Page 41 of The Pakhan's Kidnapped Bride

A shower is a good place to start.

I drag myself towards the bathroom, peeling off my bra and kicking off my panties. I climb under a hot spray of water. I smell like fruit and sunblock. It could be worse.

When I wash my hair, I massage my fingers into my scalp, kneading away the pulsing ache. It’s helping. Between that and the painkillers, I’m thirty percent less dying by the time I get out of the shower.

I no longer feel like my head is going to explode or like I want to vomit whenever I move.

Thank goodness.

Please let Emmanuil be at the office today. Please let me not have to face him.

Food. That’s what will fix the rest of this hangover. Maybe some bacon on toast. My stomach churns. No. No bacon.

A waffle with butter.

Ice cream?

Did something happen with ice cream?

Groaning, I wish I could remember, but dread knowing anything.

I find the softest short, cotton dress in my closet and slip it over my body. I clip my dried hair into a high bun and dab cream onto my face.

“Okay, I look almost human,” I say to my reflection in the mirror.

I don’t feel it, but at least I look it.

I’m about to sneak downstairs to see if I can find a quick snack without being spotted when my phone rings.

It makes me jump, and I have to fish it out of my purse, where I left it last night.

“Kris,” I say cheerfully, pressing the phone against my ear.

“Hey kiddo, how is my little sister doing out there in the great big world? How’s your vacation going?”

“It’s great,” I say, massaging my temples. “I’m having so much fun. I made some new friends, and we might go spend the day shopping today,” I say, hating the fact that I am keeping secrets from him. But I have to. Keeping them safe is all that matters.

“I don’t understand you girls and shopping. Doesn’t it ever get boring?” he teases me.

“Never. A girl can never have too many new pairs of socks,” I laugh.

He cracks up laughing, too. “Yes, socks, of course.”

I miss him so much. Hearing his voice has my heart aching for home. My throat closes a little, and I swallow away a lump of emotion.

“Well, I just wanted to check in, kid. Behave yourself. Let me know when you’re going to be home.”

“I’m not sure yet, but when I decide, I’ll message you,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t give away my homesickness.

“Chat soon.”

“Bye.”

I hang up and stare at my phone for a long time. I can’t keep lying. I can’t keep this story going forever either. At some point, Kristopher will get suspicious, and everything will come crashing down.

Between the hangover and my surge of emotion after talking to my brother, I decide I can’t risk going downstairs, because I definitely can’t face anyone. I curl up on my bed and close my eyes, drifting back to sleep again.

It turns out that sleep is the best cure for a hangover, because when I woke up late in the afternoon to my phone ringing again, I hardly had a headache anymore, and my stomach was somewhat settled.