Page 21 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

The skin around my eyes is swollen and pink, and my lips are raw from where I’ve spent the last three hours chewing on them. The dress I have on is completely ruined, stained with black soot from the explosives and splattered with another man's blood. I look like a survivor of a plane crash who somehow landed in a boutique.

A heavy knock on the door makes me jump, my heart immediately leaping into my throat.

"The Pakhan wants you in his study." Dmitri’s muffled voice through the thick wood carries no room for negotiation. "Now, Viallentinka."

I drag a hand down my face, letting out a slow, shaky breath. As if I have a choice. What’s he going to do if I say no? Send in a stupid Mafia SWAT team? Oh, wait, he already did that when he kidnapped me from my own wedding.

I open the door, keeping my chin lifted as I face Dmitri. He looks at my stained dress, his expression completely blank, before gesturing down the dimly lit hallway. I follow him in silence, my bare feet padding softly against the cold stone floor. The smell of smoke is still heavy and it almost chokes me.

Dmitri stops in front of a pair of double mahogany doors at the end of the hall. He doesn't knock. He just pushes one side open and steps aside, letting me pass.

The study is dark, illuminated only by the amber glow of a dying fire and a single desk lamp. The air in here is thick, smelling heavily of expensive single-malt scotch, old leather, and the unmistakable tang of fresh blood.

Ilya is sitting behind a massive desk. His hair is damp, clinging to his forehead, and his white button-down shirt is completely unbuttoned, hanging open to reveal a thick white bandage wrapped tightly around his ribs. A dark red stain is already blooming through the gauze on his left side. He looks like a demon who just crawled out of a war zone. He also looks totally mouthwatering.

Which is just unnecessary info!

He doesn't look up when I enter. He’s staring down at a glass of dark amber liquid, his large fingers slowly spinning the crystal.

I take three steps into the room, my nose wrinkling at the scent of the blood. "Did you call me to watch you bleed to death on your rug or something?”

His eyes slowly rise to meet mine. The sheer intensity of his gaze makes my breath catch in my throat. He sets the glass down, the heavy crystal making a dull clunk against the mahogany.

"Sit." He gestures to the leather armchair across from him.

I cross my arms, staying exactly where I am near the door. "I’ve spent the last four hours in a closet, Ilya. My legs work just fine. Tell me what you want so I can go back to my windowless prison."

He slides a thick, heavy sheet of cream-colored paper across the desk, along with a sleek black fountain pen. The gold nib of the pen glints under the lamp.

"Sign this."

I take a slow step forward, my eyes scanning the elegant, typed print at the top of the page. My throat goes dry. The words Certificate of Marriage stand out in bold, black lettering. My name is already typed at the bottom, right next to his.

I look from the paper to his face, a cold, hysterical laugh bubbling up in my chest. "Is this a joke? You blew up my wedding, murdered my groom, dragged me to your fortress, and now you want me to sign a piece of paper that says I’m marrying you? I already told you, I’m not a possession!”

He leans forward, his chest expanding as he takes a slow, shallow breath. The movement makes him flinch, his jaw clenching as the bandage on his ribs tightens. "Your father sent thirty men tonight, Via. By morning, he’ll have fifty more at the border of my territory. Dmitri and I killed twenty-two of them. The rest are currently being hunted down in the woods."

My stomach does a nauseating flip. Thirty men. All dead because of me. Ilya picks up his scotch glass, taking a slow sip before setting it down. "Petr is old, but he’s stubborn. He will keep sending men. He will keep throwing lives into the fire until he is either dead or bankrupt. And eventually, one of his bullets will find its mark. Or one of mine will find him."

I grip the back of the leather chair, my knuckles turning white. "Y-You're threatening to kill my father?”

"I am telling you a fact." His voice is entirely devoid of emotion. "He cannot win this war, Via. He doesn't have the numbers, and he doesn't have the reach. The only way this stops, the only way your father stays alive, is if we legalize this."

"Legalize a kidnapping?" I shake my head, my hair tumbling over my shoulders. "Do you think the courts are going to look at this and say, 'Oh, well, they have a certificate, so the human trafficking is totally fine'?"

"In my world, the government doesn't exist." He taps his finger against the paper. "An alliance solidified by marriage is sacred. Once the signatures are registered with the council, your father has no legal right to claim you. If he attacks me after this, the other families will turn on him. He will be wiped out within forty-eight hours."

He’s trapping me. He’s using my father’s survival as the bait, and he knows I have no choice but to bite.

I look at the fountain pen. It looks so small, but it feels heavier than any weapon in his basement. "You’re just trading one cage for another. Mikhail was going to lock me in a white picket fence, and you’re going to lock me in a concrete bunker."

"Mikhail was going to break you." Ilya stands up, his massive frame towering over the desk. He winces, his hand pressing against his bandaged ribs as he walks slowly around the mahogany. "I don't want to break you, Via. Not when I could use you instead. And right now, I need your name."

I snatch the pen off the desk, my fingers trembling so hard I almost drop it. I look down at the typed line for my signature. My mother died on a marble floor because of this world. My father spent twenty years building walls to keep me from it. And now, with a single stroke of black ink, I’m jumping straight into the fire.

"Fine," I whisper, pressing the gold nib to the paper. My signature is shaky, a ragged line of ink that looks nothing like the neat cursive I practiced in school. I toss the pen back onto the desk, my chest heaving. "But don't expect me to be a dutiful little housewife, Ilya. I will make your life a living hell. I’ll be the worst wife you’ve ever had."

He stops inches from me. The scent of him fills my senses, making my head spin.