Page 30 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

The pleasure is too much. She’s crying, her head thrashing against the mirror, her eyes wide as she watches us slide together in the glass.

"Look at it, Via," I growl, my thrusts becoming faster, shallower, driving her toward the edge. "Look at what I’m doing to you."

She lets out a high, piercing shriek, her body going completely rigid. Her internal muscles clamp down around my cock in a series of violent, shaking contractions that send me over the edge. I let out a loud, guttural roar, driving myself as deep as I can go, my body shaking as I pump my hot seed deep inside her.

I stay buried inside her, my chest heaving against her back, my hands holding her hips steady as she shivers and cries.

Slowly, I pull back, the sticky friction of our release making a soft, wet sound as I slide out. I clean her with a warm, damp towel from the rack, my movements surprisingly gentle despite the coldness in my eyes.

She’s leaning against the vanity, her legs shaking so hard she can barely stand, her black silk dress ruined and stained.

I pull her up by the chin, forcing her to look at me in the mirror.

"You are my wife, Viallentinka," I whisper, my voice a low, terrifying rasp against her ear. "Your mouth will learn to obey, or I will use it for other things."

She doesn't answer. She just stares at her reflection, her chest still heaving, her eyes dull and hollow.

I button my trousers, buckle my belt, and pull my leather gloves back on. I walk to the door, my boots heavy on the stone, and turn the lock.

"Get cleaned up," I say, not looking back. "We have five minutes before the summit resumes."

I step out into the hallway, the cool air of the corridor hitting my face. Dmitri is standing there, his rifle steady, his eyes scanning the empty hall.

"Everything clear, Boss?" he asks.

"Yes," I growl, my jaw set. "Get the car ready. We're leaving as soon as Russo signs the port agreement."

I stalk down the corridor, my blood still humming, my mind trapped in the memory of the way she screamed my name in the red light of the mirror.

She’s mine.

11

VIA

The hot water in the shower is the only thing keeping me from completely falling apart.

I press my forehead against the cold marble tiles, letting the steam fill my lungs until my chest stops aching. My hands are flat against the wall, my fingers trembling as the water beats down on my back. I’ve been scrubbing my skin with a rough washcloth for twenty minutes, trying to erase the phantom feel of Ilya's hands, the lingering scent of his expensive tobacco, and the heavy, metallic smell of the club's private bathroom.

But I can’t wash away the bruises.

I look down at my hips. There are dark, purplish-red finger marks stamped into my pale skin, a map of the way he held me down against that vanity. My throat is tender, a faint shadow of pink marking the place where his thumb had pressed into my collarbone to remind me of my place.

I hate him. I hate his name, his house, and the way he looks at me like he owns every breath in my lungs.

But the worst part, the part that makes me want to scream into the drain, is the memory of my own voice. I can still hear the breathless, pathetic whimpers I let out against his neck. I can still feel the way my own body literally turned to liquid the second his fingers touched me, betraying my anger, my pride, and my father’s name in a single, humiliating rush of heat.

I turn the handle, cutting off the water. The sudden silence in the master bathroom is deafening.

I wrap myself in a thick, oversized grey sweater and a pair of simple black leggings I found in the bottom drawer of the vanity. I refuse to touch the silk dresses. I refuse to wear anything that makes me look like the queen he wants to show off to his violent little friends.

The digital lock on the bedroom door doesn't chirp when I turn the handle. It simply swings open.

I blink, staring at the empty hallway. He cleared my access. Or he just doesn't think I have the guts to run anymore.

I step out into the corridor, my bare feet padding silently against the cold stone. The estate is quiet, but it’s a heavy, post-battle kind of quiet. In the main foyer, three men in black suits are working silently, patching the shattered plaster where the bullets had chewed through the walls last night. The smells of fresh wood filler and white paint are thick, trying to cover the scents of the sulfur and the blood.

They don't look at me as I pass. They go rigid, their eyes fixed on the floor, treating me like a ghost they aren't allowed to see.