Page 26 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

In the reflection, Ilya stands in the doorway. He’s fully dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad, a dark grey silk tie knotted perfectly at his throat. There’s no trace of the blood or the exhaustion from the shootout. His jaw is freshly shaved, and his dark hair is combed back, though a few stray strands already defy the styling cream.

He stops, his eyes locking onto my reflection. His gaze slowly travels down the exposed skin of my back, lingering on the place where the zipper is gaping open to reveal the lace of my black thong.

I don't turn around. I keep my back to him, my hands still clutched at my waist to keep the silk from sliding down my hips. "If you’re here to tell me we’re late, you can save your breath. Your stylists evidently designed this dress for a skeleton, not a human woman who actually needs to breathe."

He closes the distance between us with slow, deliberate strides. His boots make no sound on the heavy rug, but I can feel the heat of his presence pressing against my back.

He stops inches behind me. In the mirror, the contrast between us is jarring. He is a wall of dark, tailored structure and I am a thin, exposed strip of silk and bare skin.

He reaches out, his large, callused hands coming to rest on my bare hips. His fingers are warm, sending a sudden, electric jolt straight up my spine. "You’re shaking, little bird." His deep, gravelly voice vibrates against the back of my neck.

I grit my teeth, forcing my shoulders to drop. "It’s cold in here. And your hands feel like ice."

He doesn't reply. Instead, his right hand slides slowly up the side of my waist, his rough thumb grazing the sensitive skin over my ribs. He traces the curve of my waist until his fingers reach the stuck zipper. His knuckles brush against my bare spine, the physical contact making my breath hitch in a sharp, quiet gasp.

My reflection betrays me. My chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid movements, my nipples hardening into tight peaks against the thin silk of the bodice.

He notices. A dark, satisfied shadow passes over his features in the glass. He leans down, his mouth hovering just over the sensitive curve of my shoulder, his warm breath fanning across my skin.

"I told you last night," he murmurs, his fingers slowly working the metal tab of the zipper. "Your body doesn't know how to lie to me, Via. You can tell me you hate me all you want, but you’re practically dripping for me right now."

I twist my head, trying to look at him over my shoulder, my eyes burning with a mixture of anger and a sudden, thick heat in my lower belly. "You’re delusional. It’s a physical reaction to a claustrophobic dress. Now zip it up or let me change."

"You're not changing."

His hand slides down, his palm flat against my lower abdomen, pulling me back until my bottom is pressed firmly against his groin. I can feel the thick, rigid length of his erection through his trousers, heavy and demanding against my skin.

A quiet whimpering sound escapes my throat before I can stop it.

He pulls the zipper. Slowly. The metal teeth click together, one by one, the sound incredibly loud in the quiet room. He moves with agonizing slowness, his fingers tracing the rising seam, his palm smoothing the silk over my back as he goes. With every inch the zipper rises, the fabric pulls tighter, squeezing my breasts together, shaping my waist until I’m forced to arch my back, my chest pressing forward against the glass of the vanity.

"You look beautiful," he whispers, his teeth grazing the soft skin where my neck meets my shoulder. "But you’re going to behave tonight, Via."

I try to pull forward, away from his mouth, but his hand on my hip tightens, holding me firmly in place. "And if I don't? Are you going to shoot me too? Or just lock me back in the closet?"

He pulls the zipper the final inch, the slide clicking shut at the nape of my neck. His hands move to the front of my waist, his fingers tangling in the black cords holding the plunging neckline together. He tugs them slightly, just enough to make the silk cut into the undersides of my breasts.

"If you embarrass me tonight, your father pays the price." His voice loses every drop of warmth, turning into the cold, flat register of the Pakhan. "He’s currently sitting in his estate, nursing his wounds and trying to figure out how to rebuild his security detail. All it takes is one phone call from me, Via. One order to my men at the border, and Petr Denisov becomes a headline."

The heat in my belly instantly evaporates, replaced by a cold, heavy lump of dread. I stare at him in the mirror, my lips parting. "You promised. You said if I signed the contract, he’d be safe."

"He is safe." He lets go of the cords, his hands smoothing down the front of my dress, his touch almost mocking. "As long as you play your part. Tonight, you are the adoring wife. You smile when I tell you to smile. You sit when I tell you to sit. And you do not speak unless I allow it. Do we understand each other?"

I swallow the lump in my throat, my chin lifting as I stare at his reflection. "I understand that you’re a coward who needs to threaten an old man to keep his wife from running away."

He lets out a low, dry chuckle, his hand coming up to grip my chin, forcing me to look at him. "I’m a man who protects his assets, little bird. Now let’s go. Our guests are waiting."

He releases my face and turns, heading toward the door. I take a slow, deep breath, smoothing down the front of the black silk. Play the part. Keep Papa alive. That’s all that matters.

The car ride is silent, the armored SUV moving smoothly through the rain-slicked streets of the city. Ilya sits next to me, his face half-hidden in the shadows of the tinted windows, his phone buzzing occasionally with security updates. I keep my eyes on the window, watching the neon signs of the downtown district blur into streaks of colored light.

When the car finally stops, it’s not in front of a grand hotel or a flashy mansion. It’s in an alleyway behind a massive, windowless brick building with a single, unmarked metal door.

Dmitri opens my door, offering his hand. The rain is light, a cold mist that instantly clings to my bare shoulders as I step out onto the asphalt.

"Keep your head up, Via," Ilya murmurs, his hand coming to rest on the small of my back, his fingers warm against the bare skin.

He guides me through the metal door, and the sound of the city is instantly replaced by the heavy, thumping bass of house music.