Page 64 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

I don't wait for her. I push open the heavy oak door, my boots thudding loudly on the hardwood as I run up the stairs to the master suite, my hand still locked around the ring in my pocket.

By dinner, I’m sitting at the long mahogany table, my salad untouched, my fingers tracing the edge of my fork over and over until the silver prongs leave red indentations in my thumb. Ilya is sitting across from me, his black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his eyes dark and heavy as he reads a security manifest on his tablet.

I haven't told him. I’ve spent the last six hours sitting on the edge of the bed with my hand in my pocket, staring at the pear-cut diamond, trying to convince myself that I’m being strong. I can handle a threat.

But my fear is a loud, physical thing that I can’t seem to hide.

"You're not eating." Ilya’s voice rings through the quiet room.

I look up, my hand quickly dropping to my lap under the table. "I’m not hungry."

He sets his tablet down on the wood, the glass clattering softly. He leans forward, his broad shoulders blocking out the light from the chandelier behind him, his dark eyes scanning my face with a slow, calculating intensity. "You’ve been pale since this morning. Ekaterina said you went inside because of the cold, but the temperature hasn't dropped since yesterday."

"Ekaterina talks too much," I say, my voice clipped. "And you’re being paranoid. Again."

"I’m not being paranoid, Via," he says, his voice dropping into that quiet, dangerous register he uses when he knows I’m lying. "I know how you look when you’re angry. And I know how you look when you’re plotting. This isn't either of those."

"Then what is it, Ilya?" I look him straight in the eye, my chin lifting, though my heart is trying to kick its way out of my chest. "Do you want me to write down my thoughts on a ledger so you can inspect them for bugs?"

He doesn't answer, he just stares at me, his jaw working as his eyes search mine for the crack in my armor. He knows something is wrong but he doesn't push. He slowly picks his fork back up, his face turning back into that blank, unyielding mask.

"Dmitri is checking the western channel tonight," he says, his tone flat. "We’re establishing the insurance route by morning."

"Good," I say, my voice barely a whisper as I look back down at my empty plate.

At night, the silence of the bedroom is worse than the storm.

The fire in the hearth has died down to a bed of glowing red coals, throwing long, warm shadows across the ceiling. Ilya is sleeping beside me, his massive body a solid, warm mountain under the dark silk sheets. His breathing is slow, steady, and deep, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest the only sound in the quiet room.

I roll onto my side, staring at his profile in the amber light.

I can't do this alone.

I slide closer across the mattress, my bare legs tangling with his under the sheets. I reach out, my hands grabbing the soft cotton of his shirt, and press my face directly against his bare chest. I cling to him, my fingers locking into his fabric with a desperate, wild strength, my body shivering against his warmth.

He wakes up instantly.

His muscles tense under my hands, his breathing pausing for a fraction of a second before his massive arm wraps around my waist, pulling me hard against him. He doesn't ask what’s wrong. He doesn't look around the dark room for a weapon. He just holds me, his hand coming up to cup the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my golden hair as he presses my face deeper into his neck.

"Via," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly rasp against my ear. "What is it?"

"Just... hold me," I whisper, my voice breaking slightly as I bury my nose in the crook of his collarbone. "Please, Ilya. Just don't let go."

His grip tightens, his arm a solid steel band that completely locks me against his body, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm that begins to soothe the pace of my own heart. He smells like cedar, dark tobacco, and the warm, clean scent of his skin—a combination that feels like the only safe place left in this entire city.

How did I ever think Mikhail was the safe choice?

The thought goes through my head like a sudden, sharp laugh. I lie here, holding onto a literal Mafia kingpin, a man who has cleaned blood off his boots in my kitchen, and I’m realizing how completely beige my past life actually was.

Mikhail was safe. He was so incredibly beige. His favorite color was probably eggshell. His idea of a wild night was ordering the medium salsa at the restaurant and taking his shoes off before entering the house without being asked. He was the boring, predictable path my father had paved for me to keep the peace. He was a safe, quiet harbor.

But a safe harbor doesn't protect you when the ocean catches fire.

Mikhail is the one leaving dead birds on my doorstep. He’s the one who let his own family’s accounts be frozen just to lure my father out of hiding. He’s a ghost who is ready to use my body as a shield to get to the northern docks.

And Ilya... Ilya is a monster. He’s violent, he’s grumpy, and he’s dangerous. But when the bullets started flying in that kitchen, he didn't run. He didn't use me as a shield. He put his own body between me and the glass, took a bullet graze to keep me breathing, and bought my father’s security detail with five million of his own cash.

I’m not afraid of the monster sleeping next to me.