Page 68 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

Ekaterina is sitting on the edge of her four-poster bed, her knees drawn up to her chest, her hands clutching a drawing pad. She looks up, her dark eyes wide with a mixture of terror and confusion as she sees me. "Via? What was that noise?"

"That was a steam iron," I say, walking to her wardrobe and throwing the doors open. "We’re leaving, Ekaterina."

She stares at me, her mouth opening slightly. "Leaving? Ilya locked the gates. Lev said we aren't allowed past the corridor."

"Ilya is currently playing soldier in the southern channel," I say, tossing a thick black coat and a pair of boots onto her bed. "And I refuse to spend another hour in this house listening to my own heart beat. We’re going to the city."

"We’ll get caught," she says, her hands shaking slightly as she reaches for the boots. "The guards⁠—"

"The guards are currently investigating a steaming iron," I say, leaning against the bedpost and crossing my arms. "And we’re going to use the greenhouse exit. The old gardener’s path leads straight to the rear garage where they keep the utility trucks. They don't track the keys for the cargo vans."

Ekaterina looks at the coat, then at my face, a sudden, wild spark of excitement beginning to clear the fear in her eyes. "You’re completely crazy, Via."

"No. I’m bat-shit crazy," I correct, a small, sassy smile spreading across my lips. "There’s a difference. Now put your shoes on before Pyotr figures out he’s been tricked by a girl."

The greenhouse is silent, the glass panels covered in a thick layer of morning condensation. We move quickly through the rows of terracotta pots, at the far end, the small wooden door that leads to the rear service courtyard is unlocked.

The old gardener’s truck is a rusty, beige Volvo that looks like it hasn't been washed since the previous decade. It’s parked in the shadow of the brick wall, half-hidden by a stack of wooden crates.

I climb into the driver's seat, the old vinyl sticking to my thighs as I reach under the steering column.

"Via, what are you doing?" Ekaterina climbs into the passenger side, her eyes wide as she looks at the exposed wires hanging beneath the dashboard. "You can't drive this."

"Watch me," I say, my fingers sorting through the red and yellow copper strands. "My father's driver, Grisha, used to take me to get ice cream when I was grounded. He thought it was a vital life skill for a girl in our position to know how to start a car without a key."

I strip the insulation from the starter wire with my teeth, a copper taste lingering on my tongue. I spark the two leads together.

The engine lets out a loud, grinding wheeze, coughing a thick cloud of grey exhaust into the courtyard before finally rumbling to life with a steady, clacking rhythm. I slide the gearshift into reverse, the metal grinding loudly as I back out of the space.

"We’re actually doing this," Ekaterina whispers, her hands gripping the dashboard as we rumble toward the rear gate.

"We are," I say, turning the wheel. "And we’re going to have a very expensive afternoon."

The gate guard, a younger enforcer who is usually on the night watch, doesn't even look up from his phone as the rusty Volvo approaches the barrier. He simply hits the remote switch, the heavy iron gates swinging open slowly to let us pass. He assumes we’re just taking the trash to the incinerator down the road.

By the time the barrier clicks shut behind us, the highway is wide open, a grey ribbon of asphalt cutting through the pine forest.

The sun is actually bright today, the heavy storm clouds from yesterday breaking apart to reveal a pale, clean blue sky that makes the concrete buildings of the city in the distance look almost welcoming. It is a rare, crisp spring morning, the cold wind whipping through the cracked window of the Volvo and carrying the scent of pine and wet stone away from us.

"Where are we going first?" Ekaterina leans forward, her hair blowing across her face, her eyes bright with a freedom she hasn't felt in weeks.

"The Esplanade," I say, stepping on the gas pedal. "I want to go to the high-end boutique near the plaza. I want to buy things that aren't green, and I want to eat lunch without looking at five men with earpieces."

"Ilya is going to be so angry," she says, a wild, excited giggle escaping her lips. "He’s going to look like he’s about to chew through a steel pipe."

"Let him chew," I say, my chin lifting as I merge onto the main arterial road. "It’ll do his blood pressure some good to realize he doesn't own the entire city."

The Esplanade is a three-story cavern of glass, polished white marble, and the suffocatingly expensive scent of designer perfume. It is packed with wealthy socialites, businessmen carrying shiny paper bags, and teenagers lingering near the glass escalators.

I park the rusty Volvo in the deepest corner of the underground garage, hiding it behind a massive black Mercedes SUV.

We walk through the double glass doors of a French boutique on the second level, the air inside cool, clean, and carrying a faint scent of white roses. The floors are a pale, polished oak, and the racks of silk dresses are arranged by color, looking like pieces of modern art under the soft track lighting.

I slide my hands into the pockets of my new cream-colored wool coat, a purchase I made at the very first store we passed, and look around.

"Via, look at these," Ekaterina calls out from the shoe salon near the back of the store. She’s holding up a pair of six-inch emerald silk heels, the crystals on the toe catching the light and throwing sharp, green sparks against the white walls. "They match your gala dress. You should buy them."

"I’m buying three pairs," I say, walking toward her, the soles of my boots clicking loudly on the wood. "And then we’re going to the penthouse restaurant for champagne. If your brother wants to treat me like a prisoner of war, he can pay the bill for my retail therapy."