Page 5 of The Pakhan's Kidnapped Bride

“Get those fucking papers ready. Let’s get this over with,” I bark. He jumps, scrambling into action.

This isn’t the plan.

This isn’t the plan.

What are you doing?

I shove the voice of reason aside and lean down to grab Anya’s arm. My fingers wrap tightly around her as I pull her from the sofa.

Her eyes shoot wide when she sees the knife in my hand.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Anya, and I won’t have to as long as you obey me.”

“Emmanuil, please, just tell me what’s going on,” she begs.

I hold the knife beneath her chin, and the darkness swimming through my mind as I stare into her golden-brown eyes is terrifying.

She freezes as the silver blade touches her skin.

“Not a word,” I warn her.

Her eyes shine bright as she stands her ground in silence.

I grab her wrist and slip the knife between the restraints, binding them together. In one swift motion, I cut away the duct tape, and her hands are free.

I can smell her. Her skin. Her scent. The fresh salt of her sweat from fighting against my men when they took her. It’s intoxicating.

I tug her closer to me and lean down, my face inches from hers.

I hear her take in a sharp breath as her lips part.

“Do as you’re told, Anya. This will be over soon.”

Chapter 2 - Anya

“Emmanuil, please, just tell me what’s going on.” My voice sounds strong, even, and calm, but my body is on fire with fear and confusion. I haven’t seen him in years. I don’t want him to know the effect this moment is having on me.

I’m in complete and utter shock. My hands are shaking as I clasp them tightly together to try and hide it.

His eyes are cold and void as he stares down at me. I can’t read his expression. I used to be so good at reading the slightest flicker on his face.

When three men rushed into Georgie’s dorm room, where I was waiting to surprise her after her trip to visit my brother, I was terrified. I had no idea what was going on. I even threw her massive psychology textbooks at one of them and managed to split open the skin of his cheeks with one of the corners. I put up the best fight I could, but one girl against three men—it was hardly a fair fight at all.

They gagged me and tied me up and threw a hood over my face. I screamed against it, but there was no point. Everything was muffled; every breath I took was dusty from the fabric of the hood.

The man who smells like cigarette smoke, Logan—I think that’s what Emmanuil called him—carried me without an ounce of care or finesse. I’m sure my ribs and hips are bruised from being slung over his shoulder like that.

The entire time, my mind was racing, screaming, desperate to know what was going on. But when they took the hood off a few moments ago, the last person on the planet that I expected to be staring at washim.

He hasn’t changed.

Except he has.

His eyes are cold and dangerous.

As dark green as they always were, but there’s something missing.

Love. The gentleness that he used to have whenever he looked at me.