Page 36 of The Pakhan’s Accidental Bride

"Probably." I'm on my knees by her door, installing the final component of the alarm system. My fingers work quickly and efficiently. "But she'll be alive to be pissed at me, so I'll take it."

Luca glances over his shoulder, and I can feel his assessment. He's known me too long not to be able to practically read my thoughts. "You could just bring her to the estate. Force her if you have to. You're the Pakhan. You don't ask permission."

"No." The word comes out harder than I intend. I stand, brushing off my knees. "I could force her. Drag her to my home, lock her in, and make her mine whether she wants it or not. But that's not how this is going to work."

"Why not?"

Because she already hates what I am. Because forcing her would only make it worse. And because some fucked up part of me wants her to choose this. Choose me.

"Because she's already dead set against me," I say instead. "Forcing her hand will only make her fight harder. It's easier to seduce her into wanting to marry me."

Luca raises an eyebrow but doesn't argue. Smart man.

By the time we finish, her apartment is more secure than most government buildings. I test each camera on my phone, watching the feeds flicker to life one by one. Living room. Kitchen. Hallway. Bedroom. I linger on that last one, remembering the way she looked spread out on those sheets, her breasts flushed and perfect, her thighs wrapped around my waist.

My cock stirs at the memory. Down, boy. There'll be time for that later.

"All set," Luca confirms, packing up the remaining equipment. "Want me to post someone inside?"

"No. She'd notice immediately. The tail outside is enough for now." I check my watch. Almost noon. "I'm going to her office. Make sure the café is ready."

Luca nods, already pulling out his phone to make the call.

The fashion magazine's office building is all glass and steel, the kind of place that screams money and taste. I stride through the lobby like I own it, because in a way, I do. I own half this city. The receptionist's eyes widen when she sees me, and she doesn't even try to stop me when I head for the elevators.

Kiera's on the third floor. I know because I've had her followed, studied her routine, and memorized every detail of her life. It should feel invasive. It doesn't. It feels necessary.

I find her at her desk, bent over a layout spread, her dark hair falling forward to hide her face. She's wearing a fitted blouse that hugs her breasts just right, and the memory of how they felt in my hands makes my jaw clench. When she looks up and sees me, those beautiful eyes narrow into a glare that could cut glass.

She doesn't say anything, just stands, grabs her purse, and walks toward me with her spine straight and her chin up. Proud. Defiant. Fucking magnificent.

Her coworkers watch with barely concealed curiosity, but she doesn't make a scene. She's too smart for that, too aware of exactly who I am and what I'm capable of. The power I hold in this city isn't just criminal. It's everywhere. In every business, every corner, and every shadow.

She knows better than to challenge me in public.

We don't speak until we're in my car, and even then, she stays silent, staring out the window with her arms crossed. The gesture pushes her breasts up, and I force myself to focus on the road.

"Where are we going?" she finally asks, her voice cold.

"Lunch."

"I'm not hungry."

"You'll eat anyway."

She turns that glare on me, and I almost smile. Almost. "You can't just show up at my work and kidnap me, Emil."

"I just did."

"This is exactly what I'm talking about. This… this controlling, criminal bullshit. I want nothing to do with it. Nothing to do with you."

The words should sting. They don't because I felt the way she responded to me last night, the way her body sang under my touch. She can lie with her mouth all she wants. Her body tells the truth.

"We'll see," is all I say.

The café sits right on the waterfront, a small, elegant place with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bay. I bought it two years ago as an investment, but today it serves a different purpose. The Closed for Private Event sign hangs on the door, and when we enter, the space is empty except for one table set for two with candles, wine already breathing, and fresh flowers.

Kiera stops in the doorway, and I see the moment she realizes what this is. "You closed an entire restaurant for lunch?"