Page 45 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

He chuckles under his breath. “Come on.” He leads me away from the crowd until we end up in a quieter corner of the ballroom, near a massive window that overlooks the garden. The hum of the party fades behind us.

“Better?” he asks.

I nod, exhaling. “Thank you. I was starting to feel like a very well-dressed deer in headlights.”

“Are you always this social?” he asks, leaning against the wall beside me.

I laugh. “God, no. I haven’t been to anything like this in years.”

“You don’t like parties?”

“I don’t have time. I spend most of my nights elbow-deep in charts or talking to nurses about bed shortages.”

“Sounds thrilling.”

“Infinitely.”

He grins, then leans closer. “So you’re saying this isn’t your scene?”

“I’m saying I’m trying not to trip in these heels and bring shame to your entire bloodline.”

That gets a real laugh from him, low and husky. “You could show up in combat boots and still outshine everyone here.”

My cheeks flush. “Careful. You’ll make me think you’re capable of being nice.”

“I’m not nice,” he says softly. “But I’m honest. For the sake of honesty, what are you thinking right now?”

“I’m thinking I’m not used to any of this,” I say. “I haven’t been to a party in years. I work nights, days, sometimes both. Haven’t exactly had time to sip champagne and make small talk with random strangers, let alone...” My voice trails off.

“Let alone?” his eyes pull me in as he leans closer to hear what I have to say.

“Criminals,” I whisper, flinching, for I know it sounds like an insult.

To my surprise, he laughs. The kind of laugh that makes my toes curl. Just then, I realize how close we stand. His body shields me from the crowd. If I take one step back, and he takes one forward, I’ll be at his mercy.

“That’s probably why you’re still sane,” he chuckles.

My heart races. “You think this is me sane?”

He leans in, voice low. “If this is you losing it, I think I like it.”

The air shifts—sharp, charged. I glance away, heart kicking harder in my chest.

“Besides,” I say, trying to bring the conversation back to safer ground, “I worked hard to get there. Mass Gen isn’t exactly a walk in the park.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “I looked it up.”

That draws my attention. “You Googled my hospital?”

“I Googled you,” he whispers, his eyes shifting between mine. “After the wedding. Wanted to know what I married.”

“And?” My voice is hoarse. “What did you find?”

He studies me for a long moment. “Someone who’s too good for this room.”

My mouth goes dry.

There’s no teasing in his voice now—just sincerity, a quiet intensity that makes my stomach flutter. For a second, the ballroom, the lies, the past—it all fades.