Page 5 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

Breathe. Just breathe, Via.

I can’t.

Ilya steps forward, closing the distance between us. He’s saying something, his lips moving, but the words don't reach me.

They’re just vibrations in the air.

He reaches out, his fingers brushing against the side of my face as he tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

His touch is steady. Cold. It should make me flinch, but I’m too far gone to feel anything.

"Via! No!"

My father’s voice breaks through the grey for a split second. I see him trying to stand, his face twisted in pure agony, but one of Ilya’s men—a massive guy with a scarred throat—levels a rifle at his chest.

"Stay down, Petr," Ilya says, and this time, the words cut through. His eyes are fixed on mine, obsidian and absolute. "Consider this a repossession. You can send the paperwork to my office."

Before the meaning can even register, Ilya moves. He hooks a massive arm around my waist and hoists me up.

I don't fight him. I don't even have the strength to lift my arms.

My limbs are heavy and useless as he flips me over his shoulder. My head hangs down his back, my eyes fixed on the white marble floor as it begins to move.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

His stride is rhythmic. I’m gasping for air, my vision tunneling as the hyperventilation takes over. I see the bodies of the guards, their suits stained dark.

I see the shattered remains of the stained-glass windows, sparkling like diamonds in the dust.

I’m dying. I have to be dying. This is what it feels like to leave the world behind.

I see my father one last time.

He’s standing, held back by two of his own men, his mouth open in a silent scream. He looks so small. So old.

"Cover us!" Ilya roars.

The sound of the guns starts again.

It’s not the distant, muffled noise from before.

It’s a deafening, rhythmic crack-crack-crack of cover fire, echoing off the high stone walls of the cathedral.

The vibration of the shots rattles through the floor, through Ilya’s body, and straight into mine.

It hits me like a bucket of ice water.

The grey vanishes.

The radio static snaps into a high-pitched, piercing scream. The smell of sulfur and blood rushes back in, thick enough to choke on.

I’m being taken.

This isn't a dream.

I’m actually being taken by a man who just murdered my husband-to-be, and he is carrying me out of the only world I’ve ever known.

The cold air of the street hits my face, sharp and biting.