Page 30 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

He’s relentless.

He fucks me with raw determination, chasing his own release now. Each thrust is a hammer blow. His hands grip my waist, fingers bruising. He pounds until he grits out a curse, body stiffening. “Gonna come,” he growls. “Hold still.”

I clench around him, milking his length, pushing back to take everything. His climax hits like a storm. He snarls, slams deep, and stays there, shuddering, spilling inside. He rests his forehead between my shoulder blades, breathing hard, the heat of him scorching my skin. We don’t move. The room smells like sex, leather, and war.

He pulls out slowly, then drags his hand over his jaw, eyes still dark. I push off the desk, shaky but defiant. I grab my ripped sweater, yank it on, and stuff my breasts into it. My jeans go up with a jerk. I don’t look at him. I feel his eyes on me as I dress, as I straighten my hair with trembling fingers.

My legs ache. My throat is raw. He looks infuriatingly composed, though his shirt is ruined, his tie hanging uselessly, his hair a wreck. His gaze follows every movement I make, claiming me in silence.

I step toward the door. He catches my wrist. I stiffen. “This changes nothing,” I hiss, yanking free. My voice shakes with fury and leftover desire.

He fastens his shirt as best he can, buttons missing, chest still partly exposed. He rolls his sleeves up, revealing the strength in his forearms, a promise of more fights. “This is a long game, Elena,” he murmurs, and his voice is deep and full of darkness. “Let’s see who folds first.”

I slam the door on the world.

9

ELENA

Weeks pass, and I learn the rhythm of Maksim’s estate whether I like it or not. Then my body breaks that rhythm in a way I can’t ignore.

I know my cycle, and when it doesn’t come this month, my stomach tightens. I’m regular. I can blame stress for a delay of a few days, maybe a week, but I’m over three weeks late, and it’s eating at my mind. There’s a lot I can do to keep myself busy, so I finish the files Leonid sends, send them back with two corrections, and keep my pen moving even when it starts tapping too fast against the desk.

At lunch, I move food around the plate more than I eat it. Mrs. Wentworth takes one look, swaps it out without a word. I push that back too.

“Pickled,” I tell her. “Bring something pickled.”

She frowns, but she takes the plate away. I sit there staring at the empty place setting, wondering when exactly I started wanting sharp, salty things more than anything warm or rich. Pickled cucumbers. Green mango chutney. Lemon with salt. Even plain crackers sound better than meat right now, and the thought turns my stomach enough to make me look away.

Lately, everything gets under my skin faster, and by evening my body feels used up in a way I can’t explain cleanly.

It starts in the legal room after dinner. I’ve been staring at the same construction file for forty minutes, one elbow on the desk, fingers pressed to my temple, trying to force my eyes through another page of numbers and language that refuses to sit right. The wording is off. The chain is off. My patience is worse.

The door opens behind me.

Maksim walks in with his jacket still on and his tie loosened, looking like the day hasn’t managed to put a dent in him. He doesn’t ask what I’m doing. He drops a second file beside my elbow with a flat thud.

“Compare the signatures.”

I go still for a second, then lift my eyes to him slowly. “You could at least pretend I’ve got some choice.”

“You don’t.” He pulls off his coat and hangs it over the back of the chair across from me. “This matters for you.”

Something in me turns hard at that.

I know what he means. I do. The work matters. The timing matters. My name is buried in all of it, whether I want it there or not. But I am tired, my head hurts, and I am sick of him deciding what shape my day takes before I’ve even caught up to it.

I shove my chair back hard enough for the legs to drag across the floor. “That’s your problem.”

He plants both hands on the back of the chair and looks at me over it. “Which one?”

“That you keep doing this.” I wave at the file, at him, at the whole room. “Giving orders and calling it necessity. Acting like I owe you gratitude because your commands happen to be useful.” My voice climbs before I can pull it back. “Eat this. Read that. Take the car. Stay in range. Sit in. Sign nothing. Sleep now. You do it over and over like I’m something to manage.”

He studies me for a long second, then says, “You’re upset.”

I let out a laugh that has no humor in it. “That’s your read?”

He pushes away from the chair. “Take the night off.”