Page 47 of The Pakhan’s Accidental Bride

But I can't move.

Emil turns his head and looks at me. His dark brown eyes are completely empty. No surprise at seeing me there. No guilt. No apology. No explanation. Nothing. He just stares at me with that same quiet, watchful expression he always wears, as if he's just been reading a book instead of beating a man bloody.

My heart hammers against my ribs. This is the man I was just with. The man whose hands were on my body less than an hour ago, whose mouth was on mine and whose cock was inside me. The man who made me come so hard, I saw stars.

And now he's standing there with blood on his knuckles, looking at me like I'm the one who's done something wrong by witnessing this.

The bound man sobs, trying to staunch the flow of blood with his shoulder since his hands are tied. "Please," he whimpers. "Please, I have kids. Three kids. My wife's mother is sick and⁠—"

"Shut the fuck up," Emil says quietly, still looking at me.

Then he jerks his head toward the door. Toward Luca, whom I hadn't even noticed standing beside me.

Luca's large hand wraps around my upper arm. Not painfully, but firmly. Unmistakably. He's not asking.

"Wait," I start to say, but Luca is already pulling me backward, away from the doorway and that horrible room.

I hear another punch. Another wet, sickening sound of fist meeting flesh.

The man's wails follow us down the hallway, pitiful and broken, and I wince with each cry. My stomach churns, and I think I might be sick.

"Take me home," I say to Luca. My voice sounds strange, high and thin. "I want to go home. Now."

Luca says nothing. He just keeps walking, his hand still wrapped around my arm, guiding me through the compound. We pass rooms I recognize from earlier.

God, I'm so stupid. So incredibly stupid.

Of course he's violent. He's a Mafia boss. What did I think that meant? That he just sat in an office and made phone calls? That he never got his hands dirty?

But knowing it intellectually and seeing it firsthand are two completely different things.

"Luca, please," I try again. "I need to leave."

Still nothing. His face could be carved from stone.

We reach a door and Luca opens it, ushering me inside. It's an office, masculine and professional, with a large desk, leather chairs, and bookshelves lining one wall. Under different circumstances, I might find it impressive.

Right now, all I can think about is that man's blood.

Luca releases my arm and steps back into the hallway.

"Wait," I say, moving toward him. "You can't just⁠—"

The door closes. And then I hear it. The distinct click of a lock sliding into place.

No.

I grab the handle and twist. It doesn't budge. I pull harder, rattling the door in its frame.

"Luca!" I shout. "Luca, open this door!"

Nothing. Just silence from the other side.

I'm locked in.

The realization hits me like a physical blow. I'm not a guest here. I'm not Emil's lover or his fiancée or whatever the hell I thought I was.

I'm a prisoner.