Page 43 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

I’m standing by the window of my study, the grey morning light breaking through the heavy mist rolling off the river. My shoulder is stiff, the bandage tight over the fresh graze, but the pain is still there. Below, in the courtyard, three teams of sweepers are checking the gravel paths, their rifles held low across their chests.

Dmitri pushes the door open. He’s carrying a small, square wooden box, his face pale in the dim light.

He sets the box on the glass table, his hand staying near the lid. "This was left at the east gate. A courier delivered it to the outer patrol. No return address. No digital signature on the transit log."

I step away from the window, my boots quiet on the rug. I slide my fingers under the wooden lid and pry it upward, the dry pine wood splintering under my thumb.

The smell hits me first. It’s the sweet, cloying scent of lilies, strong enough to make my stomach turn.

Inside the box, resting on a bed of damp black soil, is a single white lily. The petals are fresh, but the center is smeared with a thick, dried coat of dark crimson.

My heart stops, a cold, heavy stone dropping into my gut.

The cathedral.

It’s the exact same flower from her wedding bouquet. The exact same blood that stained her train. Via wasn't hallucinating on the mezzanine. She wasn't succumbing to the panic or the memories of her mother’s death.

Mikhail is alive.

The two rounds I put into his chest in front of the altar didn't finish the job. He’s out there, hiding in the shadows of the city, and he’s using my own methods to send a message. He wants me to know he’s coming for his bride.

He’s fucking joking if he thinks I’ll ever allow that.

"Ilya," Dmitri calls. "The Russo family doesn't have this kind of reach. If Mikhail survived, he has backing from the southern factions. We’re looking at a multi-front assault."

I close my hand around the lily, my knuckles turning white as I crush the wet petals into a damp, sticky paste in my palm. The red sap stains my skin, looking exactly like fresh blood. "He’s not getting her back."

Never.

"She’s going to ask questions," Dmitri says, his eyes tracking the crushed flower in my hand. "She saw him at the gala. If she finds out he’s breathing⁠—"

"She doesn't find out." I wipe my palm on a linen cloth. "Her head is already a mess. If she thinks that snake is hunting her, she’ll completely shatter. I’m not letting him take the small piece of peace she has left in this house. She stays in the dark."

"And the security?"

"Lock it down," I growl, walking toward the gun rack. "Triple the guards on Ekaterina’s wing. I want five men on Via’s door at all times. And when she leaves that room... shadow her. She doesn't take a single step in this house without someone behind her."

Dmitri nods once, his face turning hard. "I’ll notify the captains."

I spend the next hour in the war room. Viktorin is standing by the whiteboard, his arms crossed, his face a dark scowl.

"Having her out of the north wing is a mistake, Ilya," Viktorin says, slamming his fist against the table. "You’re running yourself ragged trying to play bodyguard while the Russos are lining up their snipers at our borders. Trade her back to Petr. Let him deal with Mikhail."

I step into his space, my height completely overshadowing his. I don't raise my voice, but the sudden, terrifying silence that falls over the room is enough to make him freeze. "She is my wife, Viktorin. Her name is Kovalevskii. If I hear you suggest giving her away again, I will cut your head off and send it to Viktor Russo as a peace offering. Do we have an understanding?"

Viktorin swallows, his jaw tightening, but he slowly lowers his hands. "Yes, Pakhan."

"Get the men to the docks," I command, my eyes scanning the rest of the captains. "I want every warehouse on the northern channel cleared by midnight. If Mikhail is alive, he’s going to try to move his assets through the old tunnels. Flush him out."

They disperse silently, their heavy boots echoing down the concrete corridor.

I head up to the main floor, my pulse still humming with a dark, restless energy. My coldness has returned, the professional Pakhan firmly back in control of my body, but there’s a raw, frantic pressure in my chest that I can’t shake.

She’s in the greenhouse.

I find her sitting on a low wooden bench, her legs drawn up to her chest, her oversized grey sweater falling over her knees. Ekaterina is next to her, holding a watering can, but they aren't talking. Via is staring out the glass panels at the grey sky, her eyes wide, vacant, and completely lost in her own head.

I stop at the entrance of the glass house, my arms crossed, my shadow falling over the flagstones.