Page 18 of The Russian Pakhan's Forced Bride
But being in his house, hearing his voice, and having seen the way those men followed his orders without a second thought has my curiosity piqued.
I shouldn’t be intrigued by the man keeping me locked up in his house. I shouldn’t feel anything but fear and anger.
Truthfully, I should be finding a way out, both forceful and not. Not wondering what else his day looks like, or what he does outside of the house.
Drifting to the window that overlooks a perfectly manicured yard and every luxury granted to him, I sit on the chaise lounge and pull my knees up to my chest.
Swallowing hard, I can’t ignore the faint yet ever-present shake in my hands or the way my chest aches with a hollow feeling.
It doesn’t matter how soft the cashmere is or how comfortable the bed is. It all comes with chains.
The house isn’t mine, and I’m certainly far from free.
Still, I’m not even me anymore. Not completely.
I’m his…legally a Lukov. I can’t even begin to process what that all means.
Even if I didn’t choose it for myself, it was forced upon me, and I don’t know how to digest it.
Or how I’ll ever be able to accept it.
Chapter 7 - Roman
There’s something polished about her now that just makes sense to me.
The soft sweaters she’s been wearing that hug her shoulders and how those leggings appealingly accentuate her hips…it’s almost like she stepped out of a catalog.
She looks like someone from my world now…someone who has belonged in it all along.
Yet, I already know she doesn’t feel that way.
Given how stiff she looks while she walks, or how her shoulders are slightly hunched and she tends to fold her arms over her chest, I can tell she’s uncomfortable.
Whether it’s the clothes, the house, the people, or just me, I can tell something doesn’t feel right to her.
She’s rigid like prey, and that thought feels like a knife to the ribs for whatever reason. I know it’s all a lot to take in. It is for me, too, despite myself.
I never expected things to unfold as they did. I thought it would be a clean process, and in due time, I’d have Maxim on his knees begging for mercy.
Instead, I have a woman claiming not to be a Nikolaev at all. One who looks like she wants to jump out of her skin at every faint noise. At every pair of footsteps that appear anywhere near her.
Maybe a part of me should care about the fact that she’s likely not Viktoria at all…But I can’t bring myself to.
Whether she’s Viktoria or an innocent teacher from California, I still want her.
I want to pull the defensive, fearful layers back to see what’s beneath. To find the full extent of that spark in her, I’ve managed to see only small glimpses of.
I want to handle that slight snap in her tone for myself and get to the bottom of that instinct of hers that’s telling Victoria to never trust me.
It’s all infuriating, yet somehow impossible for me to shrug off.
I screwed up by snatching her without making sure I knew who I was dealing with, but the piece of me craving more…craving the chance to make it work, is driving me to keep her around.
To keep her as my wife, consequences be damned.
Sitting stiffly across from me at the table by the pool, Victoria picks at the food on her plate.
I had the chef lay out a simple brunch of eggs, fresh bread, whatever meat was on hand, and some coffee to tie it all together. It isn’t anything extravagant, but for good reason. I had the feeling she wasn’t in the mood for the finest things money can buy—not after she seemed annoyed by my gesture the other day.
