Page 10 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

I like her.

Ilya doesn't say another word. He goes down a long, winding corridor and stops at a set of heavy oak doors, kicks them open, and finally drops me onto a bed.

I hit the mattress and immediately scramble backward, my heart hammering. The room is beautiful in a terrifying way—velvet curtains, a fireplace, and a bed large enough to host a small village. But as I look around, a cold realization hits me.

There are no windows.

The walls are solid stone, covered in silk wallpaper, but there isn't a single pane of glass. It’s a luxury bunker. A windowless suite designed to keep things in just as much as it keeps things out.

Oh, God. My chest heaves up and down as my breath shortens. The walls of the room suddenly feel like they’re leaning in toward me. I can’t breathe. I need a window. I need to see the sky. I need to know there’s an out.

"You can't do this," I whisper, my resilience vanishing as the walls start to close in. "Ilya, please. I need... I can't stay in a room without windows."

Ilya stands by the door, his silhouette tall and dark against the hallway light. He watches me, his expression unreadable. He doesn't mock me. He doesn't yell. He just watches my chest heave as I struggle for air.

"It’s for your safety, Viallentinka," he says, and for a second, he almost sounds like my father. "Petr’s men can’t shoot through three feet of reinforced concrete."

"I don't care about the concrete! I can't breathe!"

"You're breathing just fine," he says coldly. "Sasha will be in with water and a change of clothes. Don't try to leave. The door is biometric. You touch the handle, and an alarm sounds in my office."

"I hate you," I sob, grabbing a silk pillow and hurling it at him. "I hope you choke on your own spit!"

He catches the pillow with one hand, tosses it back onto the bed, and leaves. The sound of the door locking is a heavy, digital chirp that feels like a nail being driven into my coffin.

I collapse onto the mattress, burying my face in the duvet. It smells like him, that metallic, tobacco-and-fire scent that I’m starting to realize is going to be the only thing I smell for a very long time.

A few minutes later, the door chirps again. Sasha scurries in, carrying a tray with a crystal pitcher of water and a stack of folded clothes. She looks like she’s walking on eggshells, her eyes fixed on the floor.

"I... I brought your water, Miss," she whispers, setting the tray on the nightstand.

I sit up, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. "Thanks, Sasha. Is the 'Miss' part of the rules, or can we just use my name?"

Sasha flinches. "The Pakhan... he has many rules. Rule one is silence unless spoken to. Rule two is never touch the walls. Rule three is..." She pauses, her voice trembling. "Rule three is never say no to him. He doesn't like the word 'no'."

Well, he’s going to have a very frustrating week, then, because 'no' is my favorite word.

"Is there a rule about how many times a day I’m allowed to wish for a giant sinkhole to swallow this house?" I ask, trying to regain myself by not thinking about the fact that I’m in a windowless room and I might never see natural light again unless the stupid, ugly monster wants me to.

Sasha doesn't laugh. She just stares at me with a look of pure shock. "Please, Miss. Just do what he says. He’s... he’s not a man you want to anger. I’ve seen what happens to people who cross the Ghost."

"The Ghost?"

"That’s what the they call him," she whispers, looking toward the door as if he might hear her through the solid oak. "Because he’s everywhere, and you never see him coming until it’s too late."

She leaves quickly, the door locking behind her.

I stand up and start pacing the room, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. I check the dresser, and it’s nothing but silk robes and expensive lingerie that looks like it was designed to be ripped off. I check the bathroom and it’s marble everywhere.

I sit back down on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

Okay, Via. Think. You grew up with Petr Denisov. You know how these men think. They think they’re the lions and we’re the gazelles. But lions are predictable. They’re lazy. And they’re always overconfident.

I look at the biometric lock on the door. It’s high-tech, which means it has a power source. And power sources can be manipulated.

I’ve had worse Tinder dates than this. Well, okay, maybe not worse, but definitely more boring. At least this guy is interesting to look at, even if he is a psychopathic kidnapper with a "Ghost" nickname.

I lie back, staring at the dark velvet canopy above me.