Page 71 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
Across the room, I see Trifon watching us, his mouth tugging up in a small, private smile. Something low in my stomach clenches. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me since we walked in.
But he still hasn’t said much.
I watch as he moves through the crowd, stopping to greet a few people. Still, something’s off. Trifon keeps checking his watch. His gaze flicks toward the entrance more than once. There’s a tightness in his shoulders.
The room is beautiful, with soft lighting and chilled champagne on offer. But the tension wrapped around him tonight feels razor-edged.
“Is he usually this broody at parties?” I ask Nadya under my breath.
She arches a brow. “Tonight’s different.”
“But, you might be onto something. He’s always hated birthdays, especially his.” Darya laughs.
“Oh my god. Yes! I remember his fortieth birthday. We thought we’d surprise him. He locked himself in his room and said he had to work! We broke the door down!” Nadya laughs.
As they begin to regale me with stories, I lose all sense of time. That is, until Trifon appears behind me, jolting me to the present.
“Are you three causing trouble already?” he says dryly, sliding an arm around my waist. His touch instantly sends a jolt through me.
Nadya rolls her eyes. “You meanweare saving her from a boring time you’d have shown her. You’re welcome.”
Darya and I laugh while Trifon glowers at us all.
“Trust me, I’ve got plans other than boring,” Trifon murmurs near my ear, low enough that only I hear. His voice sends goosebumps up my arms. Then, louder, he adds, “Mind if I steal her for a dance?”
“Please do,” Darya says, sipping her drink with a smirk. “We need a break from all the heart eyes.”
Trifon extends a hand toward me. “Come on.”
I take it.
And just like that, I forget the headache. Forget the nausea. All I can see is him.
Trifon in a tuxedo is a dangerous thing. His dark hair slicked back, eyes sharp and clear as sky on a sunny day, the cut of his suit sculpting every inch of power into something to drool over. Every woman in this room is watching him—watchingus—and I don’t care. I want him to keep looking at me like that. Like he wants to devour me right here, consequences be damned.
“You look good tonight,” I say, breathless, not even trying to sound casual.
His lips curve. “Only tonight?”
“I’m trying to compliment you, not inflate your ego.”
He leans in, his mouth brushing the shell of my ear. “Too late for that.”
We make it halfway across the floor, weaving through the crowd, when something shifts in the room. A ripple. A whisper. A sudden tilt in the air like the pressure before a storm.
Trifon’s hand on my waist goes rigid.
I follow his gaze toward the ballroom entrance.
And I see them.
My father.
My brothers.
Akim Fyodorov. Damien. Arman. Ilya.
Standing across the room like ghosts from another life.
