Page 3 of The Pakhan's Kidnapped Bride

The coffee mug is hot in my fingers as I take my first sip.

Perfect. Sweet, dark and strong.

My late lunch is the same thing I have most days. Roast chicken, fresh vegetables, and boiled eggs. Boring, perhaps, but what do I care? Protein. It’s what counts. There are very few things that bring me pleasure in this world. I eat to live. Not for fun.

I clean my plate, devouring everything on it because it’s calculated by my chef to fulfill my body’s needs. Planned. Strict. Monotonous.

While I eat, I think about everything that is about to happen.

There are still a few things to finalize, so after lunch I phone Rafael Sanchez, a sleazy lawyer who will make anything happen if you have enough money to offer him—but aren’t they all on the sleazy side? I’ve yet to meet a decent one, one that turned down money in favor of morals.

It’s good for me. I’m not complaining.

“Sanchez, it’s happening tonight. I’ll bring the girl to your office sometime around ten,” I say sternly.

“I’ll be here. I’ve drawn up the blank document. It’s all ready and waiting,” he says with a smile in his voice. He’s making enough money off this, of course, he’ll be smiling.

At nine, I get confirmation from Logan that the men are at the dorm, hiding. Undercover.

At nine fifteen, I get confirmation that the girl has arrived early.

By nine twenty-three, they have her. She put up one hell of a fight, but they managed to silence her with duct tape and get her into the trunk of the car without being seen.

Now, it’s almost ten.

I’m at the lawyer’s office. Waiting.

I hate waiting.

Sanchez is pacing back and forth behind his desk. He keeps looking at his watch as though he has somewhere more important to be.

“Sit the fuck down, Sanchez,” I snarl.

He sits down immediately and mutters, “My wife made lasagna. She hates when I’m late.”

“Buy your wife a new Gucci. She’ll forget all about it,” I say sarcastically.

He presses his lips together and sets his hands on the desk in front of him, silenced.

The door to his office bursts open, and Logan comes in, followed by two other men. The girl thrown over Logan’s shoulder is still fighting, kicking, and moaning against the tape over her mouth.

Logan grunts and drops her onto the sofa in the corner of Sanchez’s office.

“Don’t put her shoes on the leather,” he groans.

I shoot him one warning glance and he shuts up again.

Standing up, I walk towards the sofa and grab the corner of the hood they’d thrown over her face.

The thing is, I know even before I pull it off.

The moment she rolled over the sofa to try and sit up, I saw her body. I’ve explored every inch of that perfection. I’d know her anywhere.

But somehow my brain didn’t want to believe it, and I had to see her face with my own eyes to confirm it.

I toss the hood away and stare in disbelief at Anya.

His sister.