Page 3 of The Pakhan’s Accidental Bride

When I open my eyes, I see him.

Arnie is standing at the edge of the dance floor, his eyes locked on me.

2

EMIL

Isit in my living room and try not to let my irritation show on my face. Three women perch on the couch across from me like birds preening for a mate, their faces caked with so much makeup I can barely tell what they actually look like underneath. The blonde on the left has painted her lips a shade of red that reminds me of blood. The brunette in the middle keeps batting her eyelashes so aggressively, I'm concerned she might take flight. The third one, another blonde, hasn't stopped giggling since she sat down twenty minutes ago.

Twenty fucking minutes.

I toss a glare at Luca, who stands near the doorway with his arms crossed over his massive chest. He catches my look and shrugs, his expression apologetic. It's not his fault they're here. He didn't invite them. That honor belongs to my council, those meddling bastards who've decided that at forty-four, I need a wife immediately. As if I'm some prize stallion who needs to be bred before I'm past my prime.

The council thinks I need stability. They think a wife will make me more predictable, easier to control. What they really want is leverage, someone they can use to influence my decisions. They've been pushing harder ever since Dmitri got married last year, as if one Pakhan settling down means we all need to follow suit like fucking lemmings.

The giggling blonde leans forward, giving me an eyeful of her cleavage that's practically spilling out of her dress. "So, Mr. Nikitin, my father says you control more territory than any other Pakhan in the country."

At least she's honest about what she knows. These aren't sheltered princesses. They're daughters of powerful Bratva men, raised in the life, taught from childhood what it means to be part of our world. They know exactly who I am and what I do.

"Your father talks too much," I say, keeping my voice neutral and polite. These are daughters of powerful men, allies I need to keep happy. Insulting them would create problems I don't need right now.

The brunette touches my arm, her fingers trailing along my sleeve. "I think it's admirable. The way you've built your organization, how loyal your men are. My father says they'd die for you."

They would. I've made sure of that. Loyalty is everything in this life, and I demand it absolutely. But I don't need this woman's admiration or her father's commentary on my leadership.

I resist the urge to pull away from her touch. Instead, I smile, though I'm sure it doesn't reach my eyes. "Your father is observant."

The blood-red lips blonde speaks up. "We understand the life, Mr. Nikitin. We're not naive girls who'll faint at the sight of blood or ask questions we shouldn't." She pauses, letting her gaze travel over me in a way that's supposed to be seductive. "We know what a Pakhan needs in a wife."

Christ. They're selling themselves like products, listing their qualifications. I wonder what they'd do if I told them the truth. If I explained that what I need is to be left the fuck alone, not paraded in front of eligible women like I'm shopping for a new car.

The giggling one finally says something of substance. "My uncle works in your southern territory. He says you're fair but ruthless. That's the kind of strength our world needs."

I glance at my watch, a deliberate gesture. "Ladies, I appreciate your coming by tonight, but I'm afraid I have business to attend to." It's not entirely a lie. My business right now is getting the hell away from this circus my council has created.

The giggling one pouts, actually pouts, like a child denied candy. "But we just got here."

"And I'm grateful for your time." I stand, forcing them to follow suit. "Luca will see you out."

Luca moves immediately, opening the door and gesturing toward it with practiced efficiency. The women gather their purses and coats, each one touching my arm or shoulder as they pass, as if physical contact might somehow change my mind. I maintain my polite mask until the door closes behind them.

The second it clicks shut, I let out a long breath. "I'm going out for a while."

Luca raises an eyebrow. "Want company?"

"Yeah. I need a fucking drink."

Twenty minutes later, we're walking into one of the clubs in the city. The bass thrums through the floor, vibrating up through my bones. Colored lights sweep across the dance floor where bodies press together, moving to the rhythm. The air smells like expensive perfume, sweat, and alcohol.

Luca heads straight for the bar, his personality transforming the moment we enter. He's laughing within seconds, clapping the bartender on the shoulder like they're old friends. Maybe they are. Luca knows everyone, remembers everyone. It's part of what makes him such a good Sovietnik.

I stay back, leaning against the wall near the bar. The darkness here suits me better than the bright lights of my living room. I'm not sure how long I'll stay. Maybe just long enough to clear my head, to wash away the memory of those three women and their calculated attempts to become the next Mrs. Nikitin.

I scan the crowd out of habit, cataloging faces and potential threats. It's automatic after years of living this life. Then my gaze snags on someone, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I stop thinking about business entirely.

She's dancing near the center of the floor with two other women, and fuck me, she's beautiful. Red hair catches the lights, short and styled in a way that frames her face. She's laughing at something one of her friends said, her head thrown back, and even from here I can see the genuine joy in her expression. It's refreshing. Real.

I can't look away.