Page 81 of The Pakhan’s Accidental Bride

The question hangs in the air between us. I think about the man I beat in the interrogation room, the cold efficiency with which I handle threats to my organization.

"Probably," I admit. "But I don't want you to be."

"Why not?"

"Because fear isn't what I want from you."

"What do you want from me?"

Everything. The word rises in my throat, but I swallow it back. "I don't know yet."

She studies me for a long moment, those blue eyes seeing more than I'm comfortable with. "I think you do know. You're just not ready to say it."

Maybe she's right. Maybe I do know, somewhere deep down in a part of myself I've spent decades burying. But admitting it feels dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with bullets or betrayal.

"Tell me about your brothers," I say, changing the subject. "What were they like growing up?"

She lets me redirect the conversation, and we spend the next hour talking. She tells me stories about Kevin's overprotective parenting, Jack's cop instincts that started when he was a kid, Devin's obsession with fitness, and Kaleb's gentle nature. I tell her about growing up in the Bratva, learning the business from my father, and the violence and loyalty that shaped who I became.

It's easy, talking to her like this. Easier than it should be. She laughs at my dry humor, asks questions that show she's actually listening, and shares pieces of herself without holding back.

By the time we finish eating, the sky outside is starting to lighten with the first hints of dawn.

"I should get some sleep," she says, standing and carrying her plate to the sink. "The fabric shop opens at nine, and I want to be there early."

Staff had told me about her request earlier, and I'd agreed as long as she had a lot of guards with her. "I'll have the driver ready."

"Thank you." She pauses at the kitchen door, looking back at me. "This was nice. Talking like normal people instead of… whatever we usually are."

"Yeah," I agree. "It was."

She smiles and disappears into the hallway. I sit alone in the kitchen, listening to her footsteps fade away, and realize something that makes my chest tighten.

I don't know much about the woman I'm supposed to marry. Her favorite foods, dreams, or the little things that make her laugh. Before tonight, I didn't think it mattered. She was a means to an end, a solution to a problem, a beautiful woman I wanted in my bed.

But now it does matter. Now I want to know everything about her. What makes her happy, what scares her, what she thinks about when she's alone. I want to know her favorite color, childhood memories, and the way she takes her coffee in the morning.

I want to know Kiera. All of her. Not just the defiant woman who challenges me or the passionate lover who comes apart in my arms. I want to know the person underneath all of that.

I want to know what makes Kiera Walker tick.

And that realization terrifies me more than any bullet or blade ever has.

33

KIERA

The fabric store is overwhelming in the best possible way.

Bolts of material line the walls from floor to ceiling in every color imaginable. Silks, satins, lace, tulle, cotton, linen. The textures call to me, begging to be touched and transformed into something beautiful and unique.

Luca stands near the entrance with two guards, all three of them looking distinctly uncomfortable surrounded by so much fabric and femininity. I can't help but smile at their obvious discomfort as I run my fingers over a bolt of ivory silk.

"This one," I tell the shop assistant, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a measuring tape draped around her neck. "And I'll need about fifteen yards."

"For a wedding dress?" she asks, her eyes lighting up.

"Yes."