Page 16 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

“They weren’t my friends,” he says coolly. “They were trying to kill me. And you, by association.”

“I wasn’t associated with you!” I shout, fully losing it now. “I was minding my own business until you dragged me into your psychotic turf war!”

He pulls up to a red light and turns to face me fully. The intensity in his gaze pins me to the seat. “You became involved the moment you helped my brother.”

“I was doing my job!”

“And now I’m doing mine.”

The light changes, and he accelerates smoothly, navigating through Boston’s busy streets like he owns them. Maybe he does, for all I know.

“Let me out,” I try again, hating how desperate I sound. “Please. I won’t say anything. I haven’t told anyone about what happened.”

“I know,” he says calmly. “If you had, we’d be having a very different conversation.”

Is that a threat? It feels like one. My hands start to tremble, and I clench them into fists to hide it.

“You’re going to get me fired!” I cry out in real fear.

“I’ll deal with it.”

“You’re insane!”

“Possibly,” he grins and gives me a wink.

A real wink.

“You can’t do this,” I snap, twisting in my seat, shoving at his arm. It’s like pushing a brick wall. “I’ll report you. I’ll—”

“To whom?” His eyes cut to mine, sharp, glinting with dark amusement. “More importantly, how? In case you didn’t notice, sweetheart, you’re in my car and at my mercy.”

My throat tightens, heat rushing up my neck.

“You’re crazy,” I hiss, trying the door again. Locked. Of course. “I’ll scream—”

“Go ahead.” His knuckles tighten on the wheel. “No one’s listening.”

The car jerks forward, weaving down the alley, cutting through traffic. Every block that passes knots my stomach tighter.

“Where are you taking me?” My voice cracks, panic bleeding through the bravado now.

“Someplace quiet.” His eyes flick to me, dark, steady. “You want to yell? We’ll do it there.”

My mouth dries out. I press back against the seat, heart pounding against my ribs, counting every second, every turn, every exit we pass.

It doesn’t take long.

Ten minutes later, we’re in an underground lot—empty, concrete walls pressing in, the hum of distant traffic muffled by layers of stone.

The car stops. My fingers curl into fists as he kills the engine, turns toward me.

“Out,” he orders.

“Like hell.”

Trifon leans closer, his arm braced along the back of my seat, caging me in. His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “You can get out on your own, or I can carry you. Your choice, Doctor.”

The heat of him, the scent of leather and danger, and that maddening calm—my pulse stumbles. I glare at him, hatred burning through my veins. But I open the door and step out, dignity intact. For now.