Chapter 63 The Truth in the Dark
The library was dark when Anya slipped through the door.
She closed it behind her softly, her back against the wood, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The garden had been cold, Dmitri's words colder, and she needed a moment. Just a moment to breathe, to think, to remember who she was when he wasn't looking at her with those grey eyes that saw too much.
The room was silent. The fire was dead, the lamps unlit, the books nothing but shadows on the walls. She stood in the darkness, her hands pressed flat against the door, her heart pounding in her chest, and tried to quiet the storm in her head.
She didn't hear him move.
One moment she was alone. The next, his body was against hers, his hand on her mouth, his chest pressed to her back, his breath hot in her ear. She stiffened, her hands flying up, but she knew him. She knew the shape of his hands, the warmth of his skin, the way he breathed when he was trying to control something he couldn't name.
She didn't fight. She let him hold her, let him press her against the door, let him breathe her in like she was the only thing keeping him alive.
"I watched him touch you." Dima's voice was low, rough, barely a whisper. "I watched him take your hand. I watched him walk you through the garden. I watched him stand close enough to kiss you, and I couldn't do anything. I couldn't stop him. I couldn't kill him. I couldn't—"
His hand dropped from her mouth, and she turned in his arms, her face inches from his, her grey eyes finding his in the dark.
"You did what I asked. You waited."
"I watched him touch you." His hands were on her face, her shoulders, her arms, like he was trying to wipe away the memory of Dmitri's fingers on her skin. "I watched him put his hands on you, and I wanted to kill him. I wanted to tear him apart. I wanted to—"
She kissed him. Hard, desperate, her fingers twisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. He made a sound against her mouth, something between a groan and a sob, and then his hands were in her hair, on her back, pulling her up, pressing her against the door.
His mouth was hot, demanding, nothing gentle in it. He kissed her like he was trying to erase everything that had happened tonight, like he could replace the memory of Dmitri's cold fingers with the heat of his own hands, like he could prove something to himself that he was afraid wasn't true.
She kissed him back the same way, her nails digging into his shoulders, her legs wrapping around his waist when he lifted her. She wanted him to erase everything. She wanted him to make her forget the way Dmitri had looked at her, the way he'd spoken about her father, the way he'd touched her like she was something he already owned.
He carried her away from the door, across the dark room, his hands tight on her thighs, his mouth never leaving hers. They hit something—a table, a chair, she didn't care—and he turned, pressing her against the bookshelf. Books shifted behind her, the wood cool against her back, his body hot against her front.
He pulled back, his chest heaving, his eyes wild in the darkness.
"Tell me you're not considering this. Tell me you're not thinking about saying yes to him."
She reached up, her hands framing his face, her thumbs tracing the line of his cheekbones. He was shaking. She could feel it, the tremor running through his body, the fear he was trying to hide behind his anger.
"I'm thinking about how to destroy him." Her voice was steady, certain. "And I need you to help me."
He stared at her for a long moment, his breath harsh in the silence. Then he kissed her again, harder, deeper, his hands pulling at her dress, her hair, her skin. She matched him, her fingers tearing at his shirt, her teeth catching his lip, her body arching into his like she could climb inside him and hide from the world outside.
He had her dress up around her waist before she could breathe, his hands rough on her thighs, her hips, the place where she was already wet and waiting for him. She gasped when he touched her, her head falling back against the books, a book tumbling to the floor somewhere in the dark.
"I need you to trust me." Her voice was broken, desperate. "I need you to let me do this. I need you to let me—"
He pushed inside her before she could finish, and the words died in her throat. He was rough, desperate, his hands tight on her hips, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath ragged in her ear. She wrapped her legs around him, pulled him deeper, held him closer, let him take what he needed.
This wasn't gentle. This wasn't tender. This was the thing that lived under his skin when he watched another man touch her, the thing that burned in his chest when he thought about losing her, the thing that had been clawing at him since the moment she walked back into this house and let Dmitri Smirnov pull out her chair.
"Tell me you're mine." His voice was low, rough, a command and a plea. "Tell me you're not his. Tell me you'll never be his."
She pulled his head down, her lips against his ear, her voice a whisper in the dark.
"I'm yours. I've always been yours. He can have the contract. He can have my signature. He can have whatever piece of paper he thinks will make me his. But I will never be his. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever."
He moved inside her, hard and fast, and she let him. She let him take her against the bookshelf, let him mark her, let him claim her. She wanted him to leave marks on her skin that Dmitri would never see, wanted him to remind her who she was when she was playing the part of someone else.
The bookshelf shook. Books fell. The sound of their breathing filled the room, ragged, desperate, the sound of two people who had nothing left but each other.
She came first, her body clenching around him, her cry muffled against his shoulder. He followed a moment later, his face buried in her neck, his body shuddering against hers, his hands still tight on her hips.
They stayed like that for a long moment, pressed together in the dark, the cold books at her back, his warmth at her front, the silence of the house settling around them.
He pulled back slowly, his hands sliding up her body, her face, her hair. His eyes were calmer now, the wildness banked, the fear still there but buried deeper.
"What do you need me to do?"
She kissed him softly, her lips lingering on his, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw.
"I need you to trust me. I need you to let me play this part. I need you to be the man who lost me, the man who couldn't fight for me, the man who let Dmitri Smirnov take what he wanted. I need you to make him believe that you've given up. That you've accepted what's coming. That you're not a threat."
His jaw tightened. "You want me to pretend I've lost you."
"I want you to let him think he's won. It's the only way to make him careless. The only way to get close enough to destroy him." She pressed her forehead to his. "Can you do that? Can you watch him touch me, talk to me, pretend to court me, and let him believe you're not going to kill him the first chance you get?"
He was quiet for a long moment. She felt his hands on her waist, steady now, his breathing slow.
"I can do anything if it means keeping you safe. If it means ending this. If it means we get to have a future." He kissed her forehead, her cheek, her lips. "But when it's over, when he's gone, I'm never letting you go again. Never."
She smiled, small and fierce. "When it's over, you won't have to."
He helped her down, his hands gentle now, careful. He straightened her dress, smoothed her hair, tucked a strand behind her ear. His touch was soft, tender, nothing like the desperate hands that had held her against the bookshelf.
She watched him in the darkness, this man who had waited for her at the gate, who had trusted her when she asked him to, who was willing to pretend he'd lost her so she could win.
"I love you," she said. She'd never said it before, not like this, not in the light, not where he could see her face. "I love you, and I'm going to come back to you. When this is over, I'm going to come back to you, and we're going to build something that none of them can touch."
His hands stilled on her face. His eyes were bright in the darkness, brighter than she'd ever seen them.
"I love you too." His voice was rough, raw. "I've loved you since the moment you looked at me across that cathedral and didn't flinch. I'll love you until the day I die. And if you don't come back to me, if he takes you from me, I will burn this world to the ground looking for you."
She kissed him, soft and slow, a promise she intended to keep.
"Then you better be ready. Because when this is over, I'm going to need you to catch me."
He pulled her close, his arms around her, his face buried in her hair. They stood like that in the dark library, surrounded by the ghosts of her father and his mother, by the secrets they'd buried, by the future they were fighting for.
When she finally pulled away, her eyes were clear, her hands steady.
"Go. Before someone sees you. Before he suspects."
He didn't want to. She could see it in his face, the way his hands lingered on her arms, the way his eyes traced her face like he was memorizing it.
"Tomorrow," he said. "I'll be waiting."
She watched him go, his figure disappearing into the darkness, the door closing behind him without a sound. She stood alone in the library, her dress straightened, her hair smoothed, her body still humming with the memory of his hands.
She thought of Dmitri, sleeping upstairs, dreaming of the contract she was going to sign. She thought of her father, buried somewhere in the cold ground, waiting for her to finish what he'd started. She thought of Dima, waiting in the shadows, ready to catch her when she fell.
She touched her lips, still warm from his kiss.
The game was just beginning. But she knew, now, how it was going to end.
\---
Upstairs, Dmitri Smirnov stood at his window, looking out at the dark grounds. He'd seen her go into the library. He'd seen him follow.
He should be angry. He should be worried. He should be calling his father, his people, anyone who could tell him what to do about a woman who let her lover touch her in the dark while pretending to consider his proposal.
But he wasn't angry. He wasn't worried. He was something else. Something that tasted like victory.
She was fighting him. She was resisting. She was doing everything she could to pretend she wasn't already his.
But he'd seen her face when he touched her hand. He'd seen the way her breath caught, the way her eyes darkened, the way her body responded to him despite everything she wanted him to believe.
She would sign the contract. She would become his wife. And Dima Volkov, with his desperate hands and his desperate love, would watch her walk away.
He smiled, his reflection pale in the dark glass.
Let her have her library. Let her have her lover. Let her pretend, for one more night, that she had any choice in what was coming.
Tomorrow, she would be his.
She kisses him instead. "I'm thinking about how to destroy him. And I need you to help me.”