Anya felt a tiny spark of rebellion, small and childish, but it was all she had. She stared at the untouched plate of food Irina left behind. It felt like a quiet win, even if she knew it wouldn’t last long.
An hour passed, maybe more, before the door creaked open. It wasn’t Irina this time. Misha, Damien Volkov’s towering right-hand man, stood there. His face was hard, unreadable, just like his boss.
“Mr. Volkov wants you in the dining room,” he said, his voice flat.
Not a question, not even a polite ask. It was an order.
Anya’s stomach twisted tight. She hadn’t moved from the desk chair. The cold food sat there, almost mocking her.
“I already...” she began, her voice barely a whisper.
“Now, Miss Petrova,” Misha cut in, leaving no space for argument.
She stood, her legs shaky, and followed him out. They walked down the quiet hallway, back to the main area. He took her to a new room, a huge formal dining space. The long, shiny table could fit twenty, but it was set just for two.
Damien sat at the head, already eating. He didn’t look up as she came in. Misha guided her to the seat far across from him. The gap between them felt endless. A warm plate, just like the one in her room, waited in front of her.
The silence was heavy, choking. The only sound was the soft clink of Damien’s fork on his plate. He ate with sharp, careful moves, not even glancing at her. Anya stared at her food. The smell of chicken turned her stomach.
She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t sit here like a trapped pet, forced to eat under his icy stare.
Slowly, on purpose, she pushed her plate away. Just a little. It was a tiny act, but in the thick silence, it felt like a scream.
Damien stopped. His fork hung in midair. He lowered it to his plate, slow and controlled. His eyes, dark and cold as winter ice, finally met hers.
There was no warmth in them, just a sharp, piercing look that held her still.
“You’re not eating,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
Anya swallowed, her throat dry. “I’m not hungry.”
A dangerous glint flashed in his eyes. He set his fork down with care. “You will eat.”
Her breath caught. “No. I’m not hungry.”
His voice dropped low, a soft growl that sent chills down her spine. “Let me be clear, Anya. You belong to me now. Your life is mine. Your body is mine.”
He pushed his chair back, the harsh scrape loud in the quiet. He stood, tall and threatening, full of controlled danger.
He walked around the table, each step slow, like a hunter. Anya flinched as he stopped right behind her chair. She could feel the heat from his body, smell the rich, dark scent of his cologne mixed with something raw, something purely him.
His hand came down on her shoulder, heavy. She jumped, her muscles tight under his touch. His grip wasn’t painful, not yet, but it claimed her. Owned her.
He bent down, his face near her ear. His hot breath brushed her neck, making her skin tingle. “Your body,” he whispered, his voice a deep rumble against her, “is my treasure. My possession. You will take care of it as I want. You will eat what I give you. You will stay strong for me.”
She shut her eyes, trembling under his words.
“This defiance,” he went on, his lips grazing the edge of her ear, sending hot, unwanted shivers through her, “I see it. Don’t test me again. The price will be... harsh.”
He stood straight, his hand staying a moment longer before pulling away. Her skin felt cold without it.
“Go to your room,” he ordered, his voice back to its usual frozen calm.
Anya didn’t wait. She stumbled up, almost tripping, and ran from the dining room without a glance back. She didn’t stop until she was in the empty safety of her bedroom, the door clicking shut.
She dropped onto the bed’s edge, heart racing, breath uneven. His words echoed in her head. “Your body is mine.” The raw power, the total control he claimed, scared her to her core.
Hours dragged by. Night fell outside, city lights sparkling. Anya stayed on the bed, stiff, staring at the wall. What would happen next? Would he punish her anyway? Was this just the start?
The door swung open without warning, making her jump. Damien stood there, a dark shape against the hallway light. He hadn’t knocked.
He stepped in, shutting the door with a soft click. His eyes swept the room, landing on her curled-up form on the bed. He moved to the large closet, his steps smooth and quiet.
He opened the doors. Anya gasped. The closet, once empty, was now full of clothes. Dresses, skirts, tops, shoes, lingerie. All costly, all her size. She hadn’t seen Irina bring them in.
Damien reached in, his fingers sliding over silk and satin. He pulled out something small, dark. He turned, holding it up just enough to see.
It was a negligee. A thin wisp of black lace, sheer and daring, made for temptation.
He walked to the bed. Anya shrank back, pulling her knees to her chest.
He stopped a few feet away, his face hard to read in the low light. He tossed the delicate piece onto the bed next to her. It landed like a shadow on the silver sheets.
His eyes locked on hers, cold and commanding.
“Wear this,” he ordered.
