Nikolai pulled up at the mansion at noon. The gravel crunched beneath the tires of the matte-black Mercedes as it came to a halt in front of the grand Volkov estate. Towering iron gates now stood open behind them, and the elegant façade of the mansion loomed ahead like something out of a gothic fairytale—timeless, imposing, and steeped in centuries of power.
Elara sat stiffly in the passenger seat, her arms folded tightly over her chest, staring up at the mansion like it might bite her. She'd been miraculously quiet the entire ride, choosing silence over another verbal duel. But as they parked, her lips finally moved.
"Are you sure there are no hidden torture chambers in this place?" she asked dryly, her tone half-mocking, half-curious.
"No. Bratva business stays outside the house," Nikolai said without missing a beat.
She nodded, the corner of her mouth twitching. "At least you Bratva men have brains. Sometimes."
She opened the car door and stepped out, brushing invisible dust from her shorts. The afternoon sun reflected off the mansion's massive windows, casting golden glints across the pristine white stone and dark wood accents. It was bigger than she had imagined—more fortress than home. A monument to old money and old power.
Nikolai joined her and motioned toward the front steps. "Come on. Everyone's waiting."
As they walked side by side through the wide oak doors, Elara's heartbeat picked up. She wasn't nervous. Not exactly. Just... braced. Braced for judgment. For being picked apart.
The living room inside was massive and richly decorated, filled with fine leather furniture, gold and mahogany accents, and portraits of long-dead Volkovs who looked like they hadn't smiled once in their lives. But all eyes were on her now—six pairs, to be exact.
Natalia, Dimitri, Mikhail, Viktoria, Viktor, and a young girl who had to be Anya sat in anticipation, as though waiting for the curtain to rise on the first act of a dramatic play.
Natalia stood first. "Ah, my baby," she cooed, arms open as she crossed the room with surprising speed. She pulled Elara into a warm, maternal hug that took her by surprise.
"Oh my God, you look so thin. Did my son starve you? Oh, he definitely did," she said, casting a sharp glare over Elara's shoulder at Nikolai.
"Mama, I did not starve her," Nikolai muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.
"I don't remember asking you," Natalia snapped back. Elara fought a smile.
Anya rose next. She had sharp, intelligent eyes and a straight posture that suggested she had already outgrown her age in maturity.
"You're more beautiful than I thought. At least my brother has taste," Anya said, walking up to Elara and extending her hand.
"I'm Anya. I'm fifteen years old, though sometimes I feel like I'm the only adult in this house when I have to remind my brothers what morality means."
Elara took her hand, impressed. "I already like you," she said.
"Stop hovering over the girl," Viktoria called from her corner seat. "Elara, come and sit next to Grandma. Let the rest of them fawn over you from afar."
With a grateful smile, Elara took a seat beside Viktoria. The older woman patted her hand gently.
"You've got a spine. Good. We need more women like that in this family."
As the family settled, Natalia handed Elara a glass of water. Dimitri and Mikhail exchanged looks, and Elara felt a sudden tension roll in like a silent fog.
It was Mikhail who broke the silence. "So, let's talk marriage."
Elara nearly choked on her water. "Excuse me?"
"You're carrying a Volkov. We do not have children out of wedlock. Not in this family," Mikhail said firmly.
Elara stared at him, then at Nikolai, who looked... tired. Not surprised. Just resigned.
"I'm not marrying Nikolai," Elara said, her tone direct. "We're barely civil, and now you want me to tie myself to him legally?"
Mikhail leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "This is not up for discussion."
Elara stood up, her spine straight. "Well, it should be. My parents don't even know about Nikolai, or the pregnancy. You expect me to walk down an aisle when they're still in the dark about all of this?"
Mikhail raised a brow. "Then take Nikolai and go tell them. Problem solved."
Natalia stood abruptly. "Mikhail, enough. Give the girl a break. Stop shoving your authority down her throat like she's some soldier in training."
Mikhail turned to her, eyes hard. "She's not just some girl. She's carrying our bloodline."
"And she's also a human being," Natalia snapped. "She's not a pawn on your chessboard."
Elara's eyes burned. Not from fear—but from frustration. She didn't want to be here. She didn't want to be a pawn, or a project, or a pregnant woman forced into a life she didn't choose.
Viktor, who had been oddly quiet this whole time, leaned back in his seat. "Well, this is shaping up to be the most exciting family gathering we've had since Aunt Talia got drunk and tried to shoot her ex."
Natalia sent him a sharp look. "Viktor, not now."
He raised his hands in surrender.
Elara looked around at the room, all of them watching her like she was supposed to perform. To fall in line. To say yes.
Instead, she said, "I'll think about it. But I'm not promising anything."
"That's fair," Natalia said quickly, before Mikhail could interject again. "And in the meantime, you'll stay in the east wing. No pressure, no interference."
Mikhail scowled but said nothing. For now.
Elara looked at Nikolai. "And if I want to visit my parents?"
"I'll take you myself," he said without hesitation.
She nodded. "Then that's what we'll do."
And with that, the Volkovs understood—they might have gotten Elara into the house, but they hadn't broken her. Not yet.
And maybe... not ever.
"Nikolai, take Elara to your room so she can rest. The girl needs it," Viktoria said, her voice soft yet authoritative.
Nikolai gave a single nod, not bothering to argue. "Come," he said simply.
Elara stood up, her body still aching from the stress of everything, her heart weighed down by the heaviness of being pulled into a life that felt like a noose tightening around her throat. She followed him without a word, trailing just a step behind as they ascended the grand staircase.
The hallway stretched long and stately, dimly lit by golden sconces that flickered like whispers on old stone. The walls were lined with framed memories—sepia-toned photographs of elegant women and steely-eyed men, some smiling stiffly, others not smiling at all. There were oil paintings too, some with brushstrokes so intense they bled history onto the walls. Elara could feel the weight of their eyes following her as she walked, watching, judging. One portrait in particular—a man with cold gray eyes and a silver wolf pin on his lapel—gave her chills.
"Your ancestors look like they were all born already pissed off," she muttered under her breath.
Nikolai didn't comment. He only opened a large oak door at the end of the hallway and stepped aside to let her in.
The room was exactly what she imagined Nikolai's to be—dark, commanding, masculine. The walls were painted a deep charcoal, with rich mahogany accents in the furniture and gleaming black fixtures that gave the entire room a somber gravitas. Heavy blackout curtains veiled the tall windows, letting in only the softest strands of daylight. A king-sized bed dominated the space, made up neatly in shades of deep grey and navy. A low-burning fireplace crackled in the corner, casting dancing shadows across the high ceiling.
It smelled like him—musk, expensive cologne, leather, and something darker she couldn't quite name.
Elara walked slowly into the room, her steps light on the plush black rug. She moved toward the bed and sat down carefully, feeling the softness cradle her weight. She looked around the room silently: shelves of books lined the far wall—some titles on war history, Russian literature, and a few in languages she didn't recognize. A sleek desk sat by the window, immaculately organized, with a leather-bound planner lying closed beside a laptop.
"I'll leave you to rest," Nikolai said, already turning toward the door.
Elara looked up. "You're not going to chain me to the bed?"
He paused at the threshold, looking over his shoulder with that unreadable expression of his. "Not unless you give me a reason to."
She rolled her eyes, but didn't respond. The door clicked shut behind him, and silence blanketed the room.
Alone now, she laid back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling, trying to will her mind to calm. But it refused. She couldn't rest. Not with the unfamiliarity wrapping itself around her like a second skin. This was his world, his family, his kingdom—and she was just a girl with a baby in her belly and a million unanswered questions.
After a few minutes, she sat up again, her gaze sweeping the room. The quiet tick-tick of a vintage clock on the mantle was the only sound aside from the low hiss of the fireplace.
She walked to one of the bookshelves, her fingers trailing over the spines. Most of the books were unmarked or classic, but one caught her eye—a black leather-bound notebook tucked behind a stack of hardcovers. It looked older, the leather worn and cracked at the corners, the edges frayed like it had been thumbed through hundreds of times. There was no lock. No name. Just a plain, battered diary with a strange magnetism.
Elara glanced toward the door, her heartbeat quickening. A voice in her head whispered that she shouldn't. That this was wrong. That it was private.
But another voice—the louder one—urged her forward. This man had uprooted her entire life, flown across the world to retrieve her like she was his property. She deserved to know more. If she was going to be imprisoned in his world, she wanted to understand what made it spin. What made him tick.
Her fingers closed around the book. It was surprisingly warm from the trapped heat of the room. She walked back to the bed, sat cross-legged on the comforter, and opened the first page.