Page 23 of The Pakhan's Kidnapped Bride
She’s probably trying to find a way to control me, and for a moment, it almost worked.
How the hell am I supposed to stay in control when she looks so incredible?
And that dress. The things I would like to do to her in that dress.
It was beyond divine. She looked so insanely gorgeous that it should be illegal for her to wear something like that in public. What would happen if she wore that to a cocktail bar? Is she really that clueless as to how predatory men are? That every single one of them would have their eyes locked on her, with one thing on their mind? One goal?
Does she want that?
I shove the door of the dressing room area open and storm moodily into the main part of the boutique. The woman behind the cashier’s desk glances nervously at me. I glare at her, daring her to say something, and she quickly turns her eyes away, back to whatever she was looking at in front of her.
Mind your own business. It’s better that way.
These thoughts about Anya are sending me into a quickly spiraling rage.
I don’t want to think about her wearing that dress at a bar. I don’t want to think about other men looking at her—or about her enjoying the attention. I don’t want to think about who she’s been with these past five years of her life since she ditched me with such cruel disinterest in what she put me through.
I don’t want to be turned on by her to the point where I can barely think.
She takes her time in the cubicle, just pushing me closer and closer to losing my temper with her.
I pace up and down inside the store. It’s a small, cramped boutique, wall to wall rails of dresses and sexy outfits. Every one of them would look incredible on her.
I get impatient and go outside to pace outside the doors where the annoying cashier can’t nervously glance at me anymore.
Anya can’t leave any way but through these doors, so I’m not worried about losing her in there, but I want to leave. Now.
I hate malls. I hate shopping. I hate being out in the open with her like this.
She claims to be smart enough to take care of herself, yet here she is again, alone, not a care in the world for the risks she’staken. And on top of that, she’s pissing off the one person who can keep her safe.
Maybe I should have just left her here to fend for herself.
I snort, knowing I could never do that.
As many times as I’ve envisioned ending her life, it was because of the pain of how much I loved her, and I would never truly be able to hurt her.
Not physically.
A mischievous thought flashes through my mind.
I would hurt her physically, but she’d have to beg me for it. She used to love it.I wonder if she’s still into that.
Finally, Anya comes out, carrying a white paper bag, slung over her arm.
“You didn’t?” I snap, angrily.
“Actually, I did. I got it in pinkandin black. Looks like I’ll need to go outtwiceto show it off,” she huffs, pouting those gorgeous lips at me and raising her brows, daring me to argue more.
“You’re so fucking clueless, girl,” I growl at her, my anger reaching boiling point. “You’re so naive, utterly blind to the world around you. What do you think will happen if you wear that dress, Anya?”
The truth is, she’ll be adored. She’ll be the center of attention. She’ll be spoiled and gushed over. And I hate the thought of every single one of those things happening.
She was mine. No one else was ever allowed to touch her.
“If I wear the dress? What will happen if I wear this? I can answer that—I’ll feelbeautiful. That’s what will happen. AndI have every right to feel pretty, Emmanuil,” she snaps at me, spinning on her heel to walk away.
I shouldlether walk away. But I can’t. I should leave this alone. Take her home. Stop this childish argument.
