Page 11 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

I'm getting out of here. Even if I have to bite every single person in this house to do it.

The walls are still closing in, and the lack of windows is a constant, screaming pressure in the back of my mind, but I won't break. I won't let him see me shatter.

I’m Viallentinka Denisova. And I’m going to be the biggest headache Ilya Kovalevskii has ever had.

4

ILYA

The monitor in my office shows a grainy, black-and-white feed of the North Suite.

Viallentinka isn't crying. That’s what I expected to see when I came here.

But she isn’t. She’s on her knees in front of the oak door, her back to the camera, shoulders working with a focused energy.

What the fuck is she doing?

I lean closer, my drink forgotten on the desk. She’s got a small, silver hairpiece in her hand—something she must have pulled from the wreckage of that ridiculous hairstyle—and she’s jamming it into the biometric scanner’s casing.

Stubborn little beast.

She’s trying to bypass the electrical relay. It’s a smart move for a girl who’s supposed to be a sheltered princess, but it’s a useless one. The secondary circuit is embedded in the frame. All she’s going to do is give herself a nasty shock or break her makeshift tool.

I watch her for another minute. The way her lace sleeves are torn at the shoulders, revealing the pale, creamy skin I want to sink my teeth into. The way her breathing is visible even through the low-res feed, her chest heaving with every frustrated grunt. My pulse thickens. It’s a heavy, low-frequency thrum that has nothing to do with the war I’ve just declared on her father and everything to do with the fact that she’s under my roof.

I stand up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. I walk down the hall and straight to her room.

The biometric scanner chirps as I press my thumb to it. The door swings inward, and for a split second, she doesn't move. She stays frozen on the floor, the silver pin still clutched in her hand, her head bowed.

Then she turns.

Her face is pale, and her eyes are wide, filled with raw panic. Her breathing is jagged, her chest moving so fast, it looks painful. She tries to hide the hairpiece behind her back, but she’s too slow.

"Looking for a way out, Via?" I ask. I keep my voice low, the words sliding out like a blade from a sheath. I step into the room and the door clicks shut behind me, the lock engaging with a sound that makes her flinch.

"I was looking for a light switch," she says. Her voice is shaking, but she’s still trying to lie to me. "It’s too dark in here. I can’t see."

"Liar." I walk toward her, and she tries to scramble backward on her knees, her white dress bunching up around her thighs. I don't give her the space. I reach down, grab her by the upper arm, and haul her to her feet.

She’s small—smaller than she felt over my shoulder. My hand almost completely circles her bicep. I can feel the frantic, hummingbird beat of her pulse through her skin.

"Let go of me," she whispers. It's not a command this time. It’s a plea.

"You were trying to pick the lock of a Pakhan’s door," I say, my grip tightening just enough to make her gasp. "In my house, that’s considered an act of war. Do you have any idea what I do to people who declare war on me?"

She looks up at me, her lower lip trembling. She’s trying to find that sharp-tongued girl from the car, but she’s failing. "You're going to kill me anyway. Does it matter if I try to leave?"

"I’m not going to kill you, Viallentinka." I move my other hand, my thumb tracing the line of her bottom lip. It’s soft, wet from where she’s been biting it, and so goddamn tempting I can feel my own restraint fraying. "But you need to learn the rules. Rule one: you do not touch the door. Rule two: you do not lie to me. And rule three..."

I lean in, my nose brushing against hers. I can smell the vanilla on her skin, mixed with the sharp tang of her fear.

"Rule three is that you look at me when I’m talking to you."

She tries to turn her head away, her eyes fluttering shut. I don't let her. I hook my hand under her chin, forcing her face up. I use my thumb to press down on her bottom lip, dragging it until the pink inner flesh is exposed.

"Look at me," I growl.

She opens her eyes. They’re swimming with tears she refuses to let fall, but the fire is still there, buried deep under the terror.