Page 67 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

"She can hate me all she wants," I growl, walking past him toward the stairs. "But she’s going to do it while she’s still breathing."

27

VIA

I stop in front of the smart-home control tablet mounted next to the bathroom door. The screen is dark, but when I tap the glass, the interface asks for a diagnostic pin to access the master security settings. I lean my head against the cool plaster wall, a dry, angry smile spreading across my lips.

For the first month in this place, I was a model prisoner. Not because I wanted to be, but because he had me completely locked down, isolated from any network, and stripped of everything but my own thoughts. I couldn't have hacked a toaster in those first weeks. But then he started giving me liberties. He took me to the shooting range, let me attend the gala, and handed me back a phone under a supposedly secure, monitored profile.

He thought he was being a generous captor. I thought he was giving me a Trojan horse.

I didn't just sit pretty and play games on that device. Every single hour I spent unsupervised in this room, I was quietly mapping out the house's IP routing tables, tracing his administrative defaults, and studying the municipal safe-room fire escape codes. I spent weeks building a digital blueprint of my cage, waiting for the one slip-up that would let me bypass his physical locks.

And today, he gave it to me. He secures the perimeter but leaves the inside running on default local administrative protocols because he assumes no one inside is smart enough to look at the subnet.

I pull the phone from the pocket of my cardigan, my fingers moving fast across the screen as I bridge into the local subnet. I type in the same password I used for his laptop yesterday, Ekaterina18112008.

The phone screen flickers, a neat list of the estate’s automated utilities filling the display. I scroll past the climate control, past the heated pool settings, straight to the master fire-containment protocols.

In a high-end estate like this, the master bedroom is designated as a safe room. If the fire alarm triggers, the physical iron bolts on the doors are programmed to retract automatically so the residents don't get trapped inside and roasted. It’s a standard safety feature required by the municipal building codes. I find the override for the third-floor fire-test diagnostic.

I tap the screen.

A loud, metallic clunk echoes through the quiet bedroom as the heavy iron bolt inside the door frame slides back

I slide my phone into the pocket of my cardigan, a small, satisfied breath escaping my lips. One point for the captive. I push the heavy oak doors open slowly, the hinges silent in the quiet hallway. The corridor is empty, the low amber lights throwing long shadows across the carpet. I know there are two guards standing at the far end of the wing near the grand staircase, their heavy boots occasionally shuffling against the marble. I can't go that way.

I turn left, heading toward the narrow utility corridor where the maids keep the clean linens and the laundry chutes.

It’s a tight, carpeted tunnel that bypasses the main hall completely, leading straight to the west wing where Ekaterina’s bedroom is located. I creep down the passage, my steps silent in my thick wool socks, until I reach the linen closet. Inside, the metal mouth of the laundry chute descends into the dark, leading straight to the basement washroom three floors below.

I reach into the closet, my hand finding a heavy, old-fashioned steam iron resting on the shelf.

I drop it straight down the metal chute.

The sound is absolutely deafening. A massive, crashing metallic shriek echoes through the walls of the house as the iron tumbles down the steel tunnel, sounding exactly like a door being kicked in or an intruder breaking through the basement windows.

"Intruder! Lower level!"

The shout carries from the main hallway, followed by the sudden, frantic thud of heavy boots running toward the stairs. I peek around the edge of the utility door, watching the two guards scramble down the main corridor, their rifles drawn as they head toward the source of the noise.

I dart across the hall, slipping into the west wing before the dust can even settle.

Ekaterina’s room has a single guard standing outside, a younger enforcer named Pyotr who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world. He’s holding his rifle across his chest, his eyes darting toward the staircase where the noise came from, his jaw tight with indecision. He wants to run down and help, but he has orders to stay on her door.

I step out of the shadows, my face perfectly calm as I walk toward him. "Pyotr. Thank God."

He flinches, his rifle muzzle dropping slightly as he sees me. "Mrs. Kovalevskiia? You’re supposed to be in the master suite."

"Ilya sent me," I say, my voice steady, my tone filled with a fake, breathless panic that I’ve practiced in the mirror. "There’s an alarm in the basement. He wants you to report to the kitchen entry immediately. Dmitri needs every hand on the perimeter."

He hesitates, his eyes looking down the hall toward the staircase, then back at me. "But the Pakhan said⁠—"

"The Pakhan is currently holding a rifle in the courtyard, Pyotr!" I snap, my voice rising in a sharp, authoritative register that matches Ilya's. "Do you want to explain to him why you let a perimeter breach go unanswered because you were standing here holding a door? Go. Now."

The authority in my voice works. He nods once, his face turning pale as he clears his safety and runs down the hall toward the stairs.

I turn the brass handle of Ekaterina’s door and slip inside, closing it quietly behind me.