Page 98 of The Pakhan’s Accidental Bride

"Miss Walker, there's a delivery for you at the front entrance."

"A delivery?"

"Yes, Miss. Fabric and supplies, I believe."

The wedding dress. I'd almost forgotten.

I follow the staff member to the entrance, where several large boxes are stacked. The fabric store must have sent everything else I ordered. I sign for the delivery and have the boxes brought to my room.

For the rest of the day, I lose myself in the work. I spread the fabrics out on the floor, comparing colors and textures. I sketch and measure and cut, my hands moving with a purpose that quiets my racing mind.

The wedding dress takes shape slowly. The silk feels like water beneath my fingers, smooth and cool. I work on the bodice first, pinning and stitching, adjusting the fit until it's perfect.

Then I move on to Emil's clothing. The charcoal gray fabric is rich and elegant, and I can already picture how it will look on him. Strong and commanding, but with a subtle edge that's uniquely him.

Hours pass. The light outside shifts from bright afternoon sun to the softer glow of evening. My back aches from hunching over the fabric, but I don't stop. I can't. This is the only thing I have control over right now, the only thing that makes sense.

A knock on the door startles me. I look up, realizing how late it's gotten. The room is dim, lit only by the lamp on the desk.

"Come in," I call, quickly gathering the fabric and hiding it behind the bed. I want it to be a surprise.

The door opens, and Emil steps inside. He's changed into dark jeans and a black shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The bandage on his arm is stark white against his tanned skin.

"You've been in here all day," he says, his eyes scanning the room.

"I've been working."

"On what?"

"Just… projects." I stand, brushing fabric lint off my jeans. "How's your arm?"

"Fine."

"Does it hurt?"

"Not much."

I don't believe him, but I don't argue. "Did you eat dinner?"

"Not yet. I came to see if you wanted to join me."

The offer surprises me. After last night, after everything, I expected him to keep his distance. But here he is, standing in my doorway, looking at me with an expression I can't quite read.

"Sure," I say. "I could eat."

We head downstairs to the dining room, where the staff has already set the table. It's just the two of us, the large room feeling intimate despite its size.

We eat in relative silence, the clink of silverware the only sound. I sneak glances at him, noticing the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens when he moves his injured arm.

"Have you made any progress?" I ask finally. "With the list?"

"Some. We've narrowed it down to a dozen possibilities."

"A dozen." I set down my fork. "That's still a lot."

"It's better than fifty."

"Not by much."