Page 4 of Claimed By the Pakhan

He has to be lying. I would remember seeing a face like his. People tend to look the same in Seattle, blending into the bleak atmosphere, grayer than the color gray. Telling two people apart on the street is sometimes more of a challenge than the recordsI deal with at work, and hell, it takes a genius to crack forensic finance.

If I’m still familiar with work and my irritating boss, how the fuck can I forget my husband?

“Who are you?” I drag my eyes up and down his body. I deal with ultra wealthy clients at work. This guy fits into the category with the William Westmancott suit. His sleeves are clipped back with cufflinks that have to be made from solid gold.

I narrow my eyes. Something tells me his fist is the most expensive thing about him, the eyes second. One look into those things could snap a person in half, and if all else fails, he has the fist as a backup.

He still looks upset, which must be a rare look for him. “I’m Emil Volkov.”

“What’s that? Russian?”

“Yes.”

Suddenly the accent makes sense.

My heart still beats rhythmically. “I wouldn’t marry you.”

Emil clenches his jaw and breaks eye contact, sticking his hands into his pockets and walking around the room. His polished shoes clack against the hardware floor, accompanying the heart rate monitor. “You did more than marry me,” says Emil, glancing at my belly. “What will you say next? How you wouldn’t have slept with me?”

He comes to a halt at the other side of the room, his eyes cutting across at me.

The latter is more debatable, but it’s besides the fucking point.

“You’re not the kind of man I want to marry.”

Emil keeps looking at me, his gaze hardening. “Well, you did. Look down at your hand if you’re struggling to remember. That might jog your memory.”

I gasp when I see the diamond ring on my finger. It catches the light as I turn it in assessment, staring hard at the jewel, needing the fog to clear in my head so I can understand why I would marry a man who thinks it’s okay to threaten a doctor in his own hospital. People who play by their own rules hurt others.

And I’m pretty sure Emil represents everything that is wrong with this world.

But nobody else is breaking rules to come and pay me a visit. This man must really care, which means something about this situation is seriously off…

2

EMIL

I was startingto think she’d be in a coma forever, when I received a call from one of my informants who works here. As luck would have it, Fia survived.

But as I stare at my wife now, grief stabs me through the heart like a knife. Death would be much simpler than her forgetting me completely.

“Fia—”

“You should leave.”

It’s not the first time those words have come out of her mouth, but there was hope before, a look in her eye that suggested she wanted me to stay. Confusion lines her face now, like we’re at the fucking starting line.

Can you get someone to fall in love with you all over again, or were the stars just aligned for that year we were happily married?

“You don’t mean that, Fia.”

“I do,” she says, her voice creeping louder. “Your ten minutes is up. Can I trust you to walk out of here by yourself, or do I need to press the call button?” she asks, fiddling with the remote attached to the bed.

I hold up my hand, taking my leave.

I stride down the empty corridor dragging my heels, wishing I was fucking burying her. That would also be much simpler than Fia recovering her memories.

“Nurse,” I call.