Page 72 of The Pakhan's Kidnapped Bride
Cocking my head to the side, I listen for any signs of where she might be. Maybe in the kitchen, making coffee? Or the bathroom, showering?
But I don’t hear a thing.
It’s a big house. Don’t panic. She’s here.
Kicking the blankets off, I stretch my legs as I stand up, flexing my arms over my head and groaning as my body comes awake.
I find my pants, discarded in a pile of crumpled clothes the night before, and slip them on before I head downstairs to look for her.
Walking through the house, I can feel it, though.
It’s an energy thing. She’s so radiant that her energy fills spaces. And it feels absent now. My heart begins to sink when I walk into the kitchen and she’s not here, either.
But the stark, white piece of paper next to the coffee machine is glaring at me from the doorway.
Folded into four.
It’s sitting there with my name written in neat, feminine bubble-looking letters. I touch it to see if it’s real, and my heart sinks lower.
She’s obviously not here.
And I’m not sure I want to know what’s written in this letter.
I turn away from it, heading back upstairs.
I climb into the shower, thinking about it, but trying not to.
I scrub my body as though I’m trying to scrub away the knowledge that the letter exists. Because somehow, accepting it is also me accepting that she might be gone forever.
The water runs too hot, turning my skin red and making me dizzy with heat. Blood pumping in my ears, silencing my other thoughts.
But I can’t stay in here forever. And no matter what I do, that letter will still be waiting for me downstairs, neatly folded with bubble letters, right next to the coffee machine.
I climb out and dry off. In the bathroom mirror, my reflection stares back at me, with dark eyes and an unshaved face, my mouth set in a hard line. Stressed.
I get dressed and brush my hair back with my fingers.
I go downstairs and stand next to the coffee machine, refusing to acknowledge the letter as I make a cup of coffee.
Behind me, Logan knocks on the kitchen door and steps inside. “Sir, I have the morning’s report for you.”
“Leave it on the counter,” I snap.
I hear him moving behind me. He sets it down right next to the letter.
For a moment, he stares at it.
“Was there anything else?” I growl at him, shooting a piercing glare in his direction.
“No, sir,” he stammers, backing away, leaving the kitchen.
I finish making my coffee and pick it up. Without looking at the letter or the report, I pick them both up and carry them upstairs to the library.
All of her special books line the shelves around me.
I sit on the armchair in the corner by the window and set my coffee down on a small table.
With a heavy sigh, I toss the report aside and hold her letter in my hands, rubbing my fingers over the crisp, folded page.
