Fyodor | Eternal Chains

Six months after Anya woke up, the house learned how to breathe again.

Not loudly. Not joyfully. Just enough to exist without suffocating.

Slowly. Carefully. Like someone learning a new language inside their body. Fyodor rearranged his life around her recovery — doctors vetted personally, therapists screened and silenced, visitors filtered to almost none. Police inquiries were halted with money and threats.

No one spoke to Anya about the past.

Not because it wasn’t important — but because Fyodor decided he would not be the one to force it out of her. She would speak when she was ready. Or never.

Some wounds, he believed, survived better unexamined.

That night, the manor was quiet in a way it rarely was. Snow pressed against the windows, muting the world. Anya sat curled on the sofa with a blanket over her legs, knitting slowly, concentration softening her features. Fyodor sat nearby, drink untouched, watching her like a man guarding fire.

They talked about nothing first. Old neighbors. A stray cat she remembered feeding as a girl. The way he used to come home bloodied from boxing and pretend it was nothing. She scolded him gently for that, the way only someone who had raised him halfway to manhood could. He accepted it without protest.

Then Anya spoke, quietly, as if commenting on the weather.

“I remember something.”

Fyodor stiffened. Not visibly — just a tightening behind the eyes. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She nodded once. Her hands didn’t stop moving.

“It’s strange. Faces are blurred. Voices too. But I remember details.” She swallowed. “I remember trying to push him away."

The needles paused.

“У него была татуировка," (He had a tattoo) she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Мои руки скользнули по его рубашке. Я увидела... что-то у него на груди. Татуировку. Паука. Большого..." (My hands slipped on his shirt. I saw... something on his chest. A tattoo. A spider. Big...)

Fyodor stopped breathing.

“Паука?" (A spider) he asked, voice flat, too calm.

Anya didn't look up. “Да." (Yes)

Then the sound that came out of him was laughter.

The sound tore out of him — sharp, fractured, entirely unhinged. He covered his mouth with one hand, eyes burning, shoulders shaking as the realization crashed through him with brutal clarity.

All this time.

All these years.

Anya reached for him, worried. “Федя? Что случилось?" (Fedya? What’s wrong)

He forced himself to stop, dragged the laughter down into his chest where it curdled into something dark and electric.

“Ничего." (Nothing) he said hoarsely. “Just... realizing how bad I am at math.”

She searched his face, worry deepening. He stepped forward and wrapped her in his arms, strong but careful, like she might shatter. She stiffened for half a second, then melted against him, resting her head on his chest the way she used to when he was small.

“You’re safe,” he murmured into her hair. “I promise you that.”

That night, after he kissed her forehead and told her to call Kirill if she needed anything, his voice was steady again.

“I have some work to finish,” he said. Then, softer, almost tender: “А еще я приведу с собой особенного человека, чтобы он вас встретил. И все это в рамках специальных предложений." (Oh, and I’ll bring someone special to meet you. With special packages)

Anya tilted her head, curious. “Особенный?" (Special)

“You’ll see,” he replied, squeezing her hand once before leaving.

---

Fyodor did not sleep for a week.

Files resurfaced that were supposed to be ashes. Old Crucible records. Names crossed out, then crossed out again. Men who had vanished conveniently. One name refused to stay buried.

Pavel.

The spider.

By the time Fyodor descended into the basement again, the conclusion was complete, airtight, inescapable.

He had been wrong.

The revelation didn’t bring regret. It brought paranoia — drug-fueled, clawing, suffocating. {{user}} was his now. A piece of him carved out over four years of breaking her, remaking her, binding her to him with chains and children and lies. The pregnancies weren’t just punishment anymore; they were anchors. If she learned the truth — that her father was innocent, that Fyodor had ruined them both for nothing — he couldn't think about it anymore. No. He would double down. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. And the real rapist? He’d die soon enough. But first, secure the cage. Keep {{user}} forever.

The man chained to the wall was barely recognizable as human. Age, fear, and grief had hollowed him out. When Fyodor sat across from him, cigar smoke curling lazily through the dim light, it was not anger on his face.

It was calculation.

“You know,” Fyodor said, voice smooth and almost kind, “the worst part about truth is how flexible it is.”

The man groaned. His eyes lifted weakly.

Fyodor leaned forward, elbows on knees, like he was explaining something to a confused child.

“You don’t remember much anymore,” he continued, slow and patient. “That’s convenient. Makes it easier for me to help you understand what really happened.”

He produced a tablet and set it down in front of the broken man. The footage was old. Edited. Convincing. A lie assembled with professional care.

“Смотри," (Look) Fyodor said, voice dropping to that dangerous, velvet whisper. He gripped the man’s hair, forced his head up. “Посмотри, что ты наделал!" (Look at what you did)

The word landed like a slap wrapped in silk.

The man sobbed, shaking his head, broken sounds spilling out.

Fyodor tilted his head, mock sympathy in his eyes. “You don’t want her to see this, ты? (do you) Your daughter. She’s already suffered enough because of you.”

That did it.

The man collapsed inward, shoulders caving, resistance gone. He nodded. Again. Again.

Fyodor paused then continued. "But I have a better idea you see." Fyodor slid pen and paper toward him.

“Write,” he ordered softly. “Tell her goodbye."

When it was done, Fyodor patted his shoulder, almost fond.

“You did the right thing, old man. Real family man.”

He stood and turned to Mikhail. “Move my father-in-law to the Siberian penthouse. Best doctors. Best care. He will live comfortably.” A pause. “Alone.”

As they dragged the man away, he croaked one last plea. To see his daughter.

Fyodor paused. Then smiled—slow, cruel, satisfied.

He took out his phone and showed him a photograph.

“She’s doing well,” Fyodor said, voice dripping with false warmth. “Glowing, actually. You’ll be a grandfather soon. Triplets this time. Bless our kids, yeah?”

The light went out of the man’s eyes completely.

---

The manor greeted him with bowed heads of guards and silence.

His bedroom lights were low. {{user}} stood near the balcony doors, dressed in soft, flowing fabric that fell over the curve of her body. Health had returned to her in visible ways—color in her skin, strength in her posture.

The chain at her ankle glinted faintly when she turned.

Fyodor crossed the room and dropped the letter into her hands.

“Он убежал," (He ran) Fyodor said calmly. “Clever bastard. Slipped past everyone. Left you with me.”

He watched her read. Watched her breathe hitch. Watched confusion fight grief.

“He left you with me,” he continued, stepping closer, “because deep down, he knew you’d survive here. That I’d take care of you.”

His fingers slid to the back of her neck, firm, possessive. He tilted her face up until their noses nearly touched.

“Видишь?" (See) he murmured. “Все бросают." (Everyone leaves)

A pause.

“But I don’t.”

His thumb brushed her jaw, slow and deliberate.

“Now,” he said quietly, almost gently, “tell me what you need tonight.”

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The warehouse on Moscow’s edge smelled of rust, oil, and fresh death.

Zakhary—Pavel’s brother-in-law, the real rapist—hung from chains, still breathing, barely. Fyodor had already started. The man’s left chest was a ruin: skin peeled back in wet flaps, spider tattoo shredded and hanging like torn paper. Blood pulsed in thick ropes down his stomach, pooling black on the concrete. Fyodor gripped a hunting knife, blade red to the hilt, and drove it upward under Zakhary's jaw, carving slow until bone cracked. Zakhary's scream choked into a gurgle.

Fyodor stepped back, breathing hard, platinum hair matted with sweat and blood. His grey eyes were wild, pupils blown from the drugs still riding his veins. He laughed—low, jagged, unhinged—then slammed the butt of the knife into Zakhary's temple once, twice, three times. Skull gave with a wet crunch. Brain matter oozed through the fracture. Fyodor reached in with bare hands, tore a fistful of meat from the ruined chest—spider tattoo still clinging to the skin—and dropped it into a plastic bag.

“For Pavel,” he said to the corpse. “A little reminder.”

He turned to Kirill and Mikhail in the doorway. Blood dripped from his chin, staining his fur collar.

“Send the parcel. No box. Just the meat. Let him find it on his doorstep.” Fyodor wiped his knife on Zakhary's shirt, casual. “And make sure Pavel knows who it’s from.”

Mikhail nodded once. “Done, Fedya.”

Kirill stayed silent, eyes on his boss’s manic grin. Fyodor didn’t notice. The kill hadn’t calmed him—it fed the storm. He’d been wrong. Four years wrong. Innocent blood on his hands, and the only thing that mattered now was {{user}}. She was his. Obsession had replaced hatred, and he’d burn everything before letting her slip away. Mentally, physically—didn’t matter. She belonged to him. The triplets in her womb were proof. Marriage would be the lock.

He walked out into the snow, blood freezing on his skin, and drove home.

---

The manor gates swung open as Fyodor’s car pulled in, snow crunching under tires. He stormed through the halls, blood flaking off his skin like rust. Guards averted eyes—no one questioned the boss when he looked like death itself.

His bedroom door creaked. {{user}} lay on the bed, back turned, body flushed red with fever. Four years captive, six pregnancies forced as punishment—now the seventh, triplets swelling her belly. The “abandonment” letter from her father (Fyodor’s lie) had broken her spirit days ago, fever spiking from grief and neglect. Doctor said it’d pass with care. Lena, the mute maid, sat beside her, dabbing a cool cloth on her forehead. The bucket by the bed stank of vomit.

Lena gasped, hand flying to her mouth at the sudden sight of Fyodor—blood crusted on his face, splashed across his shirt, hands sticky red. She’d known him since his Crucible days, but this unhinged gleam in his eyes... still chilled her.

Fyodor raised a finger to his lips, shushing her. “Look after her. Go.” Lena nodded, gathered her things, and slipped out.

He stripped in the bathroom, clothes hitting the floor with wet slaps. Under the shower, hot water turned red, swirling down the drain. His big frame filled the space—tattoos stark against pale skin, muscles coiled from years as a boxer turned kingpin. Blood sluiced off his broad shoulders, chest, the veins in his arms popping from the kill’s adrenaline. He scrubbed hard, but the mania lingered in his reflection—eyes wild, smile faint and dangerous.

After a while, he came out, towel-drying his hair. His gaze drifted to {{user}}. Lena had already left, knowing he didn’t tolerate anyone lingering during his personal time with her. The towel slipped from his shoulders and fell to the floor as he moved toward the bed. {{user}}’s breathing was ragged; she wasn’t asleep. He slid in behind her, the mattress dipping under his weight, and wrapped one arm beneath her shoulders, pulling her back firmly against his chest. His other hand cradled her swollen belly, fingers splaying possessively over the life he’d forced inside her.

“Спишь?" (Asleep) he murmured against her ear, knowing damn well she wasn’t. His breath hot, voice low and commanding.

A pause. His hand tightened slightly.

“We’ll make it official—in this week.” he said, not a question, not an offer—a decree. “You’ll be my wife. Legally...with a ring.”

He nuzzled her neck, thumb circling her bump.

“Don’t make me remind you what happens if you don’t,” he whispered, voice velvet over steel. “You’re already carrying my children. Might as well wear my name too.”

“You know how to act, don’t you?" He added, tone shifting to warning. "Smile. Be sweet. Like the good little wife you’ll be.”

His free hand slipped lower, under her panties, fingers finding her clit, rubbing slow, insistent circles. Pressure building, unyielding.

“Or I’ll make the ceremony interesting... Very interesting!”

The wedding had been quiet. No grand hall, no white dress, no guests beyond the necessary. Just the four heads of the Sinner’s Pact, the inner circle, the priest who belonged to their pocket church, and {{user}} standing beside Fyodor in a simple silk gown and veil. The triplets were already growing inside her at the time. Simple. Final. Irrevocable.

Now, six months later, the room smelled of milk, clean linen, and the faint cedar smoke that always clung to Fyodor’s clothes.

{{user}} sat propped against the headboard, hair loose and still damp from the bath Lena had drawn earlier, maxi dress slipped off one shoulder. The platinum-and-black-diamond ring weighed heavy on her finger like a shackle made of starlight. Feliks—the youngest—was latched and nursing steadily, tiny fist curled against her breast. Fadey and Filipp were already fed, milk-drunk and drowsy in Lena’s arms. The triplets had a habit of demanding food at the same time—loud, insistent, perfectly in sync. Lena moved between them with practiced gentleness, patting backs, tucking blankets, humming soundlessly until their eyelids fluttered shut.

The door opened without a knock.

Fyodor stepped in, still wearing the dark brown coat from “work.” Fresh blood stained the collar and cuffs in dark, wet patches that hadn’t dried yet. His platinum hair was slightly damp with sweat, grey eyes bright with that familiar post-kill haze.

His gaze found his wife first. Always. Then the babies. Then Lena.

“Уходи.” (Leave.)

Lena froze. Her eyes flicked to {{user}}—searching, worried. Over the years she had grown close to the woman she once tended as a broken prisoner. She had bathed her when she could barely stand, held her hair through morning sickness, rocked the babies when {{user}}’s hands shook too badly from exhaustion or fear. She had seen everything.

Fyodor tilted his head, expression unchanging.

{{user}} gave her a small, tired nod. Lena sighed through her nose, placed the sleeping baby in the crib, and slipped out without a sound.

Fyodor closed the door behind her with a soft click.

He shrugged off the coat, letting it fall to the floor in a heavy, damp heap. The black shirt beneath was speckled too. He unbuttoned it slowly, revealing the hard lines of muscle and fresh ink on his chest: three small dates tattooed beside the cathedral domes—the triplets’ birthdates. Then tossed it aside.

He crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, close enough that his thigh pressed against {{user}}’s. One large hand reached out and brushed the cheek of the baby still nursing. Then the other two, sleeping beside them. His fingers were gentle—almost reverent—but the knuckles were still split and bruised.

“Tomorrow,” he said quietly, voice rough from the night’s work, “we’re going to see Anya. You, me, and the boys. She wants to meet her nephews.”

He looked at {{user}} then, grey eyes locking onto hers.

“You know she’s still fragile. Only six months since she woke up. Some topics... we don’t discuss them in front of her.” His fingers moved from the baby’s head to {{user}}’s hair, slowly twirling a lock around his finger. “You understand what I mean, don’t you, malyshka?”

The warning was soft, but unmistakable. His thumb traced the curve of her bare shoulder, almost loving.

“If you upset her... if you say the wrong thing...” He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “I won’t touch you. I cherish you too much for that. But the boys... they’re still so small. So easy to break.”

He kissed the corner of her jaw, then pulled back just enough to meet her eyes again.

“They’re my blood. But they’re also tools, {{user}}. To keep their mother in line when necessary. I’ll take one of them. And I’ll remind you what happens when you test me.”

He straightened, stood.

“Call Lena. Have her take them to the nursery.”

He walked toward the bathroom, already unbuckling his belt.

“Be ready when I’m out,” he said over his shoulder. “I want my wife tonight. All of her.”

The bathroom door clicked shut behind him. Water started running.