Page 8 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

"The heater is on full blast," I murmur. I lean down, my mouth hovering just an inch from the sensitive skin of her neck. "And your heart isn't just racing. It’s screaming for me."

I can smell her now. Really smell her. Under the scent of the cathedral dust and the copper tang of Mikhail’s blood, there’s something else. Lilies. Vanilla. And the sharp, intoxicating scent of female arousal. It’s a drug. It hits my system and turns my blood to molten lead.

I want to bite her. I want to sink my teeth into that pale, perfect neck and mark her so deeply, she’ll never forget who owns her. I want to rip this virginal white dress off her and see what she looks like when she’s not hiding behind lace.

"Don't," she whispers, her voice finally cracking. "Don't touch me. I will kill you. I swear on my mother’s grave, if you touch me, I will wait until you’re sleeping and I will open your throat."

I laugh. It’s a low, dark sound that vibrates in the space between us. I shift again, my thigh sliding between hers, forcing her legs apart. The volume of the dress is the only thing keeping us from being skin-to-skin, and I hate it.

"I’d like to see you try," I whisper against her skin. "But we both know that’s not what’s going to happen. You’re going to spend every night in my bed, wondering how a monster can make you feel things your 'safe' man never could."

I lift my head, looking down at her. She looks wrecked. Her hair is everywhere, her lips are parted, and her eyes... those defiant, beautiful eyes, are wide and glazed with a mixture of fear and heat.

Suddenly, she snaps. Her hand flies up, aiming a sharp, open-palmed slap at my face.

I catch her wrist inches from my skin.

I don't just hold it. I twist it slightly, forcing her hand back, and then I pin both of her wrists above her head with one hand. I use my other hand to grip her chin, forcing her to look at me.

"You want to play rough, Via?" I growl. "I can play rougher than you can imagine."

I lean in, my lips brushing against hers. I don't kiss her. Not yet. I just breathe her in, my lungs burning with the scent of her. I can feel her breath hitting my lips, hot and fast. I want to devour her. I want to taste the fire in her soul and make it mine.

"You’re mine now," I whisper, my mouth so close, I can feel the moisture of her lips. "And I’m going to enjoy every second of breaking you."

She lets out a raw, guttural sound—half sob, half snarl—and tries to shove me off with her body. I just press harder, my weight a heavy, immovable force.

I’m carnal for her. I can feel my own control fraying, the professional Pakhan being swallowed by the hungry beast she’s woken up.

"Drive faster, Dimitri," I command, my voice sounding like it’s coming from the bottom of a grave. "I want her in the house. Now."

I lean down again, my teeth grazing the shell of her ear, and I hear her gasp—a sound that isn't entirely fear.

I'm not letting go. Not today. Not ever.

3

VIA

The SUV comes to a stop and my stomach does a slow, nauseating roll.

I’m officially screwed.

I don’t even need to look out the window to know we’ve reached the stronghold. The silence alone is a giveaway—the kind of silence you only get when you’re deep inside a compound surrounded by several tons of concrete and enough thermal cameras to track a squirrel’s heartbeat.

Great. I’ve traded a gilded cage for a high-tech dungeon. Progress.

Ilya doesn't wait for Dimitri to open the door. He unclips his seatbelt and looks at me. His eyes are dark and focused. It makes me want to shrink into my seat, but I raise my shoulders an inch higher, not backing down from his eyes.

"We're here," he says, almost growling. Doesn’t he know how to speak like a human? Tsk. "Try to behave, Viallentinka. I’d hate to have to carry you in front of the staff. It sets a bad precedent for my authority."

"Your authority is about as impressive as your conversational skills, Ilya," I snap, though my voice is a bit thinner than I’d like. I try to pull my shattered veil away from my face, but my fingers are still shaking. "And if you think I’m walking in there like a blushing bride, you really are delusional."

I expect him to argue back, but he doesn't. Instead, he reaches across, grabs my arm, and drags me toward his side of the car.

"Let go!" I shriek, the panic from the cathedral flare-up suddenly spiking again. The smell of his leather seats, the scent of the gunpowder still clinging to his suit—it’s too much.

I launch myself at him the second his feet hit the pavement.