Page 16 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

I collapse.

My knees hit the floor, but I don't feel the impact. I’m hyperventilating, the world narrowing down to a single, piercing point of light. I’m crying, but there’s no sound, just the raw, jagged scraping of my breath against my throat.

"Mama," I whisper. "Please, don't. Mama."

Hands are on me. Large, heavy hands. I try to fight them, my mind screaming Monster! Monster!, but I can’t move. My muscles are locked in a state of pure, primal terror.

"Ekaterina, leave immediately," a voice commands.

"But Ilya⁠—"

"Please, Ekaterina!"

The door slams. The sound is like a gunshot, and I let out a sharp, broken shriek, burying my face in my hands. I’m sobbing now. I feel like I’m being torn apart from the inside out.

"Breathe, Viallentinka."

Ilya is on the floor with me, pulling me into his lap, his massive chest a wall against my back. He wraps his arms around me, his grip so tight it’s almost painful, but it’s the only thing keeping me from floating away.

"Breathe with me," he rasps, his mouth near my ear. "Come on. In. Out. Do it, Via."

I try. I sync my breaths to the slow, steady rhythm of his heart. I can feel the vibration of his voice in his chest, a low, grounding hum. He doesn't move. He just holds me through the waves of panic.

"It’s not real," he whispers. "You’re in my house. You’re safe. No one is coming for you."

It takes forever. Minutes? Hours? I don't know. But slowly, the sunroom fades. The smell of blood is replaced by his scent, tobacco, fire, and the faint, clean smell of soap. The shaking starts to subside, leaving me hollow and exhausted.

I’m leaning against him, my face pressed into the crook of his neck. I can feel the beat of his pulse, and for a second, it’s not terrifying. It’s life.

I pull back slowly, wiping my face with the sleeve of my robe. My eyes are burning, and my throat feels like I’ve swallowed glass. I look at him, and for the first time, his cold exterior is gone. He’s looking at me with a look so intense, so raw, that I have to look away.

"You should have told me," he says, his voice a low, rough thread.

"What? That I’m a broken mess who can't handle the sound of a gun?" I try to find my sass, but it’s a pale, weak thing. "I told you, Ilya. I’ve spent twenty years in a cage. Some things don't just go away."

I try to stand up, my legs feeling like jelly. He helps me, his hand steady on my arm. He doesn't let go even when I’m steady.

"You went to the library," he says, his obsidian eyes scanning my face.

"I needed a window," I say, my chin lifting a fraction. "I told you I’d eat the upholstery. Ekaterina just helped me find a snack."

I’m waiting for the lecture. I’m waiting for the punishment. But he just stares at me, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw, his touch almost reverent. The possessiveness in his gaze is terrifying.

"Go back to your room, Viallentinka," he says softly. "I’ll have Yara bring you tea."

"I don't want tea. I want a window."

"You have the skylights," he says, his grip tightening for a split second. "And you have me. That’s all you’re getting today."

I turn and walk out, trying to keep my shoulders back. I can feel his eyes on me the whole way down the hall.

I'm in trouble, I think as the door to my windowless suite chirps shut. I’m in so much trouble.

Because for a second, when he was holding me on that floor, I didn't want to leave.

6

ILYA