Page 58 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

Inside, it’s low-lit and hushed—polished mahogany floors, candlelight flickering in antique sconces, velvet booths that muffle sound. The maître d’ sees me and immediately straightens like someone stuck a rod up his spine.

“Mr. Yuri,” he breathes, bowing slightly.

Yulia’s fingers twitch where they rest on her clutch.

“Jesus,” she mutters under her breath. “What are you, in a boy band or something?”

I smirk. “You didn’t know? We call ourselves NslayNC.”

She actually laughs at that—loud, sudden, completely unguarded. And fuck me if it doesn’t slide straight down my spine.

“Right this way, Sir,” the host says. People are watching us. Some discreetly. Some not. One older man stands to shake my hand before I pass his table. Yulia’s eyes go wide.

“Okay, now it’s giving celebrity chef vibes,” she whispers.

I lean in just enough for her to feel the heat of my breath on her ear. “Would that make you my sous-chef or dessert?”

She straightens fast, eyes narrowing. “I swear to God—”

But she’s smiling. And blushing.

The host leads us behind a heavy velvet curtain, revealing a private booth tucked into the corner. The wine cart’s alreadywaiting, and the lighting here is even lower—just one golden pool of glow between us.

She pauses at the entrance to the room. Her posture shifts slightly as she straightens her shoulders. She’s playing it cool, but I see it. The flicker of discomfort in her eyes.

She moves to slide into the chair I lead her to, but her heel catches the edge of the carpet.

She stumbles forward.

I catch her instantly—my hands on her waist, her body colliding with mine in one soft thud.

For a second, she just…stays there. Pressed against me.

Her breath catches. Her chest brushes mine. My hands flex on instinct, feeling the curve of her hips beneath the fabric of that fucking lethal dress.

“You good?” I murmur, voice low and rough.

Her eyes flash up to meet mine. A little startled. A little too aware. “Fine.”

I don’t let go right away. Not until I feel her pulse flutter under my palm.

When I do let go, it’s slow.

She slides into her seat with more caution, cheeks flushed, lips parted. I follow, adjusting my cuffs like I didn’t just have a full-body fantasy about bending her over this table.

“Is this too much?” I ask her, waving off the waiter.

“No…it’s lovely,” she says, after a quick beat.

I pour her some wine and hand her the menu.

“You pick the starters,” I say casually, settling across from her.

She blinks. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Go wild.”

Her fingers tighten on the leather-bound menu. “Men don’t usually let me order.”