Page 21 of The Pakhan's Kidnapped Bride
And it’s bright pink. A happy, cheeky, cheerful pink.
I push the cubicle door open to strut around a little in the larger dressing room area, looking at myself from a bit further away in the other mirrors.
Yes. I love it.
I need it in black as well.
I grin, running my hands over my body and spinning slowly in front of the mirror, but as I turn, my heart skips a beat and my breath catches.
A gasp slips from my mouth.
“Anya,” he growls, low and fierce.
“Are you kidding me?” I snap. “What are you doing here?” My heart is racing at the sight of him. I would hate for him to realize that I’m thrilled to see him here. I wanted this. I wanted to know if he’d come after me.
“I know I made myself clear when I told you not to leave the mansion. Are you hell-bent on disobeying me?” he snarls.
“If the rules are stupid, I won’t follow them,” I say, matter-of-fact, tilting my chin up in defiance and standing a little taller. Not that it makes any difference against his towering height.
He walks towards me, his strides fueled by anger, the look in his eyes plain as day.
He doesn’t stop when he’s right in front of me; he keeps walking, forcing me to step backwards, stumbling a little, and grabbing his arm to steady myself.
“Stop being such a bully,” I blurt out, shoving against his chest. He doesn’t budge.
“Why are you going out of your way to make my life harder?” he snaps at me.
“I’m not. I’m out shopping. I have every right to go out shopping.”
“We had an agreement, Anya,” he says, warningly.
“And? I haven’t broken the agreement. I’ve honored my side of it.” I shake my head, placing my hands on my hips and scrunching my nose as I glare at him.
His face turns stormy, his dark green eyes looking almost black.
“You can’t keep me locked inside the mansion, Emmanuil. I’m not a toy. I’m not a prisoner anymore. We are inagreement, and I’m upholding my end of the deal. So back off,” I say, heated and fierce.
His lips curl into a snarl as he lowers his chin, his eyes burning into me with such intensity that I have to look away for a second.
When I look back at him, his eyes roam down my body.
Over the dress.
I notice how he clenches his jaw, how the muscles ripple across his face, and how he flexes and un-flexes his hands as his eyes devour me.
He likes the dress, too.
A smirk of pure satisfaction sneaks onto my lips.
He might despise me as a person, but he can’t deny how damn fine this dress makes me look. I bite my lip to stop the giggle that threatens to escape.
“Where the hell are you even planning to wear this?” He gestures up and down over my body.
“To the bar. When I go for cocktails,” I shrug, casual and calm, my face void of expression as though it was a stupid question.
“Excuse me?” he blurts out. “You aren’t going to a bar dressed like that.”
“And who, exactly, is going to stop me?” I sass. “We might be married on paper, but you’ve made it clear that you hate my guts, Emmanuil, and that this marriage is therefore fake. Iwill go to a barif that’s what I want to do. And I will wear whatever the hell I damn well please. You don’t own me.”
