Page 4 of The Pakhan’s Accidental Bride

She moves with an unselfconscious grace, her body swaying to the music. The dress she's wearing hugs every curve, and Christ, what curves they are. Her breasts strain against the fabric as she raises her arms above her head, full and round, and I find myself wondering what they'd feel like in my hands. Her waist is small, flaring out to hips that make my fingers itch to grip them. When she turns, I get a perfect view of her ass, round and firm, the kind that would fill my palms perfectly.

This is not why I came here tonight. But I can't stop watching her.

The way she moves is hypnotic. Her hips roll with the beat, slow and sensual, and I feel my cock stir in response. She's not trying to be sexy. That's what makes it so goddamn effective. Every movement is natural, unforced, like her body was made to move to music. When she lifts her arms and runs her fingers through that short red hair, her breasts lift with the motion, and I can see the outline of her nipples through the thin fabric of her dress.

Christ. I want to put my mouth on them.

She spins again, laughing with her friends, and there's something about her energy that draws me in. She's not performing for anyone. She's not trying to catch someone's attention. She's just living in the moment, enjoying herself, and it's the most attractive thing I've seen in years. The contrast between her and those painted dolls in my living room couldn't be sharper. This woman is alive, vibrant, real.

The predator in me recognizes prey worth hunting. Not the weak, desperate kind like the women my council keeps throwing at me. Those are easy targets, already caught before the chase begins. This one is different. She's unaware that she's being watched. That makes her infinitely more interesting.

She turns, giving me another view of that perfect ass, and my hands flex at my sides. I want to grip those hips, pull her back against me, feel her body move against mine the way she's moving to the music. The dress rides up slightly when she bends, and I catch a glimpse of smooth thigh that makes my mouth go dry.

This is what attraction is supposed to feel like. Not the polite tolerance I felt sitting across from those women in my living room. This is raw want, the kind that makes a man forget he's supposed to be civilized. The kind that makes him remember he's an animal underneath the expensive suits and carefully maintained control.

Her friends say something to her and she laughs again, the sound carrying over the music. Even her laugh is genuine. No fake giggling, no performative bullshit. Just pure amusement. When was the last time I heard something that real?

I should look away. I should finish my drink and go home. Instead, I push off the wall slightly, keeping to the shadows but positioning myself where I can see her better. Where I can watch every roll of her hips, every arch of her back, and every smile that crosses her face.

I'm so focused on her that I almost miss when her entire body goes rigid.

The change is instant and dramatic. One second, she's loose and happy, and the next, she's frozen, her eyes locked on something across the club. I follow her gaze to a man who's just entered, pushing through the crowd. Even in the dim lighting, there's something familiar about him, but I can't place it. The shadows and strobing lights make it impossible to get a clear look at his face.

The redhead says something quick to her friends, then turns and hurries away from the table. She's not running, exactly, but she's moving fast, weaving between dancers with clear purpose. The man follows her, his trajectory deliberate. His eyes are locked on her with an intensity I recognize. Obsession. Possession.

My jaw tightens. I don't know what's happening, but I recognize prey and predator when I see it. And that woman, my beautiful redhead, is definitely running from something.

She's moving in my direction, though I don't think she's noticed me yet. Her eyes keep darting back to check whether the man is still following. He is. He's closing the distance between them, his expression determined, almost angry.

Then she looks forward and her eyes lock on mine.

For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other. Her eyes are blue, I realize. Bright blue, even in this shitty lighting. There's fear in them, but also calculation. She's making a decision.

She walks straight up to me, close enough that I can smell her perfume, something light and floral that cuts through the club's heavy air. She's shorter than I thought, the top of her head barely reaching my shoulder. Up close, she's even more stunning. A small mole sits at the left corner of her mouth, and I have the sudden, inappropriate urge to trace it with my thumb.

"Please play along," she says, her voice urgent but quiet enough that only I can hear.

Before I can respond, before I can even process what she's asking, the man pursuing her arrives. He's breathing hard, his face flushed with anger or exertion or both. Now that he's closer, I can see him better, but I still can't place where I've seen him before.

The redhead turns to face him, and her entire demeanor changes. Her spine straightens, her chin lifts, and when she speaks, her voice carries confidence I'm not sure she actually feels.

"Arnie, I'd like you to meet my fiancé."

3

KIERA

"Kiera, what the hell?" Arnie's voice cuts through the music, sharp and accusatory. "Who is this guy?"

My fingers dig into the stranger's arm, probably hard enough to bruise. "I told you. He's my fiancé."

Arnie's face twists into something ugly. "Bullshit. You don't have a fiancé."

"Actually," the man beside me says, his voice low and calm, cutting through Arnie's anger like a knife through butter, "we are engaged."

I freeze. My heart stutters in my chest as the words register. He's backing me up. This complete stranger is actually playing along.

"You're lying," Arnie snarls, but there's uncertainty creeping into his voice now.