Page 36 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

“So what, I’m just supposed to stay with you forever now?” I ask, incredulous.

“For now,” he says simply. “Look, while we’re together, I’m not your family’s enemy. But the second you step away from me, all bets are off.”

It’s a threat wrapped in logic. And the worst part? I get it.

I turn back to the window, watching clouds drift beneath us. My life has been reduced to a series of cages—my family’s lies, Trifon’s marriage.

“I hate you,” I say quietly.

“I know.”

“I hate them too.”

He doesn’t respond to that, just watches me with those intense blue eyes.

The rest of the flight passes in silence. By the time we land in Boston, exhaustion has seeped into my bones. I follow Trifon to the waiting car, too drained to fight anymore.

Boston feels different now. The city I’d chosen to escape to, to build my own life in—it was never really my choice at all, was it?

We drive toward Trifon’s mansion. I should be planning my escape. Should be figuring out how to break free of this marriage, this man, this life.

But where would I go? Back to New York, to face my lying family? Back to the hospital, where my boss buys illegal drugs from my father?

Maybe Trifon’s gilded cage is as good as any other.

The car pulls up to the house. I step out, the cool Boston air a welcome shock to my system.

“I need to sleep,” I mutter as we enter the foyer.

“Go ahead,” Trifon nods toward the stairs. “I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”

I make it three steps toward the stairs before the front door slams open with a violent crack.

Both Trifon and I whip around.

Valentin barrels inside, his arms full—and my stomach turns.

A woman.

Cradled against his chest, blood pouring down her leg and arms, staining her jeans, soaking into her sleeves.

Chapter 10 - Trifon

The door slams open so hard it rattles the hinges.

“Trifon!” Valentin’s voice is hoarse, panicked. He’s carrying someone—arms full of blood and limp limbs—and for a split second, my heart stops cold.

Then I see her face.

Nadya.

Our little sister.

“What the hell has she done now?” I bark, rushing toward them. My stomach flips. Her jeans are soaked through, her arms scraped raw, and her temple is streaked with blood and dirt.

“She raced motorcycles against a couple of guys,” Valentin pants. “Flipped the damn thing.”

“Jesus Christ, Nadya,” I snap, rage and terror choking me all at once. “You’re in college, not the cast ofFast and Furious.What the hell were you thinking?”