Page 12 of The Pakhan's Bride
I study his face in the half-light—the sharp angles of his jaw, the faint scar near his hairline, the eyes that see too much. Forthree days I've maintained Sofia's persona, kept Zoya locked away. For three days I've measured every word, every gesture, every reaction. The constant performance exhausts me.
What would it feel like to tell someone? To say my name out loud, to admit what I'm escaping, to speak the truth for once without calculating its impact? The temptation burns in my throat like unshed tears.
My free hand rises without conscious decision, fingers curling against the lapel of his jacket. The fabric is smooth beneath my touch, expensive despite its casual appearance. Everything about him is like this, quality disguised as ordinary. Danger masquerading as charm.
"Why do you want to know?" I ask, buying time.
"Because you're not what you pretend to be." His other hand comes up to brush hair from my face, the gesture oddly tender from someone so controlled. "Neither am I."
An offering of symmetry, if not specifics.
I hesitate, torn between caution and something deeper, something I've denied myself for years. Connection. Truth. The possibility of being seen, really seen, not as a Baranov daughter but as myself.
But truth is a luxury I can't afford, not with my father's men searching the city, not with my future already mapped in contracts and alliances, not with my family's empire resting on choices that aren't truly mine to make. "I can't give you both," I say finally, my voice quavering. "Truth or this moment. Not both."
He considers, and then, at the same moment as I rise on my toes, he leans down, capturing my mouth with his. His mouth finds mine, firm and warm and devastatingly sure. His hand slides into my hair, not just cradling but gripping, anchoring me to him like he's afraid I'll vanish. The first brush of his lips is a spark. The second is fire. His exhale is hot against my cheek, likehe's been holding something back longer than I knew. I make a sound and he drinks it in, deepening the kiss until it's no longer something gentle or tentative but something that pulls from the gut, the spine, the place where control unravels.
My fingers fist in his jacket, hauling him closer. He lets me take as much as I want, then answers by sliding an arm around my waist and pulling me flush against him. Every inch of me is pressed to every inch of him in that space where there is nothing but heat and the sharp, staggering knowledge that I've never been kissed like this. Not by a boy, not by a man, not by anyone who knew how to make it feel like this is how I was meant to be kissed all my life.
Around us, Paris continues. Boats glide on the Seine, tourists stroll along its banks, life moves in its ordained patterns. No one notices two figures melded in shadow. No one cares about this moment that feels like it’s fracturing and fusing simultaneously. We are invisible here, irrelevant to the city's ongoing story. And yet, I feel the significance of this kiss like a physical ache.
When we finally break apart, both breathing harder, he doesn't immediately step back. His forehead rests against mine, his eyes closed as if memorizing something. His hands remain at my waist, at the nape of my neck, holding me in place. Holding me together. "That wasn't an answer," he murmurs, eyes opening to meet mine.
"It was the only one I can give."
A muscle in his jaw tightens. I watch the calculation happen behind his eyes—push further or accept the boundary? He chooses the latter, stepping back just enough to let cool air slip between us. His thumb traces my lower lip once, a gesture that feels more intimate than the kiss itself. "For now," he says.
The words carry a promise or a threat, I'm not sure which. Perhaps both. I feel the future crystallizing around us, paths narrowing toward an inevitable collision. This man, whoever heis, will cost me. I will cost him. There is no version of this story where we walk away unscathed. And still, I take his hand when he offers it. Still, I step out of the alcove beside him. Still, I choose this moment over caution, knowing exactly what I risk.
5
ZOYA
His hand is steady, large, and warm around mine. We walk, not fast but not slow, his pace forcing me to match him step for step. No one in Paris looks twice at a woman walking after midnight with a man, hair a little wild, lips a little bitten. His thumb strokes my knuckles once. The gesture feels like a question. I squeeze back, answer enough.
We pass through a square striped with shadows. Streetlights turn his face into a study in extremes—clean, hard, and then suddenly soft when he glances at me sidelong. There's a cab waiting near the curb. He opens the door, waits for me to slide in first. The interior smells like leather, cigarettes, the faintest trace of vanilla from the air freshener. He gives the driver an address near the river in French so fluent, the driver tries to chat. He shuts that down with a look.
We don't touch in the back seat. I watch our reflections on the glass as we slip through the city. My hair is falling out of its pins again, but I leave it. He rests his elbow on the armrest, fingers drumming a tattoo on the faux wood. I know this rhythm—the language of impatience and anticipation. I stare at hishands, the veins and the old, pale scars. Hands that have held guns, hands that can be gentle.
The car pulls up in front of a building with a marble portico, old enough to have seen wars, new enough for security cameras. He pays in cash. The doorman of the hotel knows him. No questions, just a deferential nod, a quick press of the elevator button. As the doors close, he waits until the camera blinks red, then presses me to the mirrored wall.
His mouth on mine is different this time, deeper, more definite, like the last kiss had only been permission. The elevator hums upward. His tongue is hot and deliciously invasive. I let my hands explore—his chest is solid under the black shirt, his jaw rough with stubble, hair even softer than it looks. When he pulls away, his smile is just this side of wicked.
"Top floor," he says, voice scratchy.
"Of course." I laugh, low and quiet.
The suite door is a keycard, not old-fashioned. He opens it with a flick of the wrist and steps back, letting me enter first. The room is all glass and steel, minimalist, expensive, a view of the city laid out like a secret. Lights glitter on the river. There's a bottle of red wine breathing on the sideboard, two glasses already waiting.
I move to the windows. He follows, jacket gone. He pours the wine, hands me a glass. "Sofia," he says, playing the old game. The wine tastes like summer fruit and blood. I drink it down and set the glass aside. He comes up behind me, hands on my hips gentle but unyielding. I lean back, feel the heat of his body line up with mine. His lips are at my ear. "You don't have to do this."
I turn in his arms. "I know."
He kisses me again. I let my mouth go slack, surrendering to the pull. His hands travel up my sides, thumbs tracing the bottom of my ribs, memorizing every inch. I reach for his shirt, start unbuttoning, savor each reveal of skin. He doesn't help,doesn't hurry. When I finish, I push the shirt off his shoulders. His body is beautiful, nothing wasted, nothing soft, lean strength shaped by purpose, not vanity. His collarbone could cut silk, its symmetry maddening. And then there's the ink.
My eyes go first to the ouroboros, a serpent swallowing its own tail, stretched along the left side of his chest and angled down his ribs. It gleams black in the dim light, the head coiled just beneath his collarbone, fangs pressed to its own tail like penance. The scales are shaded in obsessive detail, each one etched like a secret he never speaks aloud. I lift my fingers to it, trace along its curve.
I move to his left arm.
