Page 25 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

“Careful,” I tell her.

“No,” she snaps. “Not after that. They talked about me like I was part of the route.”

My jaw tightens. “That’s not what happened.”

She laughs once, raw, rough. “Then I misheard the part where I’m still open to offers.”

I step closer. “You heard what I let you hear.”

“That doesn’t fix it.” Her hazel eyes flash, angry and unyielding, and she looks at me like she’d rather break this open than let me smooth it over.

“You’re overdoing it.” For once, I don’t know how to stop her without grabbing her by the shoulders and making her hold still.

She folds her arms, holding herself together. “What am I supposed to feel? Safe because you’re the one holding the line?”

“For now,” I say.

Her eyes flash green. “Exactly.”

I close the distance. “Say bride again.”

She doesn’t back up. “What, that one bothers you?”

My palm slams against the wall beside her head. She doesn’t flinch.

“You think this is about pride?”

“What else is it?”

I lean in. “My territory.”

She meets my eyes. “You don’t own me.”

“No?” I say. Her breath stutters. I see it. I lean into her space. Her shoulders hit the wall paneling. I step in, close enough to hold her there without crushing her. One hand stays at her jaw. The other locks at her waist.

I kiss her. It lands as anger. Possession. No space for anything softer. I don’t ease up. I push her mouth open, take it deeper, rough enough to make it count. She comes back at me just as hard. No hesitation. No pullback.

7

ELENA

For three days after the meeting, I do everything I can to avoid being alone with Maksim anywhere with a door.

It goes about as well as you’d expect.

This house is built for people to run into each other. Corridors pinch at the worst times. Stair landings put us face-to-face with nowhere to go. A door opens and there he is, close enough that the memory of his mouth on mine hits first and the rest of me scrambles to catch up. We don’t talk. That makes it worse.

The house gets tighter after the meeting, which is fair, I guess. A listed woman under Volkov protection is apparently the kind of household detail that earns fresh cameras, another guard post, and enough new locks to suggest everyone expects me to either get stolen or start a side business in escape attempts.

He gets more closed off in public. I get meaner.

Neither of us buys the act.

My days fill up anyway. The estate has decided I’m useful now, so nobody calls me a prisoner, but everyone starts treating me like I’ve been folded into the workflow. Mrs. Wentworth sends food. Guards show up when I’m due outside and peel off when I’m not. Twice that week, I’m driven into town under enough surveillance to start a small war. I buy toiletries, stockings, a new notebook, two law books from a cramped little shop off the square, and a bottle of perfume I don’t need just because picking out toothpaste under guard makes me want to prove I still can.

When I get back from the second outing, there’s a tray waiting in my room.

Tea. Lemon. Toast with butter. A soft-boiled egg. Plain food, easy on the stomach. I stand over the tray for a second and just look at it.