Page 69 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

"He’s going to check the card statements in about five minutes," Ekaterina says, her shoulder bumping against mine as she laughs. "He probably has a digital alert on his phone."

"Good," I say, a small, satisfied smirk playing on my lips. "I hope he enjoys the notifications."

I wander toward the private dressing area near the rear of the shop. It is a quiet, carpeted sanctuary lined with three-sided gilded mirrors and heavy velvet curtains that block out the rest of the store. The space is completely empty, the only sound the low jazz music drifting from the hidden speakers in the ceiling.

I stand in front of the center mirror, sliding my heavy cream coat off to look at my reflection.

My black sweater is loose, but when I pull the collar down slightly, my eyes lock onto the mark on my neck. The bruise is a deep, dark purple, a stark, undeniable brand standing out against my pale skin.

I reach out, my fingers tracing the edge of the tender skin, and a sudden, quiet wave of sadness hits my chest.

Why did I run?

The thought is a cold, heavy realization that makes my breath completely stall in my throat. I didn't leave the estate because I wanted to get away from him. I didn't leave because I hate his touch, or his grumpy threats, or his possessive, heavy arm around my waist at night. I ran because I’m terrified of how much I want to stay. I’m pregnant with his child, my father is running out of time, and my entire world has narrowed down to the steady, heavy beat of Ilya’s heart beneath my cheek. I wanted to prove to myself that I was still Viallentinka Denisov. That I still had control over my own feet.

But as I look at the purple bruise, I realize the truth.

He already owns me. And the scariest part of this entire disaster is that I don't want him to let go.

I look at my hands, my fingers still slightly trembling, just then, the low, ambient jazz music from the ceiling speakers suddenly cuts out, leaving the dressing room in a dead, suffocating silence.

I freeze, my hand staying on my collarbone.

The air in the store feels different. Cold. Still. The low, distant hum of the shoppers in the main corridor of the mall has completely vanished, replaced by an unnatural, quiet pressure that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

"Ekaterina?" I call out, turning my head toward the dressing room stalls. "Are you finished with the shoes?"

No answer.

I step out of the dressing stall, my bare feet silent on the thick carpet. The boutique floor is completely empty. The sales assistants who were hovering near the cash wrap two minutes ago are gone. The racks of silk dresses look like silent, dark shapes in the dimming light of the store.

I walk slowly toward the main entrance, my eyes scanning the polished marble corridor outside.

A mall security guard is sitting in a white chair near the escalator. His head is tilted back against the glass railing, his eyes wide and unseeing, his hands resting loose in his lap. A small, neat circle of dark red is blooming right in the center of his forehead, a thin trail of crimson running down his nose.

He was shot with a suppressor. Silently. From a distance.

My heart stops, my chest contracting so hard, I can't draw air.

They’re here.

I turn to run back to the dressing rooms, but I stop, my eyes locking onto the reflection in the three-sided mirror behind the cash wrap.

Standing in the shadow of the velvet curtains near the dressing rooms is a man. He’s tall, his posture straight, his hair swept back in that neat, predictable style I’ve known my entire life. He’s wearing a sharp, beige suit that looks completely clean under the fluorescent lights.

The left side of his jaw is a messy ruin of pink, puckered skin, the scar running from his lip down to his collarbone in a jagged, twisted line where Ilya’s bullet had torn through his flesh at the altar.

He looks at me through the mirror, his lips parting to reveal a wide, scarred smile that looks like a caricature of the man I used to know.

"Via," he says, his voice a low, familiar whisper that carries no warmth.

Before the first scream can even leave my throat, a sudden, blinding flash of white light explodes in the center of the store.

A second later, a deafening, concussive boom shakes the floor, the sheer force of the blast throwing me backward against the cash wrap. My ears are ringing with a high, painful whine, my vision completely gone, replaced by a thick, spinning white fog that smells of sulfur and burnt plastic.

I try to crawl, my hands scraping against the broken glass of the display cases on the floor, but my limbs are heavy, completely useless under the shock of the blast.

"Ekaterina!" I try to shriek her name, but my voice is a dry, useless rattle in my throat.