Page 10 of The Pakhan's Kidnapped Bride
It’s hard to talk to her without thinking about things I’ve long managed to push down into the bottom depths of my memory. Things I don’t want surfacing, but here they are, in my thoughts.
Her naked body straddling me, her legs spread over my hips as she rocks herself slowly back and forth on my cock.
My hands rubbing up her silky thighs….
I clear my throat and let out a sharp, angry huff.
“Do we have a deal?” she asks, drawing my eyes to hers. I stare into her soul, searching for the truth. I have a thousand questions. Questions that have burned inside me for half a decade.
No.
That’s not true.
I only have one question.
Why did you do it?
I met Anya six years ago.
The moment I set my eyes on her, I knew I would love her till the day I died. I heard her laughter across the room at an event, and for the entire night, I couldn’t look anywhere but at her.
She was only twenty-eight years younger than me at the time.
I knew she was too young. Too young for a love so intense, too young to be making such big choices about the rest of her life.
She was too young, and she was the sister of a long-standing rival. It could never work. It was a dangerous thing to be tempted by.
I tried to stay away, but it turned out that the feelings were mutual. She had spotted me that night, too. And despite our best efforts, we couldn’t stay away from each other. Within the first few weeks of being together, I made it clear to her that I would give her my life and that we would be together forever. I made a promise that we would marry when she was older, that I would make her happy.
The difficult history between our families forced us to be together in hiding.
We dated in secret for months. Every moment I spent with her, I fell deeper in love, thinking I couldn’t possibly be closer to her than I already was, and constantly being proven wrong.
For almost a year, she was my everything. I had never been happier in my life than with her at my side. I wanted everyone to know how much I loved her. And despite the dangers of openly being together, we were determined to make it work. To get through whatever we had to get through. We began showing affection in public, being open about our love.
She was my world. And I was hers.
Or so I thought.
One night, she came over to my place. It was winter. I built a massive fire in the fireplace and blankets all around it so that we could drink champagne and eat a cozy winter picnic in the glowing warmth while she lay her naked body in my arms; that was my plan, but Anya was distant. She was aloof and indifferent. She hardly spoke at all, and barely acknowledged me when I touched her. Something was very wrong. I asked her, but she had no answer.
I tried my best not to worry, but I could feel her pull away that night.
She left before I woke up.
The next morning, she was just gone. She wouldn’t answer my calls or messages.
Later that afternoon, she had her brother come and see me at my office.
He relayed the message on her behalf—it was over. She was no longer interested in being with me. It was fun while it lasted, but it was time to move on.
I refused to believe it. I demanded to hear the words from her. The Anya I knew and loved would never do this. She would never be so cruel. It couldn’t be real.
Over the next few months, over and over again, her brother delivered the same message. No matter how many times I tried to reach out to Anya directly, she wouldn’t talk to me. She changed her number; she turned her back on me.
It was torture.
And her brother loved watching the pain in my face every time he came to tell me again,stop calling her. Stay away from my sister. She doesn’t want you. Stop making a fool of yourself.
