Page 15 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

We spend the next hour sitting on the floor between the stacks. I find out she’s obsessed with historical romances and that she sneaks out to the gardens when the guards are changing shifts. She’s smart, but she’s been kept in the dark so long, her curiosity is starting to turn into a desperate kind of hunger.

"He’s not always like that," she says, tracing the gold foil on a book spine. "He’s just... he’s had to be that way for so long, I think he forgot how to be Ilya. Since our mother died..."

I go still. The mention of her mother is like a cold finger touching my spine. "What happened to her?"

Ekaterina’s voice goes small. "A hit. Five years ago. She was in the garden. Ilya saw it. He was seventeen. He killed the men who did it, but... he’s been obsessed with security ever since. He won't even let me have a phone."

"He’s protecting you from the world he’s creating," I say, and for the first time, I feel a tiny, microscopic sliver of empathy for the monster. "It’s a vicious cycle."

"I want to be like you," she says suddenly, looking at me with wide eyes. "You aren't afraid of him. You talk back. You make him look... human."

"I'm terrified of him, Ekaterina. I just hide it behind a very expensive wall of sarcasm." I stand up, brushing the dust off the silk robe Sasha gave me. "But you’re right. We shouldn't be the ones hiding. If they want to be warriors, fine. But that doesn't mean we have to be the trophies."

"There’s a weapons room," Ekaterina says, her eyes lighting up with a sudden, mischievous idea. "Ilya says I’m too young, but I know where the key is. He keeps it in the library desk. I want to see the 'Queen’s Blade' he bought at the auction."

I lighten up. Even though my PTSD stems from trauma of violence, I’ve found that weapons, looking at them at least makes me happy. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m a Mafia princess and it’s in my blood? I have no idea. "A weapons room? Now you’re talking my language."

We sneak down the hall to a side door. Ekaterina pulls a heavy brass key from a hidden drawer and unlocks it. The room is small, windowless, of course, and lined with glass cases. It smells of gun oil, cold steel, and that sharp scent of a firing range.

"Look at this one," Ekaterina gushes, pointing to a silver-hilted dagger. "It’s supposed to be from the Romanov collection. Imagine being a woman back then, carrying this under your skirts. Total badass, right?"

"Total badass," I agree, leaning over the case. "I’d probably just accidentally stab myself in the thigh, but the aesthetic is on point."

We’re laughing, gushing over the displays and making jokes about how we could take over the city with a pair of antique swords and some sass, when the door behind us swings open.

The sound is a heavy thud of a boot.

Ilya walks in. He isn't wearing his suit jacket anymore. His white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and ink. He looks tired, his jaw shadowed with stubble, but his presence still fills the room.

He sees Ekaterina first. "I thought I told you to stay in the West Wing."

"We were just... looking," Ekaterina says, her voice losing its confidence.

Ilya doesn't look at her for long. His gaze swings to me. He doesn't look angry. He looks... focused. He walks past us toward a workbench at the back of the room.

"Since you’re here," he grunts, "you might as well learn something useful instead of looking at jewelry."

He reaches into a leather holster on the bench and pulls out a matte-black handgun. He sets it on the table and begins to disassemble it.

Click. Slide. Thwack.

The sounds are loud in the small, echoing room. He picks up a rag soaked in gun oil, the chemical scent suddenly filling my nostrils.

Click.

The sound of the slide racking.

The room starts to tilt. The grey stone walls of the weapons room vanish, replaced by the white marble of a sunroom twenty years ago. The smell of gun oil is suddenly the smell of my mother’s perfume and the copper tang of blood.

Click.

I can see the muzzle flash. I can see the way my mother’s head snapped back. I can hear the wet, heavy thud of her body hitting the floor.

"Via?"

Ekaterina’s voice is far away. I’m gasping for air, but there isn't any. The air is made of gunpowder and stone dust. I try to reach for the table, but my hands aren't mine anymore. They’re small. They’re covered in red.

"Via, what’s wrong?"