Chapter 2

After all, I was the rejected bride. The wedding documents said that my brand-new husband’s name was Artem Volkov, son of William Volkov. And I didn’t even know him—at least not officially. I remember the discomfort of standing at the altar with that stranger in front of me. The way he held my fingers between his enormous gloved hands while he recited the vows with patience, but with an almost intimidating confidence. His voice made something inside me tremble. I accepted his ring, and he accepted mine. The priest said nothing about kissing the bride, and Artem made no attempt to do so either. My stepmother wanted everything settled in a single night, of course, but even so, she had to put on the performance for her rich friends, businessmen, and business associates. The result was a modest celebration at the Darach Estate, a small but proper gathering for the heiress of a merchant empire. And my husband? He retreated to a poorly lit corner of the hall and sat there, watching me. I know because once or twice I felt that gaze on me—heavy, uncomfortable, impossible to ignore. Directed straight at me. He stayed there alone, his face wrapped in shadows. Food was offered to him, but he didn’t touch it. Drinks were offered to him, but he refused them. He didn’t even speak to me. One of his brothers, the bearded one who seemed to be the oldest, approached him a couple of times. I saw him move his lips, speaking to him. All Artem did in response was make a few strange hand gestures. By the time I got up from the table, that corner was empty. After the wedding, everything happened too fast. No goodbyes, no time to think. The Volkovs took me with them to Russia. I boarded a private jet as Artem Volkov’s new wife, leaving my old life behind. We landed in Sochi, and from there we had been traveling for four hours toward the mountains of Krasnaya Polyana, far from the tourist routes, going deeper and deeper into wild and isolated territory. I didn’t see him again until the next morning, after we landed. During the trip, between the snowy forests passing beyond the tinted window of the SUV, I managed to catch glimpses of Artem. He was riding a massive Ducati XDiavel, the most imposing motorcycle I had ever seen in my life. He had changed the black coat for a thick, elegant gray winter jacket with a hood lined in dark fur. He was monstrously large compared to his brothers and cousins. But for the moment, my husband had decided to ignore me. After hours of travel, I had closed my eyes for only a few seconds, leaning against the cold car window, when a few firm knocks on the door made me jolt. I opened my eyes abruptly, disoriented. “Lyra,” Bredon’s voice—one of the Volkov cousins—came from outside. “We’ve arrived.” I sat up quickly, adjusting my coat and running a hand through my hair. “Already?” “Yes. And you’d better get out.” I frowned, still half asleep, and opened the door. The freezing air hit me immediately. I stepped outside… and froze completely. In front of me stood the mansion. It was enormous. No, enormous wasn’t enough. It was colossal. It rose on top of a white hill like a modern fortress with an ancient soul, one of those Russian residences belonging to absurdly wealthy families. The dark gray stone facade and pale marble seemed endless. Large arched windows reflected the gray winter sky, while the wrought-iron balconies and the tall snow-covered roofs gave it a severe, elegant, and almost intimidating air. Everything was covered in snow. To one side, I saw a gigantic pool enclosed beneath a structure of glass and black iron. The dark water remained still, reflecting the sky like a frozen mirror. Beyond that, the forest surrounded the entire property as if protecting that place from the rest of the world. It didn’t look like a house. It looked like an empire. When I turned my head, there he was. Artem Volkov. He planted one boot in the snow, got off with dangerous calm, and slowly removed his helmet. For a second, I simply looked at him. Dark blond hair, slightly damp from the snow, carelessly brushed back. A sharp, hard jaw covered by a perfectly trimmed blond beard that gave him an even wilder air. A straight nose, high cheekbones, and pale skin struck by the cold of winter. But his eyes were the worst part. Light. Cold. That shade between gray and blue that looked like ice beneath a storm. And I felt that annoying pull in my chest. It didn’t take long for the servants to appear. The moment I crossed the main entrance, an impeccably dressed butler descended the steps of the foyer accompanied by half a dozen maids. The girls moved immediately toward my luggage. The youngest of them, a blonde with rosy cheeks and no older than twenty, was the only one who gave me a genuine smile. “Welcome home, Miss Lyra,” she said in soft, almost shy English as she picked up one of my suitcases. “My name is Anya. If you need anything, I’ll help you.” Her kindness caught me by surprise. After so many days of feeling more like a prisoner than a bride, hearing a welcome felt almost strange. “Thank you, Anya.” She gave a small nod and disappeared with the others, carrying my things inside. Meanwhile, my illustrious husband didn’t even come near me. Artem was still outside, near the staircase, speaking with his father and brothers as if my arrival were just another matter of the day. Perfect. Much better that way. I walked through the enormous main foyer, trying not to look impressed, even though it was impossible not to be. I pulled my coat a little tighter around my shoulders. I knew my situation was terrifying enough for any woman. But before fear, what I truly felt was something else. Hunger. A brutal hunger. After so many hours of travel, cold, tension, and badly managed pride, my stomach was dangerously close to declaring war on me.