Page 9 of The Pakhan's Kidnapped Bride
I’m still wearing yesterday’s jeans and T-shirt when I make my way downstairs, the same outfit I was taken in, and the same outfit I slept in last night. I brushed my hair, made it neat, and washed my face, so I look decent enough—but I couldn’t find the willpower to make myself at home, so to speak, choosing a fresh outfit from the closet in that room.
It was obviously prepared for Georgie. And until I know in my heart she is going to be safe, I won’t settle in or play this game.
Outside the kitchen, I pause, tilting my head to the side, my heart racing wildly. I hear his movements, and I know it’s him because his cologne is so familiar. Why does it still send me spiraling? My body is still sparking with desire at the scent of him. I bite my lower lip hard enough to hurt, forcing myself to focus. My heart is racing, and my head is spinning as I step through the kitchen door.
He’s standing at the coffee machine wearing nothing but a pair of black sweatpants. My throat goes tight, and my skin heats with desire. Fuck. He’s fucking gorgeous. Muscles ripple across his back in thick strands as he reaches for a coffee mug from the cabinet above him.
Oh my word—he’s divine.
I close my eyes, fighting for self-control. I take another step, further into the kitchen.
“Emmanuil, we need to talk,” I say with as much confidence as I can muster.
He turns slowly, taking all the time in the world.
He leans his ass against the kitchen counter and folds his thick, toned arms across his perfectly sculpted chest.
“Is that so?” he asks, his voice deep and quiet.
Dangerous.He’s definitely dangerous.
His eyes drift slowly up and down my body and narrow as they lock with mine. No smile. No hint of kindness. Not even a flicker that suggests he’s pleased to see me in any way whatsoever.
I clench my jaw and nod.Stay firm, be brave.“Yes, we definitely need to talk.”
Chapter 3 - Emmanuil
She tilts her chin up, defiance in her eyes, her mouth set, pouting, and her cheeks sucked in ever so slightly.
Her brown eyes look fierce.
She looks gorgeous. Her lashes catch the light, golden-brown hair framing golden-brown eyes. She’s braided her long, wavy hair over her shoulder in a loose plait. She’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes. I remember, because that top clings tightly to her perfect breasts, and those jeans hug her ass and long, willowy legs.
I suppress the growl of desire that rumbles in my throat.
She betrayed you.
I let my eyes wander over her, studying her stance, her expression, the jut of her hip, and the tension in her shoulders. Gorgeous. Everything about her is gorgeous.
Cocking my head to the side, for the first time since seeing her again, a smile touches my lips. Whatever she wants to say, she’s standing her ground with it. Boldly. She’s always been a strong woman, fierce and capable. It’s one of the many things I love about her.Loved.Loved until she destroyed my entire world.The smile disappears.
“Alright, Anya. What do you want to talk about?” I ask, not moving. My arms are still folded over my chest as I stare down at her, doing my best to ignore her beauty.
“Don’t go after Georgie. Leave her alone. You took the wrong girl, but we can still make this work.”
I snort with laughter. “Who says I took the wrong girl?” I ask, surprised that she’s worked it out so quickly. I shouldn’t be; she’s sharp.
She ignores my question.
“I won’t tell my family about what you’ve done. Between you and me, we can come up with some kind of reason or excuse for what happened here. I won’t attempt to escape, and more importantly, I will refrain from searching for incriminating evidence that my family can use against you.”
I press my lips together, amused that she feels she has any power in this moment. She’s my prisoner. I’m holding all the cards. If I don’t want her searching for evidence, I can lock her away. If I want to take the other girl, I can take her. Anya doesn’t have leverage in this deal she’s proposing, but still, I’m intrigued.
“And in exchange for you doing all of that, you want me to leave Georgie alone?” I ask with disinterest.
“And my brother.”
“Mm. You’re asking a lot,” I sigh.
