instagram. They were beautiful. My favorite is the one you took of the setting sun. You managed to capture something truly amazing.”

I’m surprised that she took the time to go through my pictures. It’s touching. I offer her a grateful smile.

“Thank you, Lucia. Honestly, photography’s pretty special to me.”

“Have you ever thought about taking pictures professionally?”

I shake my head, feeling the disappointment from my epic failure with the Smithsonian. Granted, I turned them down at the end, but that first rejection closed me off completely from trying again.

“Not really,” I reply.

“Would you ever be interested in working professionally?”

I blink at her, wondering at the questions. “What are you getting at?”

Her smile turns mischievous. “Well, I don’t know if you know, but I’ve just started my own fashion magazine. It’s still new, in its early stages, but we’re growing. And I’ve been looking for a photographer who’s not only talented but has an eye for something special. You’d be perfect for the job.”

I’m speechless for a couple of moments. “Wait, are you serious?”

“One hundred percent,” Lucia leans forward, excitement in her light brown eyes. “I have a vision for my magazine, Anastasia. And I think you’d fit that vision. So, what do you think? I promise you’ll like it, and if you don’t, you can always quit. It’s that easy.”

The idea of working with Lucia is tempting. She just seems like such a nice person to be around, and it’s a chance for me to put myself out there. I’m not sure I’m qualified enough for whatever it is she wants me to do, but I’d like to at least try.

“It sounds amazing, Lucia. But?—”

“No buts,” she interrupts, grinning. “Just think about it. No pressure.”

I nod, the idea lingering in my mind. It just might be exactly what I need. We sit in comfortable silence for a moment before Lucia breaks it with a question that feels heavier than the casual tone she uses.

“So, how are things with Mikhail?”

I freeze, my fingers tightening around the cup. Lucia’s eyes land on them before she looks back at me, a knowing glint in her eyes.

“I’m guessing not well. Especially considering you two didn’t even go on a honeymoon.”

I snort. “We don’t even like each other.”

She smiles softly. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

“It’s complicated, Lucia,” I admit. “Incredibly complicated.”

She offers me a sympathetic look. “It’s not easy, being a part of our world. I get what you’re going through. I went through something similar, and my sister did as well. I know how hard it is. You must hate him for what he did to you. Or at least you should, but it’s not always that simple.”

My chest feels tighter when I speak. “I just… I never expected to have feelings for him. But I do. Despite everything,” I say, my voice low as I finally admit the truth to myself.

I like Mikhail Morozova. How could I not? After everything.

“You don’t have to feel bad about it, sweetie. It’s not unusual, especially when you’re in this kind of situation. It’s easy to hate them at first, but people aren’t always as one-dimensional as we think. You start seeing different sides of them. It messes with your head.”

I laugh at that. “Tell me about it. He’s so not who I thought he was. Or maybe he is, but I’m seeing parts of him that make it harder to hate him.”

She leans back, taking a thoughtful sip of her drink.

“Here’s the thing: You’re going to feel what you feel, and that’s okay. You don’t have to justify it to anyone, not even yourself. Your feelings are completely valid. But they also shouldn’t control you. Only you can decide what you want to do. You might not have gotten married willingly, but you’re here now. It’s hard and you hate it, but at the same time, if you try to open your heart, you might just like what’s on the other side of it all.”

I take in all of that quiet, the words resonating within me. “You sound like some sort of sensei. Those are some really cool things you said, o wise one.”

She laughs. “Oh please. I was talking out of my own ass.”

“You made it sound so easy.”

“It’s really not,” Lucia assures me. “But I know you’ll choose the right option and do what’s best for you.”

“Thanks, Lucia,” I say softly. “I really needed that.”

“Anytime.” She grins, playful again. “And hey, maybe the next time we meet up, we’ll be talking about our next magazine cover shoot.”

“We’ll see,” I say with a smile of my own.

I think about what Lucia said the entire way home. The guards drop me off and I head up the elevator in silence, wondering what I’m going to say to Mikhail. He’s not there, though. Which I should have been expecting.

A part of me is glad he isn’t. I’m provided with some respite and time to think and find clarity. He comes back home later that evening and all clarity flies out the window when I take in how tired he looks and the bruise forming on the side of his face.

“What the hell happened to you?” I demand.