Page 46 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

"The lock is practically falling off, Ilya. Don't try to make this about my lack of manners." I lean my hands flat on the desk, my shoulders tensing as he stops a few feet away. "He’s alive. I saw him on that balcony, and you let me believe I was having some kind of breakdown. You let me sit in that room yesterday wondering if I was finally breaking under the pressure."

"I wanted to be sure before I dragged you into it." He doesn't move closer, his eyes remaining fixed on the crushed flower in my hands. "You were already terrified after the museum. Telling you a dead man is hunting you doesn't make you any safer. It just adds to the panic."

"I am your wife, not your pet, Ilya!" My voice cracks, the frustration finally boiling over, echoing off the high stone walls of the office. "You don't get to decide what I’m allowed to know. You don't get to shield me from a war that is literally happening because of me. If someone is sending blood-stained flowers to this house, I have a right to know about it. I’m a Denisov. I’ve lived in this world my entire life. I don't need you to tuck me into bed and tell me everything is going to be fine while you’re out cleaning blood off your boots."

"The guards are doubled for a reason." He keeps his voice quiet and completely steady, his gaze holding mine. "The estate is secure. You don't need to worry about the logistics of the defense."

"Your logistics are stupid." I cross my arms, leaning back against the edge of his desk. "You’re doubling the perimeter guards, you’re checking the fences, but you’re completely missing the actual threat. Do you think Viktor Russo is just going to march through your front gates with a flag? Do you think Mikhail is that simple?"

He tilts his head, his eyes tracking the frantic rise and fall of my chest. "What are you talking about?"

"At the gala, before everything goes to hell, I talked to Svetlana Vostok." I take a deep breath, trying to steady my voice, trying to make him understand that I’m not just some fragile piece of glass he has to keep in a box. "She wasn't just making small talk, Ilya. She was asking very specific questions about the western docks. She knew about your shipping delays before the manifest was even registered. The Russos aren't trying to break into this house from the woods. They’re using the Vostok cargo lanes to move their people into the southern channel. If they take the western docks, they have you cut off from the river. You won't even be able to get a supply truck out of the city."

Ilya stares at me. "She told you that?" He steps closer, his hand sliding out of his pocket.

"She didn't mean to." My chin lifts as I hold his gaze, refusing to back down. "But she’s arrogant. She wanted to make me feel small, so she bragged about how much her husband’s business was expanding. If you want to stop this war, you need to stop looking at the woods and start looking at the river."

He lets out a short, rough breath, a tiny, begrudging smile scratching at the corner of his mouth. "You’re a lot smarter than your father, Via."

"My father is an old man who thinks with his pride." My voice softens just a bit, the anger beginning to drain out of me, replaced by a quiet, heavy focus. "I think with my head. We have the marriage license. Use it. If the other families know I’m officially a Kovalevskii, they won't back the Russos. They don't want a full-scale war with the North. Stop keeping me as a secret and start using my name to lock down the docks."

He walks past the desk, his hand brushing against my sleeve as he reaches for the latch on the French doors. He pushes them open, letting the cold, damp morning air rush into the stuffy office. The wind instantly whips my hair across my face, carrying the scents of pine and wet stone from the courtyard below.

He steps out onto the stone balcony, and after a second, I follow him.

The city below us is covered in a thick, grey mist, the tall buildings looking like dark, jagged shapes in the distance. The river is a dull silver ribbon, quiet and completely still under the morning fog. It feels raw out here, cold enough to make me shiver, but the pressure in my chest finally feels like it is starting to ease.

"If we lose the western docks, the treaty is done." His hand rests heavily on the stone railing.

"Then we don't lose them." I stand right next to him, the cold wind whipping my hair across my face. "We handle it."

He turns his head, his dark eyes scanning my face, tracing the small bite mark he left on my neck last night. "We?"

"We." I look back out at the grey skyline, my chest rising with a sudden, strange sense of resolve.

It is a strange, messy alliance, built on a forced contract and a lot of shared blood. But standing out here in the cold, looking at the city that wants both of us dead, I realize I am done running. If we are going to have to fight for this house, we might as well do it together.

The next morning, the bedroom is incredibly quiet, the gold sunlight breaking through the heavy curtains and tracing long, warm lines across the carpet.

I blink my eyes open, my body still heavy and warm under the thick white duvet. I roll over, expecting the bed to be empty, but I stop, my breath catching in my throat.

Ilya is sitting in the leather armchair at the foot of the bed. He is wearing a simple black button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hair still damp from the shower. He isn't on his phone. He isn't looking at his tablet. He is just sitting there, his arms resting on the armrests, watching me sleep.

The air in the room feels different. It isn't the cold, suspicious tension of a captor checking on his prisoner. It is something heavy, thick, and almost physical—a raw, quiet hunger that makes my skin tingle.

I pull the sheet up to my collarbone, my voice dry from sleep. "If you're planning on staring at me until I catch fire, you should know I have a very low tolerance for morning creepiness."

He doesn't move immediately. He just keeps his eyes on mine, a slow, quiet exhale escaping his lips. "You sleep like a stone, Via. I was starting to think I needed to check for a pulse."

"I sleep because you dragged me through a museum shootout and made me run in six-inch heels." I shift to sit up, the sheet sliding down to my chest. "My legs are still sore."

He stands up, his massive frame instantly blocking out the golden light from the window. He walks to the side of the bed, his boots silent on the carpet. He reaches out, his large, rough hand rising toward my face.

I don't flinch.

I don't try to scramble away, and I don't reach for the heavy lamp on the nightstand. I just stay there, watching him as his warm, callused thumb gently brushes a stray strand of golden hair away from my eye, tucking it behind my ear. His fingers linger on my jaw, his thumb tracing the soft skin over my pulse point.

My heart starts to hammer against my ribs, but it isn't fear.