Page 55 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

21

VIA

The mattress beneath me is still warm, but Ilya’s arm is gone from my waist.

I roll over, my hand sweeping across the sheets, finding nothing. I sit up slowly, wrapping the duvet around my bare shoulders as I look toward the French doors. The curtains are pulled back just enough to let the pale, grey morning light cut across the floorboards.

I feel different, every single inch of my body, the faint ache in my thighs, the tender skin on my collarbone where his teeth had grazed me, and the strange, quiet hum in my blood. It’s a terrifying kind of peace.

Am I completely losing my mind?

I lean my head back against the carved mahogany headboard, staring at the ceiling. Excellent job, Viallentinka. You’ve officially developed Stockholm syndrome. You’ve fallen for the brutal, grumpy giant who blew up your wedding, murdered your fiancé, and locked you in a fortress. Truly, a romantic success story.

The dark humor doesn't stop the sudden, cold knot of panic from tightening in my throat. I don't want to leave this bed. I don't want to run back to my father’s empty, quiet house. But the thought of genuinely belonging to him, of standing beside a man who makes his living in the shadows of a blood-stained city, is enough to make my chest tighten.

My stomach suddenly does a nauseating flip.

The heat in my body vanishes, replaced by a cold wave of sickness that hits me fast. I throw the duvet aside, my bare feet hitting the carpet as I scramble toward the master bathroom, my knees hitting the marble tile floor as I heave over the edge of the toilet.

Nothing comes up. It’s just a dry, agonizing wrench of my stomach that leaves me gasping for air, my forehead resting against the cold porcelain as a cold sweat breaks out across my neck.

"Via?"

The bathroom door creaks open. I flinch, trying to sit up and pull the edges of my open robe together, but another wave of nausea hits me, forcing me to lean back over the bowl.

Yara steps into the room, her apron slightly dusty with flour, her kind face instantly tensing with worry as she drops to her knees beside me, her warm, motherly hand immediately rubbing the small of my back in slow, steady circles.

"Sasha, bring hot water," Yara calls out over her shoulder. "With the lemon and the fresh ginger. Quickly."

A second later, Sasha hurries into the room, carrying a silver tray with a steaming mug. She sets it on the marble counter, her eyes darting to my face before she quickly steps back, her hands clasped in front of her.

"I’m fine," I choke out, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "Just... a bad piece of fish from the gala. Or maybe my body is finally rejecting your boss’s terrible breakfast coffee."

Ekaterina pops her head around the doorframe, her dark eyes wide with curiosity and panic. She’s holding a fresh stack of drawing paper against her chest. "Via, are you sick? Did Ilya hurt you? I heard him carrying you up the stairs last night."

Great, everyone is here.

Yara lets out a low, warning rumble in her throat, not looking back at her. "Miss Ekaterina, please go to the pantry. Help me find the dried chamomile. Your brother’s wife needs quiet."

"But I want to help," Ekaterina says, her bottom lip turning out in a stubborn pout that looks exactly like Ilya’s.

"And you will, Miss Ekaterina," Yara says with a smile.

Sasha gently touches Ekaterina’s shoulder, guiding her back toward the hallway with a quiet, reassuring murmur. "Come, Miss Ekaterina. Let’s leave the room for a moment."

Once the door clicks shut behind them, the bathroom is quiet, the only sound the low hum of the ventilation fan. Yara stands up, walking to the sink to wet a clean washcloth with cold water. She presses it to the back of my neck, the shock of the cold instantly clearing the heavy fog in my brain.

"How long have you been late, Viallentinka?" Yara’s voice is stern but completely devoid of judgment.

I freeze, my fingers clutching the marble edge of the counter. My mind starts to race, tracking the days, the weeks, the chaotic blur of the chapel shootout, the transfer to the estate, the gala. I should have had my cycle right around the night Ilya dragged me out of that smoking church.

It’s been nearly four weeks.

No. No, no, no.

"It’s just stress," I say, my voice rising as I try to stand up, my knees still shaking. "My entire life was blown to pieces just a few months ago, Yara. My body is just... adjusting."

Yara reaches into the deep pocket of her apron, pulls out a small, rectangular cardboard box with a familiar blue logo, and sets it quietly on the marble counter under a dry towel. She taps the edge of the box with her thumb.