Page 55 of The Russian Pakhan's Forced Bride
For whatever reason, it makes me hesitate to act out.
Pulling in a breath, Roman leans in as if to kiss me, resting his lips next to my cheek. His words whisper against my skin, “They can smell weakness, Victoria…but as my wife, you have more power than they do. So help me crush them.”
Something about those words sends a shiver down my spine, startling me into dropping my scowl. I blink, unable to stop myself from surrendering to the idea.
He hums, and his hand drops a bit lower in a vaguely affectionate caress. “Good, the sooner we convince them, the sooner we can leave.”
As he pulls back and resumes guiding me along, I try to push down my subtle fluster.
I don’t know what it is about the thought, but his words stick with me.
Me…having more power than the literal elite? He can’t be serious.
I feel like a prey animal caught in a predator’s den and have nowhere to run. Roman’s hold on me is the only anchor I have, as much as I don’t want to admit it.
All the while, he totes me around like his obedient wife. My stomach is in knots. The vapid looks and fake smiles only make it worse, further tangling the anxiety burrowing inside me.
They all look so opportunistic…like they’re waiting for the chance to strike.
Between the calculating smiles, the expensive clothes, the glamor, and everything else, I feel so out of place. So, outside of my element.
Roman introduces me to far too many people whose names escape me immediately, and all the while, I feel like I’m drowning. With the pressure of having to perform, combined with the possibility of carrying his child looming over me, I want to be sick.
Even so, his hold on me never goes away, and in some twisted way, it’s surprisingly reassuring.
After a while, I started to get the hang of pretending. The fake, pressed smiles become a bit easier, and while the nerves are still there, they’re at least hidden beneath the surface for now. Being vaguely flirty seems to help push the narrative that I’m some desirable wife and one who can keep up with Roman’s image.
It all starts to feel like some kind of dance to be mastered, and while it does instill me with a sense of power, it’s also exhausting.
Throughout the night, I feel Roman’s gaze flickering over to me, almost like he’s keeping tabs on me. Assessing me.
It annoys me to even consider it, but the vague approval that emanates from him gives me the confidence I need to keep going. To keep pretending.
And to my surprise, a sense of power comes with being next to him.
When Roman strikes up a conversation with someone important, I linger close to his side, letting the occasional brush of our hands happen, or laughing airily at some unfunny joke while lightly touching his lapel.
In a way, it becomes like muscle memory.
Eventually, those gazes are less questioning and more curious. Maybe even envious.
It’s a difficult concept for me to swallow, but it doesn’t matter. I just have to get through it.
Before long, the room thinks I’m madly in love, and of course, Roman seems to notice.
Despite maintaining his diplomatic mask, I notice the careful way it slips, the way a faint question seems to linger in his gaze. He looks almost caught off guard by my performance.
With the initial round of conversing done, he guides me in for a dance along the main floor. We’re surrounded by the other couples, and I feel his eyes on me all the while.
He pulls me a bit closer with a hand still against my back and the other holding mine.
“What are you playing at?”
Looking up at him, I hum to myself, able to see the slight tension in his features. “I’m giving them what they want…what you want.”
Something moves in his eyes as I lower my spare hand from his shoulder, grazing over his chest. It’s an almost dangerous look.
I half expect him to scold me for doing too much, or for being somewhat smug, but inside, the corner of his lip pulls faintly. That approval lingers.
