Page 63 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

"The river is cold anyway," I say, though my hand instinctively drops to my flat stomach, my fingers curling over the soft wool of my sweater.

A funeral procession. The words taste like iron in my mouth.

It’s been twenty-four hours since I sat at the desk in Ilya’s office and watched the green bar confirm the Vostok insurance fraud. Twenty-four hours since he held me against the mahogany and made me forget every single boundary I’d spent a month building. I should feel victorious. I solved his financial freeze. I saved my father’s security detail.

But the pink lines on the test strip in the bathroom wastebasket are still burning behind my eyelids.

I’m pregnant. I’m carrying his child, and the only other person in this entire fortress who knows is a middle-aged housekeeper who looks at me like I’m a tragic clock ticking down to zero. I can't tell him. Not yet. If I tell him, the quiet, warm garden we’re standing in will disappear.

"I'm going to grab the watering can from the side porch," Ekaterina says, standing up and shaking the loose dirt from her apron. "Don't touch my primroses while I’m gone. I have them aligned by color."

"I wouldn't dare interfere with your horticultural genius," I say, waving her off with a smirk.

She scurries down the gravel path, her boots clicking softly against the stone before she disappears around the corner of the brick conservatory.

I stand up, stretching my back, the cool wind catching the loose strands of my hair. I walk slowly toward the side entrance of the north wing, the quiet, private door we usually use to get back to our suite without walking through the main foyer. The stone step is shaded by a heavy overhang of ivy, damp and cool in the grey morning light.

I stop three feet from the door.

Resting right in the center of the dark stone step is a small, grey bundle.

My brow furrows as I step closer. It’s a sparrow. Its tiny, feathered body is completely still, its head tilted at an unnatural, broken angle against the stone. There is no blood, no signs of an animal attack. It’s just dead, its small chest hollowed out slightly as if it were hollow inside.

I lean down, my hand reaching out to move it, but I freeze.

Wedged tightly inside the bird’s open, tiny beak is a band of bright, polished platinum. The pear-cut diamond glints in the pale sunlight, catching the grey light and throwing a sharp, cold spark against my hand.

My breath leaves my lungs in a violent, freezing rush.

My knees go weak, my fingers grabbing the cold brick wall of the entryway to keep from collapsing onto the gravel.

It’s my ring.

The exact pear-cut diamond Mikhail slipped onto my finger in the rose garden of my father’s house three months ago. The ring I’d taken off and left on the dressing table of the cathedral before the smoke and the bullets tore the world apart.

I reach down, my fingers shaking so violently I can barely pinch the cold metal of the band. I pull it from the sparrow's beak, the tiny, stiff head of the bird shifting with the movement. The platinum is ice-cold against my palm, the diamond biting into my skin as I clench my fist around it.

He was here.

Mikhail walked up the private gravel path of this estate. He bypassed the triple security perimeter, the sweepers, the cameras, and the men with the thermal scopes. He walked right up to the side door of my bedroom, left a dead bird on my doorstep, and walked away without a single guard noticing.

He’s closer than anyone thinks. He’s practically inside the house.

"Via? I found the blue can!"

Ekaterina’s voice carries over the brick wall, bright, innocent, and completely normal.

I quickly shove the ring deep into the pocket of my cardigan, my fingers locking around the cold metal as I try to force my face into something that doesn't look like terror. My chest is tight, my lungs burning as I try to draw a single, quiet breath. I can’t let her see this. If she sees the bird, she’ll ask questions, she’ll tell Ilya, and the whole house will go into an immediate, violent red alert.

"Via? What are you doing over there?" Ekaterina rounds the corner, the plastic watering can sloshing in her hand.

I step over the dead bird, completely blocking her view of the stone step with my body. "I’m just... checking the latch on the door. It’s sticking."

She stops, her dark eyes scanning my face, her smile slowly fading as she sees my posture. "You look white, Via. Are you going to be sick again?"

"No," I say, my voice sounding thin, dry, and incredibly far away. "I’m fine. Just... the wind is a bit cold today. Let’s go inside. I think we’ve done enough gardening for one morning."

She looks at the conservatory, then back at me, her brow furrowing with a quiet, sisterly worry. "Okay. Let me just put the tools away."