Page 56 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

"Sasha found this in the medical cabinet in the lower wing," Yara says, her eyes fixed on my face. "Ilya doesn't check the inventory down there. He only cares about the bandages and the morphine. Take the test, Via. Before he comes back from the docks."

I stare at the blue box under the towel, my heart hitting my ribs like a sledgehammer. "Yara, if he finds out⁠—"

"He won't," she says, her voice softening as she squeezes my shoulder. "But you need to know what you are carrying in this house."

She turns and walks out, closing the door softly behind her.

I’m left alone with the silence and the blue box. My hands are shaking so hard I can barely tear the plastic wrapping off the stick.

The three minutes of waiting are the longest three minutes of my life. I pace the length of the marble bathroom, my bare feet cold against the floor. I look at the storm clouds outside the window, grey and heavy, matching the dread settling into my gut.

A baby.

A child in a house where the doors are made of reinforced steel, where the halls are patrolled by men with rifles, and where the Pakhan has a list of enemies longer than my arm.

I walk back to the counter, my breath catching in my throat as I look down at the plastic stick.

Two bright, unmistakable pink lines.

I'm pregnant. With Ilya’s baby.

A cold, paralyzing terror washes over me, so thick I can barely draw air into my lungs. If I tell him, he won't be happy. He’ll turn into a warden. He’ll lock me in the deepest, most secure room in the north wing, surround me with thirty guards, and never let me see the sun again. He’ll treat me like an asset he has to protect, not a wife. He’ll turn our strange alliance back into a prison.

I grab the test, wrap it in a handful of toilet paper, and shove it deep into the bottom of the wastebasket under the linen liner. I wash my face with cold water, scrubbing my skin until my cheeks are splotched with red, trying to hide the pale terror in my eyes.

I put on a simple black sweater and my leggings and head down to the dining room.

The dining table is set for two, but Ilya is the only one there. He’s dressed in a fresh black shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal his thick, scarred forearms, his shoulder bandaged tightly beneath the cotton. He’s reading, his brow furrowed, a half-empty mug of black coffee sitting near his hand.

He looks up when I enter, his eyes immediately tracking my movement as I sit in the chair across from him.

"You look pale." He frowns.

"I look like a woman who was dragged through a war zone forty-eight hours ago," I say, reaching for the basket of toast with a hand I have to force to remain steady. "Are you planning on reading that paper all morning, or did you actually invite me down here to watch you scowl?"

Ilya doesn't answer. He stands instead, his massive frame towering over the table. He walks around the mahogany, stopping behind my chair. Before I can turn my head, his large, warm hands come to rest on my shoulders, his fingers digging into my muscles with a firm, possessive pressure.

He leans down, his mouth grazing the shell of my ear. "You talk too much, Via."

He grabs my chin, forcing my face up, and kisses me, his tongue sliding into my mouth, leaving me completely breathless and clinging to his forearms to keep from falling out of my seat. His scent, cedar, dark coffee, and the cold morning air floods my senses, making the panic in my stomach melt into a sudden, thick heat.

He pulls back a fraction, his thumb dragging slowly across my bottom lip, before his mouth drops to my neck.

He bites down on the sensitive skin right above my collarbone.

I let out a sharp, breathless gasp, my fingers digging into his sleeves. "Ilya... stop..."

He doesn't stop until he’s left a deep, dark purple mark right in the center of my neck, in a spot so visible no high collar or necklace is going to hide it. He pulls back, his obsidian eyes scanning the mark with a cold, primitive satisfaction.

"A reminder," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the bruised skin. "For anyone who thinks they can look at you."

"You're crazy," I pant, my hand rising to cover the mark, my skin burning where his teeth had been. "I look like I’ve been attacked by a wild animal."

"You have," he says, amusement flickering in his eyes as he walks back to his seat.

I pick up a piece of toast, my throat tight, the tiny heartbeat growing inside me making every movement feel heavy.

I need to get my mind off this.