Page 4 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

He looks older than his underlings, but with the kind of maturity that comes with ownership. He’s finished, a fully formed predator who’s taken his time, paid his price, claimed his throne. Every other man near him looks unfinished, like they’re still waiting to prove themselves, while he radiates the kind of dominance that makes women’s mouths part and tongues wet just picturing what those muscles could do when he drops the suit and stops pretending to be civilized.

I hate how beautiful he is, and I hate it more because he looks at me like he has every right to.

The man holding my arm tightens his grip and starts moving me forward. I stumble once on the steps, catch myself, and lift my chin because I’ll die before I let these people think I can be dragged anywhere without at least trying to bite.

When we reach the landing, the man from the door hasn’t moved. Up close, he’s worse. His gaze drops over me once, taking in the split lip I must have earned in the garage, the torn hem at my sleeve, the fact that I’m still standing.

He looks at the man holding me. “Did you drug her?” His question is quiet, asked in a voice so deep and low that it makes a shiver run down my spine.

The man beside me straightens. “She resisted.”

“I asked if you drugged her.”

“Yes, Pakhan.”

Pakhan.

In front of me is Maksim Volkov, Pakhan of Moscow. Dear God, what did my father get me into?

Every ugly rumor I’ve ever heard about the Volkov Bratva rushes back at once, but they don’t help me much when the reality is standing three feet away looking like this. I had expected older, maybe. Something more obviously cruel.

My mouth goes dry.

I tell myself it’s the drug.

He steps closer, and now I can smell winter air on his coat, clean soap, expensive liquor somewhere under that, and something male and warm that makes my stomach tighten. He reaches out, then lifts two fingers and brushes a strand of hair off my cheek.

I jerk back on instinct. His eyes flick to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “Good,” he says with a small smile. “I’d have been disappointed if you came in meek.”

My heart is pounding so hard it makes me dizzy. I want to ask him who he thinks he is to stand there looking at me like he’s been expecting me. What actually comes out is rougher and weaker than I want. “You kidnapped me.”

“Yes.”

His gaze goes to the bruise already rising on my wrist, then to the man beside me again. “Take your hand off her.”

The grip disappears instantly and my knees nearly give, but I lock them fast and stay upright through sheer fury. Maksim notices and his eyes narrow just slightly, as if that pleases him in some way he has no business finding pleasing. “Hello, Elena,” he murmurs.

The way he says my name sends an electric jolt to my nerves. He steps in close, stops just short of contact, and for a second all I can see is his mouth, the slight drag of his lower lip as he speaks. “I’ve been waiting for you far too long.”

2

ELENA

Istare at the Pakhan, and for one stupid second everything else drops away. I can’t focus on the rifles, the men, or the fact that I’ve been drugged and dragged into the forest like a package with my name taped to the side. Just him.

Then my head clears enough for anger to take over again, and thank God for that. “If you’ve been waiting for me,” I say, because my mouth has always had bad timing, “you need better hobbies.”

The corner of his mouth shifts. That’s it. That’s all I get. No laugh, no offense, no irritated little flare of ego. Just the faintest movement, like he’s letting himself enjoy exactly half a second of this. “Still talking,” he observes as his eyes catch on a glimmer of light.

I frown at him. “Still kidnapped.”

To that, he offers an almost apologetic nod. “Yes.”

There’s no excuse wrapped around his admission, no fake courtesy, no attempt to dress this up as something noble or necessary. He says it like the truth is enough. By rule, I detest men who think truth excuses the method—and yet, I can’t seem to put a clear emotion in place for Maksim Volkov.

He steps back and looks past me. “Inside.”

I plant my feet and glare up at him while wholeheartedly wishing he weren’t at least a whole foot taller than me. “No.”