Page 25 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

"I wasn't begging," she snaps, her chin lifting, though I can see the rapid flutter of her pulse in her neck. "I was trying to keep you from crushing my ribs, you giant brute. And if you think a piece of paper makes me your property, you’re stupider than I thought."

"You are my property, Viallentinka." I lean down, my lips grazing the sensitive skin of her jaw, making her let out a ragged hitch of a breath. "Your father signed you over the second he let Mikhail skim my ports. And last night, you sealed the deal yourself."

"My father didn't know!" She tries to twist her wrists out of my grip, her body bucking against mine, but it’s a useless effort. I’m too heavy, too solid. "He would never have let Mikhail touch your money if he knew what it would cost."

"It doesn't matter what he knew." I shift my weight, my thigh sliding between hers, forcing her legs apart. The heat of her inner thighs is intoxicating, and I can feel the sudden, damp warmth of her body reacting to my proximity. "What matters is tonight. The Russo family is going to be there. They want to see if the North is weak. They want to see if I’ve been softened by a pretty little Bratva princess."

"Then show them your teeth, snap or do whatever animalistic things you do, Ilya." She glares up at me. “Why do you need me?"

"Because a king is only as strong as his queen." I release her wrists, my hand sliding down to cup her face, my thumb dragging across her bottom lip until it’s raw and pink. "I want them to see the marks on your neck. I want them to see the way you look at me. I want every man in that room to know that if they even look at you, I will pull their hearts out through their throats."

She swallows hard, her throat bobbing under my palm. "And what if I tell them the truth? What if I stand up in front of your little council and tell them you dragged me here in a blood-stained dress?"

I smile, a cold, dark curve of my lips. "They won't care, Via. In our world, strength is the only law. They’ll just see a man who took what he wanted. And they’ll respect me for it."

She turns her head away, her shoulder tensing under my weight. "I fucking hate you."

"I know." I lean down, my teeth grazing the soft lobe of her ear, making her shudder. "But tonight, you’re going to wear that black silk dress. You’re going to walk into that room on my arm, and you’re going to look like you worship the ground I walk on."

"And if I don't?"

I grip her chin, forcing her face back to mine. "If you don't, I will find much more creative ways to ensure your obedience. We have twelve hours before the summit, Via. I can spend them breaking that stubborn little mouth and body of yours until you can barely stand, let alone speak. Would you prefer that?"

Her breath catches, her eyes widening as she looks into my face. She can see the truth in my eyes. She knows I’m not bluffing. She knows I’d do it in a heartbeat, that I’m practically begging for an excuse to slide back inside her and take her until she’s sobbing my name.

"You're a monster," she whispers, her voice barely a thread.

"I’m your husband," I say, my voice a low, gravelly vibration against her lips. "Get dressed, Viallentinka."

I stand up, my body aching with the effort of pulling away from her. I walk to the door, my boots heavy on the floor, and look back one last time.

She’s sitting up, the sheet clutched to her chest, staring at the black silk dress hanging on the rack. She looks small in the center of the massive bed, but the fire in her eyes is still burning.

Good.

I step out into the hallway, the lock chirping as it engages. My blood is still hot, my hands shaking slightly as I walk toward the stairs.

She’s going to be the death of me, but tonight, the city is going to see exactly who she belongs to.

9

VIA

My shoulder muscles ache as I twist my arms behind my back, my fingers clawing blindly for the tiny metal tab of the zipper. It’s stuck at the swell of my lower back, refusing to budge past the tight curve of my hips.

"Come on, you stupid piece of metal," I mutter, my breath hitching as I suck in my stomach.

The mirror in the dressing room is too big, too bright, and currently showing me a version of myself I don’t entirely recognize.

The dress is silk, so thin and slick, it feels like a heavy layer of body paint. It hugs every single curve, dip, and swell of my skin suffocatingly. The neckline plunges nearly to my navel, held together by a network of thin black cords, while the back is completely nonexistent down to the low, dangerous curve of my spine. It’s elegant. It’s exactly the kind of dress a man buys when he wants everyone to know he’s the only one allowed to take it off.

I pull harder at the zipper. The fabric is so tight I can barely chest-breathe. My fingers slip off the metal, and I let out a sharp, frustrated groan, resting my forehead against the cool glass of the vanity mirror.

My body is sore. Every muscle in my thighs and lower abdomen carries a dull, throbbing reminder of what happened on that desk last night. Just thinking about his body, the heavy, relentless drive of his hips, and the way my own voice sounded makes a sudden, hot wave of shame rush straight to my face.

I signed the paper. I’m his wife. I’m officially a Kovalevskii.

The door behind me swings open, the heavy draft of the hallway instantly chilling my bare back.