Page 12 of The Russian Pakhan's Forced Bride
I bristle as I step into the room. “Just like a guard dog…”
Roman doesn’t say anything. Instead, he releases a breath, then turns and closes the door behind me.
The click of the lock echoes in my mind, making me freeze in place. That sound is enough confirmation that my situation is more real and dangerous than I ever wanted. It isn’t some nightmare. I’m not enduring some kind of psychosis.
It’s real, and I’m locked in a room in a criminal’s house. An organized one, at that.
Left alone in that massive room, it starts to feel smaller and smaller as my lungs ache and my legs might as well not even be attached to me.
The space is suddenly far too quiet, leaving me with far too many opportunities to get lost in my own mind.
Breathing slowly, I try to calm down. To keep my heart from imploding. But it doesn’t work.
Instead, tears prick my eyes while I hobble over to the bed and lean against it before slowly sinking to the floor.
That fear…the crippling terror refuses to let go.
With shaky breaths, I use the sleeve of my cardigan to wipe at my eyes and try to think rationally. To come up with some kind of plan to get out. But the more I think about it, the more devastated I am.
Hand over my chest, I heave in as much air as my lungs allow and fight to keep that panic down.
Still, try as I might, it’s a losing battle.
Roman took me, forced me to marry him, and now he expects me to sit and wait.
To hope and pray he’ll be merciful and let me go.
If he ever decides to.
Chapter 5 - Roman
It doesn’t make any sense.
Everything was going according to plan down to the very dot: the timing, execution, everything…
I got my hands on her, and the paperwork was filed. Victoria is mine. Legally, physically—in all ways.
Regardless of being a hasty plan, it was still a good one. At least, I thought it was.
With the unspoken alliance made between the two of us, her being the key I needed to get to Maxim, it all suddenly feels pointless. Like that perfect execution was wasted.
I assumed she knew the game being played. I assumed she was an integral piece. Yet, she had no idea. She wasn’t even a player.
A small part of me still wants to believe she’s lying and holding out hope for Maxim’s intervention, but while sitting in the living room, I can’t shake the look in her eyes.
The innocence. The raw sincerity so few can fake with delicate precision.
She seemed to be telling the truth, even if that puts a damn wrench in my plans.
Nursing the glass of whiskey in the deadly quiet room, aware that a woman who isn’t Viktoria Nikolaev resides above me in one of the spare bedrooms, I still can’t wrap my head around it all.
I seized the moment. I did everything right. And yet, despite how perfect it all seemed, it’s clear as day that my foresight was lacking.
As much as I want to believe this is merely a temporary misstep, I know better than that. And, of course, no part of me wants to admit I fucked up.
I’d be damned if Maxim or anyone else ever caught wind of my problem.
She swears she isn’t Viktoria. No…
