Chapter 6 THE VOLKOV LEASH
The library felt as though the oxygen had been vacuumed out of it the moment Dima turned his back. Anya remained frozen in the high-backed leather chair, her skin still prickling where his finger had traced the line of her collarbone. The sensation was a brand, a cold mark of ownership that seemed to vibrate against her pulse.
The scent of him—that sharp, addictive mix of sandalwood and ozone—lingered in the stagnant air, mocking her attempt at sanctuary. She looked down at the book in her lap, a heavy volume on Renaissance aesthetics, but the words were merely black smears against the page. Her mind was a chaotic storm of defiance and a terrifying, unwanted awareness of the man who now held the leash.
"Anya?"
The intercom chime on the wall near the mahogany shelves made her jump. It was his voice again—low, resonant, and impossibly calm.
"I am still here, Mr. Volkov," she replied, her voice sounding thinner than she liked. She hated the way she sounded—like a bird fluttering against the bars of its cage.
"My office. Five minutes," the voice commanded, followed by the clinical click of the connection severing.
Anya stood, her legs feeling slightly liquid. She smoothed her dark sweater, an act of habit more than vanity. She needed to be sharp. She needed to be the version of herself that her father had raised—the one who could analyze a painting’s hidden subtext with a single glance. If Dima wanted to dismantle her mind, she would have to turn hers into a fortress.
The walk to his office felt longer this time. Every security camera she passed felt like a physical weight on her shoulders. When she reached the reinforced door, it slid open before she could even raise her hand to knock. He was waiting.
Dima wasn't behind the desk this time. He was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, silhouetted against the stark morning light that flooded the room. He looked like a statue carved from shadow and ice.
"Sit, Anya," he said without turning around. He didn't point to the chair; he simply stated it as a fact of nature.
Anya walked to the chair—a sleek, minimalist thing of chrome and black leather—and sat. She kept her spine perfectly straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She noticed a small, high-tech device on the desk between them, a sleek silver cylinder that looked both elegant and menacing.
"You mentioned earlier that you were not privy to your father's legal legacy, Dima began, finally turning. He walked toward the desk with a slow, predatory grace. "I find that difficult to believe, given how closely you worked with him in his final months."
"I assisted him with his archives, Mr. Volkov," Anya said, her voice regaining its steady, defensive edge. "I am an art student. I cataloged his collection of rare manuscripts. I didn't manage his offshore accounts or his 'informational assets.'"
Dima reached the desk but didn't sit. He leaned over it, bracing his weight on his palms, bringing his face level with hers. Up close, the imperfections in his perfection were visible—a tiny, jagged scar near his temple, the slight unevenness of his breathing. It made him more real, and therefore, more dangerous.
"Archives," Dima repeated, the word sounding like a riddle. "And yet, in those archives, there are gaps. Large, intentional voids where data should be. Data regarding a specific set of liquidated holdings."
Anya felt a cold trickle of sweat between her shoulder blades. "My father was a private man. If there are gaps, perhaps he felt the information was not meant for public consumption."
Dima’s light grey eyes searched hers, intense and unblinking. "I am not the public, Anya. I am your family now. And within this family, secrets are the only currency that matters."
He tapped the silver cylinder on the desk. A soft blue light began to pulse rhythmically at its base.
"Do you know what this is?" he asked softly.
"A paperweight?" Anya countered, her heart beginning a slow, heavy thud against her ribs.
Dima gave a short, dry laugh—a sound like glass breaking. "It’s a biometric sensor. It measures atmospheric shifts, vocal tremors, and... physiological responses. It’s very sensitive. It can hear things you don't even know you're saying."
Anya stared at the pulsing blue light. It felt like a third eye in the room, watching her from the inside out. "Is this how you conduct all your 'family' meetings, Dimitri? With interrogation tools?"
"Only when the family members are as talented at lying as you are," he replied. He moved around the desk, stopping so close that his knee brushed the edge of her skirt. The heat from his body was a physical provocation. "Let’s talk about your father’s 'liquidity.' Specifically, the funds he moved three days before his heart failed. Three million dollars, converted into untraceable digital credits. Where is the key, Anya?"
Anya felt her throat tighten. She thought of the small, old-fashioned brass key her father had pressed into her hand in his final hours, whispering about a "safety net." She had hidden it inside the lining of her vintage camera bag, a secret she intended to take to her grave.
"I don't know anything about three million dollars," Anya said, her voice rising slightly. "My father was struggling. We were losing the apartment. If he had that kind of money, why would he let us suffer?"
"To protect it," Dima said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "To ensure that when the Volkovs finally came for his legacy, there would be something left for his daughter to use as leverage. He was a smart man, your father. He knew the cage was coming."
"You're imagining ghosts, Dimitri," Anya insisted. She tried to slow her breathing, tried to think of something neutral—the blue of a Renaissance sky, the texture of oil paint. "He died with nothing but his books and his debts. That is the truth."
Dima didn't move. He didn't blink. He simply watched the silver cylinder. The blue light began to flicker, turning a sharp, accusatory violet.
"It’s a fascinating thing, the human body," Dima murmured, his gaze shifting from the device to her face. He reached out, his hand hovering just inches from her throat. He didn't touch her, but the proximity made her skin burn. "It tries so hard to protect the mind’s fictions. But the blood... the blood never lies."
Anya felt her pulse hammering in her neck, a frantic, rhythmic pounding that felt loud enough to fill the entire room. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was bone-dry.
"I'm telling the truth," she whispered, the lie feeling like a physical weight on her tongue.
Dima’s eyes darkened, a flash of something that looked like triumph—or perhaps, a deeper, darker hunger—flickering in the grey depths. He leaned in closer, his scent of sandalwood and ozone now a thick, intoxicating cloud around her.
"Do you know what I see when I look at you, Anya?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous vibration.
"A liability?" she managed to say, her voice trembling.
"I see a masterpiece of deception," he replied. He moved his hand, his thumb grazing the side of her neck, right over the carotid artery. His touch was warm, firm, and terrifyingly possessive.
Anya gasped, her heart jumping into her throat. She tried to pull away, but the back of the black leather chair offered no escape. He held her there with nothing but his presence and the light pressure of his thumb.
"I can feel it, you know," Dima said, his eyes locked on hers with a devastating, analytical intensity. "The way your heart is trying to leap out of your chest. The way your skin is heating up under my hand."
He leaned down, his lips ghosting against the shell of her ear. The sensation sent a shiver of pure, unadulterated terror—and something far more forbidden—down her spine.
"You speak of your father's liquidity with such conviction, Anya," Dima whispered, his breath hot against her skin. "But your pulse... it’s telling a much more interesting story."
Anya shut her eyes, her mind racing for a way out, for a better lie, for any shield against his scrutiny.
"Your pulse quickens when you speak of your father's liquidity, Anya," Dima stated with a chilling, final clarity, his thumb pressing just a fraction harder against her thrumming vein. "It’s a beautiful, rhythmic confession. You know exactly where the money is. And now, I know exactly how to make you tell me."
Anya’s eyes snapped open, meeting his predatory gaze. In that moment, the sterile, high-tech office felt smaller than any prison cell she could imagine. She realized with a sickening jolt of certainty that he wasn't just watching her words; he was watching her soul through the rhythm of her blood.
The silence that followed was heavy, charged with a new, dangerous electricity. Dima didn't pull away. He remained there, his hand on her neck, his eyes boring into hers, waiting for the first crack in her fortress. Anya realized, with a surge of cold panic, that every physiological reaction she had was now a weapon in his hands, and she was already losing the war.