The warehouse smelled like despair and bad decisions. Anya wrinkled her nose as she walked through the door, her heels clicking against the concrete floor like a countdown.
Kozlov shadowed her, a nervous giant trying to keep up. "Miss Volkov, the boss really doesn't want...."
"The boss," Anya said without breaking stride, "is busy torturing his ex-boyfriend in a white room. He doesn't get an opinion right now."
Kozlov opened his mouth, closed it, and kept following.
She stopped in front of the holding area. Through the two-way glass, she could see Jace. Still chained. Still hollow. A tray of untouched food sat on the floor beside him.
"How long has he been like this?"
"Three days. He doesn't eat, doesn't sleep, he just... stares."
Anya's jaw tightened. "Open the door."
"Miss Volkov..."
"I said open the door, or I'll open it myself and you can explain to Viktor why I had to get my hands dirty."
Kozlov unlocked the door and anya stepped inside.
Jace didn't look up when she entered. He didn't react at all. Just sat there, limp in his chains, eyes fixed on nothing.
Anya pulled up a chair and sat across from him. She crossed her legs, folded her hands in her lap, and waited.
Nothing.
"I'm not here to hurt you," she said finally. "I'm here to figure out what kind of person makes my idiot brother lose his mind."
Jace blinked. It was the first movement she'd seen from him.
"Your brother?"
"Viktor. Sadly." She tilted her head. "I'm Anya. Viktor's younger sister"
Jace stared at her for a long moment. Then, barely audible: "You look like him."
"The eyes." Anya nodded. "I got the pale ones too. Unfortunately, I also got his temper. But I like to think I use it more constructively."
She stood, walked to the tray of food, and picked it up. She brought it back and set it on her lap.
"I'm going to feed you now. Not because I'm nice...I'm not. But because I need you alive for what comes next, and dead men are terrible conversationalists."
She held up a spoonful of soup. Jace stared at it like she was offering poison.
"It's not poisoned. Viktor wants you alive. He's dramatic like that."
"Why?" Jace's voice cracked. "Why keep me alive?"
Anya considered the question. "Because you're leverage. Because Damian loves you. Because my brother has never been able to stand the thought of someone loving someone else more than they love him." She shrugged. "Pick one. They're all true."
She held the spoon closer. "Eat. Please. If you die on my watch, I'll never hear the end of it from the ghost of our mother."
Something flickered in Jace's eyes...not hope, exactly, but something. He opened his mouth.
Anya fed him the soup.
Twenty Minutes Later
Jace had eaten half the bowl. His color was slightly better. He was looking at Anya now, really looking, like he was trying to figure her out.
"Why are you helping me?" he asked.
"I'm not helping you. I'm helping myself." Anya set the bowl aside. "Viktor is obsessed. Obsession makes people stupid. Stupid people make mistakes that get other people killed. I'm not interested in being collateral damage."
"So you're saving me to save yourself."
"I'm keeping you alive to keep Viktor from burning down everything we've built." She leaned back. "Also, I don't like watching people suffer for no reason. It's inefficient."
Jace almost smiled. Almost. "You're strange."
"I'm a Volkov. We're all strange. I just hide it better."
She stood, brushing off her skirt. "I'm going to have you moved to a better room. Still locked, but with windows. And a bed. And books, if you promise not to throw them at the guards."
"Why would I promise that?"
"Because I asked nicely." She smiled. "And because if you do throw them, I'll take away the books and leave you with nothing but Russian poetry. Trust me, that's worse."
Jace stared at her. "You're not what I expected."
"People rarely are." She walked to the door, then paused. "Damian is still alive. He's... not well. But he's alive. And he talks about you. Constantly. It's nauseating, honestly."
She left before Jace could respond.
Behind her, she heard the faintest sound almost a laugh.
Viktor's Study - Later That Night
Viktor was waiting for her, arms crossed, pale eyes blazing.
"You moved the boy."
"I upgraded his accommodations." Anya poured herself a glass of vodka, ignoring his glare. "He was going to die in that warehouse. Dead leverage is useless leverage."
"I didn't tell you to..."
"You didn't tell me anything. That's the problem." She turned to face him. "You've been running this operation on spite and obsession, Viktor. It's sloppy. It's expensive. And it's going to get us all killed... Soberís!"
Viktor's jaw tightened. "You're overstepping."
"I'm stepping in. There's a difference." She set down her glass. "I've been cleaning up your messes for years. I've been quiet. I've been patient. But I'm done."
"Done?"
"I'm taking over the Jace operation. Food, shelter, medical care. If you want him alive to use against Damian, you need him functional. I'm making him functional." She met his eyes. "You can thank me later."
Viktor stared at her. Then, slowly, he laughed.
"You really are our mother's daughter."
"Our mother would have poisoned you by now." Anya smiled. "Consider my restraint a gift."
She walked out, leaving Viktor staring after her.
Jace woke to sunlight.
Real sunlight, streaming through a window. A small window, barred, but still light. He sat up in a real bed, with real sheets, and looked around.
The room was small but clean. White walls, wooden floor, a table with a chair. A stack of books on the nightstand. A tray of food real food, not the slop from before.
And on the pillow beside him, a note.
Don't get comfortable. This isn't kindness. It's strategy. But enjoy the sunlight. I hear it's good for the complexion.
-A
Jace traced the letter with his finger. A. Anya.
He didn't trust her. He couldn't. She was Viktor's sister, a Volkov, part of the family that had destroyed everything.
But she'd fed him. She'd given him light. She'd spoken about Damian like he was a person, not a possession.
For the first time in days, Jace picked up a book. He opened it to a random page and began to read.
It wasn't freedom. It wasn't rescue. But it was something.
And something was more than he'd had.
Anya stood on her balcony, a cigarette burning between her fingers, looking out at the city.
Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
The boy is stable. What's your play?
She smiled and typed back.
My play is my own. Stay in your lane.
She took a long drag of her cigarette and exhaled into the night.