Page 45 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

I begin to thrust.

The pace is hard, deep, and relentless. The heavy wood of the door creaks under our weight, the rhythmic, wet slap of our skin meeting echoing through the quiet bedroom. I slide my hand under her bottom, lifting her higher, driving myself deeper into her core with every single stroke of my hips.

She’s crying now, small, breathless groans escaping her throat as she thrashes her head against my shoulder. The pleasure is too much, too sharp, too intense.

"Ilya... I'm going to..."

"I know," I growl, my thumb sliding down to rub her swollen nub with a hard, relentless pressure.

Just then I feel her climax that makes her internal muscles contract around my length. The feeling of her release shatters the last hold on my control. With a growl, I drive myself deep inside her one last time, my body shaking as I release deep inside her.

I stay buried inside her, my chest heaving against hers, my head buried in her wet golden hair as we both shiver in the aftermath.

The rain continues to beat against the window, a steady, driving downpour that seems to wash away the blood, the secrets, and the war, just for a second.

Slowly, I pull back, the sticky friction of our release making a soft, wet sound as I slide out. I set her down on her feet, my hands lingering on her waist as she shivers, her legs barely able to support her weight.

I don't say a word as I button my trousers, buckle my belt, and look down at her.

She’s leaning against the door, her eyes wide, glassy, and completely dark, her chest still heaving as she stares up at me. She looks wrecked, beautiful, and entirely mine.

I turn and walk toward the bathroom, the coldness in my eyes returning as I prepare to face the war waiting outside.

"Get cleaned up, Via," I say, my voice a flat, unyielding rasp. "We have a meeting with the captains in ten minutes."

I step into the bathroom, the heavy door clicking shut behind me, leaving her alone in the dim light of the bedroom.

I look at my reflection in the mirror, my jaw set, my hands still shaking slightly from the desperation of her touch.

Mikhail is alive.

And I’ll kill every last man in this city before I let anyone take her away.

17

VIA

Ekaterina wants to draw, but since Ilya put the entire estate on a strict, suffocating lockdown, we can't even get a fresh pack of paper from the supply closet down the hall without three armed guards escorting us like prisoners.

Every time I look out a window, I see another patrol car, another black-suited enforcer checking the tree line. It is driving me absolutely insane.

I finally tell Ekaterina I’ll find some sketch pads in the main office. The door is unlocked, which is my first mistake, and the bottom drawer of the heavy mahogany desk is slightly open, which is my second.

I’m not even trying to snoop. I’m just looking for a simple pad of paper, maybe some charcoal pencils that aren't snapped in half. But as I crouch by the deep bottom drawer, my hand catches on a rough, unfinished wooden box tucked beneath a heavy stack of old cargo manifests.

When I slide the pine lid back, the smell hits me first. It isn't rot, but it’s that cloying, sweet scent of lilies that instantly makes my stomach drop into a cold, empty pit.

Inside, resting on a small pile of dark, damp dirt, is a single white flower. The petals are bruised, crushed, and smeared with a thick, dried layer of dark, rusty red.

I stare at it, my heart hitting my ribs in a slow, heavy rhythm that echoes in my ears.

I know it. I’m not losing my mind. The panic attack, the sudden dizziness in the ballroom, the face in the crowd, it wasn't some post-traumatic hallucination. Mikhail is alive. He survived the cathedral. And Ilya has known the entire time. He brought this box home, hid it in his desk, and let me sit in our bedroom yesterday questioning my own sanity.

The heavy double doors of the office swing open, the sudden draft rustling the loose sheets of paper on the desk. Ilya stands in the doorway. His coat is unbuttoned, his dark hair a bit messy from the cold wind outside, and his jaw is set in that flat, unyielding line I’ve come to hate. His eyes go straight to my hands, then drop to the wooden box. He doesn't look angry, he looks completely blank, like a steel shutter has slammed down behind his eyes.

I stand up, letting the wooden lid clatter loudly onto the polished desk. "Were you going to keep this as a souvenir, or were you just waiting for the right time to tell me I wasn't actually losing my mind?"

He closes the door behind him, the latch clicking shut with a heavy, final sound. His boots thud softly on the rug as he walks toward me, his hands sliding into his pockets. "You shouldn't have been looking through my drawers, Via."