Chapter 5 The Library and the Leash
Evelyn, distraught by the tension and the shocking order from Nikolai, retreated to the bathroom, clutching the diamond cuff as if it could shield her from the sudden anxiety.
Anya retrieved the hairpin, slipping the thin metal back into her hair. The forced withdrawal from university was the final blow to her independence. She could no longer rely on external schedules or social contact. Her only weapon now was her mind, and she needed information—a quiet place to think and, perhaps, to research.
A library. Every fortress has a library. That is where I must go.
Anya waited until the sounds of running water and Evelyn's muffled cries subsided. She put on a simple, dark sweater—rejecting the new, luxurious but confining clothes Ivan’s assistant had presented—and slipped out of the suite.
The main corridors were silent, sterile, and endless. She walked with a purposeful, measured pace, relying on the internal logic of large estates to guide her. She found the grand staircase and descended two levels, the echoing sound of her footsteps amplified by the marble and high ceilings. The pervasive scent of ozone and the subtle, lingering cold of the air conditioning were constant reminders of the house’s watchful, automated nature.
Finally, tucked away in a dimly lit, vast alcove, she found it: a colossal, two-story library, its walls lined floor-to-ceiling with leather-bound volumes. The air here was different, thick with the comforting, slightly musty smell of old paper and wood.
Anya sighed, a moment of profound, painful relief washing over her. She ran her fingers over the spine of a dusty, forgotten volume of Latin poetry. A place that holds knowledge. A place that holds power.
She found a quiet corner behind a towering stack of texts on international law and sank into a worn, leather armchair, pulling a random book onto her lap as cover. Her actual goal was to observe and plan. She needed to understand the true layout of this cage.
She was there for perhaps twenty minutes, allowing the quiet rhythm of the room to soothe her frayed nerves, when the silence was abruptly broken.
A sudden, sharp scent of sandalwood and ozone permeated the air, followed by the quiet, controlled cadence of footsteps. Dimitri Volkov entered the library.
He was dressed now in dark, high-quality casual wear—expensive black trousers and a charcoal sweater—but he exuded the same absolute authority he had worn behind the desk. His eyes, those penetrating light grey sensors, immediately swept the room, pausing only when they locked onto her position.
Anya froze, her hand gripping the book so tightly her knuckles whitened. How did he find me so fast?
Dima walked directly toward her corner, his steps silent and precise. He didn't acknowledge the library's vastness or the beauty of the books; his entire focus was on her.
"I might have known," Dima stated, stopping a foot from her chair, his shadow falling over her. His voice was low, carrying just enough resonance to assert ownership over the space. "Avoiding your assigned wing to seek refuge among dead philosophers. A predictable, defensive retreat."
He hadn't just followed her; he had predicted her move. He was asserting ownership over her time and her refuge.
Anya refused to jump up. She slowly lowered the book, meeting his gaze. "I am acclimating, Mr. Volkov. I find quiet reflection helpful."
"Do you?" Dima leaned one hand against the shelf right beside her head, trapping her in the corner. His physical presence was dominating and unnerving, yet he didn't touch her. "I thought you were dedicating your focus to 'new family responsibilities,' as per my father's mandate?"
"I am currently reviewing my new schedule, which has unfortunately become far too open," Anya countered, her voice steady despite the intense rush of heat his proximity caused. She anchored herself by noticing the tiny imperfections in the leather of the chair beneath her fingers.
Dima’s lips curved into a cold, dismissive smile. "Your schedule is not 'open,' Anya. It is entirely my jurisdiction now. And this library is not a refuge. It is also my jurisdiction."
He reached past her, not to a book, but to a small, intricate security keypad hidden behind a panel on the shelf. He tapped in a code, and a soft, low beep confirmed the action.
"You will use this space when I assign its use," Dima dictated, his breath brushing her ear, "for research pertinent to your new obligations. If you require private study hours, you will submit a formal request through Ivan for approval."
Anya felt a spike of helpless anger. "You are controlling my ability to read and think?"
"I am controlling the movement of an asset whose previous financial connections threaten the stability of this house," Dima corrected, his light eyes intensely serious. "You are here now to serve a purpose, not to cultivate intellectual defiance."
He straightened up slowly, forcing her to look up at him. "Understand this, step-sister," he said, using the familial term with a chilling, proprietary emphasis that stripped it of any warmth. "I know you were just testing the leash by retreating here. But I am watching every reaction. Every withdrawal. Every attempt at independence will be met with immediate containment."
Anya stared back at him, terrified by his absolute clarity and control, but recognizing that submission was death. She would not let her fear show in her eyes.
Dima reached out a single finger, and very slowly, very lightly, trailed it along the delicate bone of her collarbone, a non-sexual, purely proprietary touch. "Do not assume any part of this fortress—or your time within it—is yours. I am watching you, and I am waiting for you to fail." He then turned and walked away, leaving her trembling, cornered, and utterly marked by his silent authority.