Page 33 of The Pakhan's Bride
"You," I gasp. "Only you."
And then, the world and my anger and all my rage be damned, I'm coming, shuddering, muscles spasming around his cock. He follows me seconds later, buried to the hilt, groaning into the hollow of my neck like the release was torn from somewhere deeper than flesh.
We stay like that for two minutes, tangled, breathing hard. He pulls out, wipes his face, and turns his back to me as he putshis clothes back on. For a long time, we don't speak. When I finally move, I get up from the chair, find my blouse on the floor, and shrug it over my shoulders. The buttons are gone, but I knot it closed. I look at him, sprawled and spent, and feel an ache coil in my chest.
"I still hate you," I say.
He sits up, grins, and for once the smile is real. "I'd worry if you didn't."
I leave him there. I walk the halls barefoot, half-dressed, and find my way to the family suite. After making myself decent, I check on Lev. He's asleep, breathing softly, curled around his pillow like nothing in the world can touch him.
I tuck the blanket tighter, press a kiss to his temple. I watch him for a long time, listening to the silence of the house. Inside, I am alive, every nerve raw, every muscle singing. My husband believes I won't poison him. But if I'm falling in love with him, I may not have a choice.
13
KONSTANTIN
AFew Weeks Later
My wife is adjusting well to this world.
It's a cold morning, with the wind thick and carrying the exhaust of men in armored cars. What follows is daily routine. I shower, go to the kitchen, have my toast, eggs over easy with a dash of salt, and coffee, after which I get to work. By seven a.m., I've already processed a ledger of blood—two debtors vanished, one traitor turned into a byline on page four of the morning news, three shipments rerouted to make the customs dogs chase their own tails.
Orlov interrupts me in this haze of work, coming to meet me in the office. He sits down at the table, on the chair directly opposite to mine, and gazes at the table as if it's the most interesting thing he's ever seen. "Pakhan," he says, not looking up. "Your wife is up to something."
He pronounces it like a joke, but the skin around his mouth is pinched. I like that he's afraid of her, even now.
"Tell me," I say with no heat in the words.
He glances up at me then, and the expression in his eyes is wounded. He's telling me, in as few words as possible—probablyso he doesn't annoy me—that he doesn't like the indulgences granted to Zoya mere weeks after her arrival. "She's been making calls from the house line," he grumbles. "Sokolov and I monitored them, per your directive."
I nod. I'd given the order myself, back when Zoya first arrived. No personal phones, all communications routed through landlines we controlled. "She's asking questions," Orlov goes on. "Trying to trace surviving Baranovs. Last night, she called her cousin in Geneva who works in international law. She's trying to stir something."
"What did the cousin and my wife talk about?" I ask quietly.
"Nothing," he admits, this time a tad sheepishly. "She never answered. But I'm sure she's trying to find out more stuff about her darling daddy."
I run a hand down my face. Of course she is. She's not stupid. She was raised by a man who believed in contingency plans more than bedtime stories.Maybe she should find things out for herself, I think. That'll save me from having to tell her. But then again, Orlov is right in that it presents a risk to my image. ThePakhan'swife snooping around doesn't exactly scream stability or strength.
"Is Sokolov's man in place?"
He nods, then pauses, as if unsure I'll like the next part. "She offered him a bribe. Diamond earrings."
I almost laugh. "Did he take it?"
That draws a chuckle from him. "Of course, the old dog. Then he called me."
"Make sure the cousin in Geneva gets a polite warning," I say. "Nothing heavy."
Orlov bows, like this is all he's ever wanted in life, and slides out of the room.
The day continues as days do, a pulse of meetings, muscle, messengers bearing news in sealed envelopes. I conduct eachlike a surgeon—clean, fast, with minimum suffering. But under the surface, I am thinking about Zoya. Her hair in the lamplight, the way her lip curls when she's about to lie. By three, the city outside has gone the color of steel wool. The temperature is dropping. The men in the parking lot have started stamping their feet, faces wrapped in cheap black scarves. I finish the final call of the day, then kill the lights in my office. My reflection stares back, faint and pale. I look tired. I look like a man who has already died once and is waiting for someone to notice.
I check the cameras from my phone. Lev is at his lessons, Galina is organizing the kitchen, the two cleaning staff are exactly where they should be, moving in slow, choreographed circles on the ground floor. But Zoya is not on the grid. Not in the common rooms, not on the balcony, not in her study.
With a sigh, I head upstairs to her bedroom and knock once, twice, before she answers. "It isn't locked." Muffling my chuckle, I open it and peer inside. She sits on the edge of the bed, back straight, hands folded in her lap like a schoolgirl at confession. The dress is navy, sleeveless, cut to draw the eye to the collarbones and the hollow just below her throat. She's taken off her shoes. Her feet are bare, nails painted a soft crimson.
She doesn't look up when I enter. "You're hiding," I say.
