Page 7 of Cruel Russian Pakhan
Without warning, I released her. She stumbled forward, still breathing hard. Then, she scrambled to the opposite bench, glaring at me with eyes like frozen oceans.
I planted both feet on the van floor and leaned forward, elbows pressed into my knees. “You can pretend not to be Vera all you want,” I said, my voice controlled. “As long as you do exactly what you’re told.”
“Are you deaf? I'm not Vera! Did it ever occur to you that you've made a mistake?”
“I don't make mistakes.”
She rolled her eyes and folded her arms. “Well, clearly, this is your first. And because it's your first, you're in denial, but soon enough, you'll see the error of your ways.”
The van stopped, and she froze.
“We're here.”
“Here where?” Her voice cracked.
I stepped out, leaving the door open behind me. Then I turned to face her.
“Get out.”
“You just kidnapped me! Now, you want me to get out of this van and willingly go with you?” she snarled. “Are you insane?”
“If I wanted to hurt you, I would've done it already.”
I was getting tired of this game. It needed to end now. I had more pressing matters to attend to than a stubborn woman testing my patience.
“Get out or I'll drag you out myself. Your choice.”
Her voice hardened. “Drag me out, then.”
I climbed back into the van, but before I could grab her wrist, she lashed out, fist connecting hard with my jaw. My head tilted slightly from the impact, and for a split second, I swore I saw a damn smirk on her lips.
She had no idea the dangerous game she was playing.
I snatched her wrist before she could get in another hit, twisting it just enough to keep her from landing another punch. I could’ve ended this fast, knocked her out cold, like I’d done with bigger, stronger men who didn’t fight half as hard. But she wasn't a man; she was a woman, and my wife-to-be.
Hitting women wasn't my MO. Women and children were sacred in my faction. Even when they were guilty, we dealt with them differently, with more mercy than we did the men. Always.
Besides, I didn't want to bruise her delicate skin. Leaving marks on my fiancé was out of the question.
But the girl was a damn hurricane, ferocious and unrelenting.
“Let me go! I don’t want to go with you! Somebody help me!” she screamed frantically.
She could scream until her face was as blue as her eyes. No one was coming.
Her legs were a damn weapon, catching me in the ribs and shins. When I tried to lift her, she bit down on my shoulder hard enough to draw blood. I grunted, more annoyed than hurt.
“Enough!” I roared.
It stunned her, just for a moment, but long enough for me to drag her to the edge of the van and throw her over my shoulder. I locked her legs before she could start kicking again. By the time I reached the stairs of the church, my breath was ragged, jaw sore, and my patience running thin as her fists pounded against my back.
Artyom described Vera as docile and refined, totally the opposite of the woman I had on my shoulder, who wasn't going down without a fight.
Once we were inside the church and the doors shut behind us, I set her on her feet carefully. I held her steady until I was sure she wouldn't fall, then let my hands slip from her waist.
“I told you…” Her voice cut off as she took in her surroundings. Her eyes swept the pews, the altar, the stained glass. “Why are we in a church?”
Before I could answer, Father Gordon stepped into the nave. He was a plump man in his early fifties with rosy cheeks, a receding hairline, and a warm presence that didn’t quite match the solemn black cassock draped over him.
