Page 50 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

I turn her around in my arms, her back hitting the edge of the steel prep table behind the firing line. The custom gun is still in her hand, but I reach down, click the safety back on, and set it on the table behind her.

I press against her, my thighs pinning hers against the metal. My hand goes to the back of her neck, my fingers tangling in her golden hair as I pull her head back, forcing her to look at me.

"You're too fast with that mouth, Via," I growl, my face inches from hers.

"You're too slow with everything else, Ilya," she whispers, her eyes locking onto my mouth with a raw, starving hunger.

I seal my lips over hers.

I devour her, my hands gripping her hips, pulling her hard against my groin until she’s whimpering against my mouth. She wraps her arms around my neck, her legs automatically rising to lock around my waist, her body wet, aching, and completely ready for me.

I slide my hand under the hem of her sweater, my rough palms flat against the warm, bare skin of her waist. I lift her, hoisting her onto the edge of the steel table.

I reach for the lace of her panties, ripping them away with a single, rough tug, my eyes never leaving her flushed face.

"Ilya... please..." Her voice is a ragged, wet wheeze, her fingers digging into my hair as I position myself at her entrance.

"You're so electric, Via," I growl, my chest heaving against hers as I drive myself deep inside her in a single, heavy thrust.

She screams, the sound bouncing off the acoustic foam of the range as she clings to me, her body wrapping tightly around my length as I begin to move. The pace is hard, deep, and relentless, the steel table vibrating under our weight as we lose ourselves in the dark, heavy rhythm.

19

VIA

My pillow is too soft. That’s all my sleepy brain can muster.

I roll onto my side, staring at the digital clock on the nightstand. It’s three in the morning. I’ve spent the last three hours tossing, turning, and aggressively reorganizing the duvet, but my body refuses to shut down.

Every time I close my eyes, I feel Ilya’s chest pressed against my back. I feel the smooth grip of the Sig Sauer in my hands, and the sudden, explosive heat of his mouth against mine on that steel table.

Get a grip, Via. He’s still the guy who kidnapped you. He just happens to be a guy who also buys you custom firearms and saves your father's life.

I let out a loud, frustrated groan into the empty room, throwing the duvet off my legs. My skin feels hot, humming with a restless, itchy energy that sleep isn't going to fix. I need to do something. I need to move, to distract myself, to put something else in my stomach besides the nervous flutter that’s been sitting there since we left the shooting range.

I grab my oversized grey sweater from the chair, pulling it down over my bare thighs, and slip out into the cold, quiet hallway.

The estate at night is a different kind of monster. The grand chandeliers are dimmed to a low, amber glow, throwing long, skeletal shadows across the marble floors. I pad barefoot down the winding staircase, my toes curling slightly against the cold stone. I don't see any guards in the main corridor, but I know they’re there, hidden in the recesses of the arches, watching my every move through the security feeds.

I slide through the heavy oak doors of the kitchen. The stainless steel prep tables gleam under the moonlight filtering through the high windows, looking clinical and clean. I don't turn on the overhead lights. Instead, I walk to the industrial stove, finding the small copper kettle Yara keeps on the rear burner.

Tea. Chamomile tea. The universal cure for when your life is a complete disaster.

I fill the kettle at the sink, the rush of water loud in the quiet room, and set it on the stove. I turn the dial, the blue flames clicking to life with a soft, steady hiss. I lean against the counter, my arms crossed over my chest, watching the water start to simmer.

A sudden, brilliant flash of white light illuminates the entire kitchen, turning the stainless steel into a blinding sheet of ice.

A second later, a massive, bone-rattling crack of thunder shakes the house.

The glass windows rattle in their frames, the sheer volume of the sound vibrating straight through the soles of my feet. My breath catches in my throat, my fingers instantly digging into the fabric of my sweater.

It’s just a storm. It’s just rain.

But my brain doesn't care about logic.

Another flash of lightning hits the window, and suddenly, I’m not in the kitchen anymore. I’m standing in the center of the cathedral. The white lilies are covered in soot. The air is thick with the sulfur smell of gunpowder, and the sound of the thunder morphs into the deafening, rhythmic pops of rifles. I see my father's face, twisted in terror. I see the red blood blooming across the white marble floor, spreading toward my shoes.

My chest tightens, a weight pressing down on my lungs. I can’t breathe. The air in the room feels like liquid lead, hot and useless as I try to draw a single, ragged gasp.