Page 6 of The Pakhan's Kidnapped Bride
He’s hiding his emotions behind a wall of anger, visible in the muscles of his jaw as he clenches it shut. I swallow hard, fighting intense fear.
The knife in his hand is making me question everything.
He would never hurt you, Anya.
I don’t know that for certain.
I know what Bratva men are capable of. My father has always been a prime example of the evil in this underworld we live in.
I’ve never been afraid of Emmanuil, though—not of what he would do to me, but I know what he’s done to others.
I was never at risk of feeling the wrath of his capabilities, but that was then. And this is now. And I don’t know the man standing in front of me.
He lifts the knife slowly, pressing it against the soft skin beneath my chin. I hold my breath.
He looks the same. Pitch-black hair, just long enough to run my fingers through, a masculine, square jaw, shadowed with black stubble. Dark, but intense green eyes and the scar across his left eyebrow that only enhances his commanding stare.
He looks bigger, though. More solid, more muscular. He looks like he could snap me in half with one hand.
And with the darkness touching his eyes, it seems like he wants to.
My entire body is shivering now. What does he want with me? Why did he take me?
He’s even more gorgeous than the day I last saw him.
I open my mouth to say something, but he shakes his head.
“Not a word,” he growls in warning, his voice running over me like a drug, intoxicating, pulling memories to the surface that I’ve fought hard to push down. My heart stirs as his scent washes over me. He smells like pine trees after heavy rain. Like something wild and dangerous and beautiful.
I press my lips together and glare at him.Who the hell does he think he is?
But still, I find myself obeying him, not saying a word. It’s strange that even after all these years, my default reaction is to please him.
No, don’t be ridiculous, Anya. You’re not trying to please him, you’re trying to keep your cool until you can figure out what the hell is going on.
And he has a knife very close to my throat.
His fingers wrap around my wrist, and he pulls my bound hands up, then slips the knife between my wrists, and in a movement so fast I flinch in fright, he cuts away the restraints.
He pulls me close against his chest. An involuntary gasp escapes my lips, and my skin burns with desire.
“Do as you’re told, Anya. This will be over soon.”
What will be over?
I try to step away from him, to create some distance between us so that I can breathe and think and clear my head and stop this wild, urgent need that’s pulsing through my blood. But he refuses to let me go. He growls in anger and tugs me even tighter against his solid body.
“Did I say you could move?” he demands, loud and aggressive. I take a sharp breath in and feel my eyes flaring wider.
“No,” I murmur, realizing that Emmanuil is not the man I once knew. Not now, anyway. But he must be in there somewhere. The man I loved.Love.
Despite my best efforts to fight against it, a tear slips from my eye and rolls down my cheek. I don’t want to show weakness. I don’t want to show fear. Emmanuil sees it and reaches toward my face, moving slowly. He brushes the pad of his thumb over my cheek, wiping the tear away.
For the first time since he pulled the hood off my face, I see him as I remembered; I see his gentleness, the familiar gaze, the warmth. Then it’s gone, and instantly, I’m yearning to see it again.
I shake my head.Stop getting distracted. Figure out what’s going on so that you can escape.
Emmanuil seems angry that he let his mask slip. He sets it more firmly in place to hide any trace of kindness.
