Page 89 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

"I love you, Via," I whisper, my lips grazing her ear. "I’ve spent my entire life being the monster my father wanted me to be. I didn't think there was room for anything else in my chest. But I was wrong. I've realized I can't let you go. I need you. For the rest of my life."

Via pulls back just enough to look at my eyes, her face brightened by a genuine, happy smile that makes my heart ache with a sudden, beautiful pain. She reaches up, biting her lips slightly before pressing them against mine.

I part her lips with my tongue, tasting her, devouring her with a focus that leaves her whimpering against my mouth, her fingers digging into my shoulders.

When I pull back, her face is flushed, her hazel eyes completely dark and glassy with a raw, sweet surrender.

"We’re going to rebuild the house," I say, my hand stroking her golden hair. "A bigger one. With a bigger garden for Ekaterina's primroses. And we’re going to put a double lock on the digital panel."

"And no beige suits allowed past the gate," she says, her smile returning to her lips.

"None," I agree, a faint, dark amusement in my voice as I pull her back down against my side.

The rain continues to beat against the window, a steady, driving patter that seems to wash away the blood, the secrets, and the war, leaving only the two of us in the quiet amber light of the room.

35

VIA

The morning sun is a warm, bright gold that cuts through the sheer white curtains, tracing long, lazy lines of light across the plush rug.

I try to roll over, but I’m currently pinned under approximately two hundred and fifty pounds of warm, solid Russian Mafia boss. Ilya’s massive arm is wrapped securely around my waist, his thick fingers splayed flat over the heavy, round curve of my eight-month pregnant belly. His chin is tucked deep into the crook of my neck, his breath hot and rhythmic against my skin, sending a steady, pleasant shiver down my spine.

I let out a soft, amused sigh, my fingers tracing the thick, scarred forearm locking me in place. "Ilya. Let go. I need to pee."

He doesn't open his eyes. Instead, his grip tightens, pulling me even closer against his bare chest until my back is pressed flat against his heartbeat. He drops a slow, lazy kiss to my shoulder, his mouth sliding up the column of my neck to find the sensitive spot right behind my ear. "No."

"I’m serious, you giant clinger." I shift my hips, trying to find some leverage, but my center of gravity is completely gone these days. "I look like an elegant beach ball, my back is killing me, and your child is currently using my bladder as a trampoline. Move."

He lets out a low, grumpy rumble in his throat, finally blinking his dark eyes open. The obsidian pupils are soft in the morning light, carrying none of the cold, terrifying blankness of the Pakhan. He leans over me, his hand sliding down to cup the lower curve of my stomach, his face resting right against the silk of my nightgown. "She’s kicking."

"She’s been kicking since five in the morning," I say, my hand sliding into his dark, messy hair. "Probably because she inherited your complete lack of respect for sleeping schedules. Now, let me up."

He slowly rolls off me, his movements slightly stiff as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed.

I watch him stand. He walks to the bathroom, his left leg carrying a slight, permanent limp, a reminder of the shipyard steel that crushed his bone. It doesn't make him look weak. If anything, the slow, rolling hitch in his stride makes him look even more dangerous, like a scarred timber wolf that survived the trap and grew meaner because of it.

He is more possessive today than he was when he had me locked in the north wing.

If I take a step toward the garden, there are three sweepers checking the grass. If I go to the kitchen, Yara has to verify the safety seals on the milk. He rebuilt the estate on a massive scale. The walls are twice as thick, the security gates are reinforced with military-grade titanium, and the guard detail has been tripled. But inside these walls, the Pakhan has turned into a ridiculously clingy husband who refuses to sleep unless my head is resting on his chest.

I slide out of bed, my feet sinking into the warm rug as I stretch my aching lower back. "Is the coffee actually organic today, or did you make the guards check the beans for listening devices again?"

Ilya steps out of the bathroom, a clean white towel slung over his broad, scarred shoulders. "The distributor in Colombia was audited. I wanted to be sure."

"You're a maniac," I say, walking past him to wash my face.

"I’m thorough," he corrects, his hand coming to rest on my hip, his thumb tracing the bone with a light, possessive pressure that tells me he’s not letting me out of this room without a struggle.

The hallway of the new estate is bright, the dark mahogany of the old house replaced with light oak, tall, arched windows, and cream-colored plaster that lets the sunshine flood the corridors.

Ekaterina is standing in the center of the conservatory, her easel set up near a massive bed of yellow primroses. She’s wearing a paint-splattered white apron, her hair tied up in a messy bun, a bright, genuine smile lighting up her face as she looks up from her canvas. "Via! Look at the lace detail. Yara said it was too traditional, but I think the emerald border is perfect."

I walk closer, leaning my weight against the stone planter as I look at her sketch. It’s my wedding dress, the new one we’ve been designing for three weeks. No white lace. No traditional cathedral trains. It’s a simple, elegant emerald-green silk gown with a high waist that drapes softly over my round belly.

"It’s beautiful, Ekaterina," I say, my hand touching the canvas. "My father would have loved the green."

"He would have," she says, her shoulder bumping against mine. "And Ilya is going to look like he’s about to cry when he sees you."