Page 102 of The Pakhan's Captive
“He has a folder, Nadia. A digital, encrypted folder on his phone,” I say, waving my glass for emphasis. “It’s labeled‘Project Lily.’It has spreadsheets for my hydration, a GPS tracker on my vitamins, and three different alarm settings for my nap times. I feel like a high-security asset, not a wife. It’s not a ‘happily ever after,’ it’s a ‘frustrated ever after.’”
“You’re glowing while you complain, you know,” Nadia points out, her eyes softening. She steps forward, touching my shoulder. “I look at you sometimes and I can’t believe it. After the dungeon, after Viktor, I didn’t think a man like Razvan was capable of this kind of softness. You did this to him, Lena. You turn a wolf into a sentinel.”
I scoff, though the heat in my cheeks has nothing to do with the cellar’s temperature. “I don’t turn him into anything. He’s just obsessive. It’s a personality flaw.”
“It’s a miracle,” she whispers.
We stay there for a few more minutes, hiding in the cool dark, sharing the kind of quiet peace that feels stolen. But eventually, the kickboxing in my womb demands a change of scenery. I grunt, bracing my hands on my knees to stand.
“Alright,” I pant, waddling toward the stairs. “The coast should be clear. He has a meeting with the Helsinki family at two. That should buy us?—”
I push open the heavy cellar door and stop dead.
Shit.
Razvan is standing in the corridor. He doesn’t have his jacket on. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing the dark ink of the tattoos that mark him as the Pakhan. His arms are crossed over his broad chest, his head tilted, and his dark eyes are narrowed into two dangerous slits.
“Oh,” I say, offering a sheepish, dimpled grin. “Hello, stranger. Done with the Finns already?”
“The Finns left twenty minutes ago,” Razvan rumbles, his voice like rolling thunder. “I have spent those twenty minutes calling your phone. I have searched the gardens, the nursery, and the library. Why are you in the basement, Lena?”
“I was…auditing the vintage,” I lie badly.
“You were hiding,” he counters, stepping into my space. He doesn’t look angry. He looks frantic, that familiar ‘pregnancy-panic’ simmering just beneath his skin. He reaches out, his large hand instantly finding the small of my back to steady me. “You need to drink water. The doctor says hydration is paramount for the third trimester. You’ve been off the grid for an hour. Do you feel faint? Is the baby moving?”
I roll my eyes, leaning my head back against his shoulder with a loving groan. “Razvan, I have drunk enough water to fill a swimming pool. If I drink any more, I will float away. And yes, the baby is moving. He’s currently trying to exit through my spine because he’s annoyed his father is hovering again.”
“I am not hovering,” he snaps, even as he reaches for a glass of water a maid is conveniently carrying past. He takes it and holds it to my lips. “Drink.”
“You have a thousand alerts on your phone for my bladder, Razvan! You are stressing me out!” I scold him, though I take a sip just to appease the madness in his eyes. “Look at you. You’re the most feared man in Russia and you’re vibrating because I take a nap in the cellar.”
“I am protecting my interests,” he growls, but he leans down, pressing a hard, lingering kiss to my temple. “You are my heart, Lena. If anything happens to you because I am not watching?—”
“Nothing is going to happen,” I whisper, softening. I reach up, smoothing the frown lines between his brows. “I’m strong. Remember?”
“Too strong,” he mutters. He takes my hand and guides me to the main floor.
The front door opens and closes, the sound of heavy boots echoing down the hall, followed by a familiar, boisterous laugh. I turn, my eyes widening in delight. “Lyosha!”
I don’t run—I can’t run if I wanted to—but I do a dignified waddle-sprint toward the man entering the foyer. Lyosha has been gone for a month on a mission in the north, his face now sporting a rugged beard and a new scar across his brow.
“Careful, little bird!” Lyosha laughs, catching me in a massive bear hug that manages to avoid my stomach. He smells of cold air and gunpowder. “God, Razvan, what are you feeding her? This Volkov baby is going to be a giant. He’s going to be taller than me by age ten.”
“He’s going to be a menace, just like his uncle,” Razvan says, stepping up behind me and reclaiming his position as my physical shadow.
Lyosha grins, clapping Razvan on the shoulder. “Good to be back, boss. The north is quiet. For now.”
His eyes drift past me, landing on Nadia. The air in the room suddenly changes. The jovial warmth vanishes, replaced by a sharp, electric tension. Lyosha’s eyes darken, his jaw tightening so hard I hear the bone click.
“Nadia,” he says, his voice dropping an octave.
Nadia doesn’t smile. She doesn’t even acknowledge the greeting. She just pulls her cardigan tighter around her shoulders, her face turning into a mask of cold indifference. “Excuse me,” she says softly. “I have things to attend to.”
She walks past him without a second glance. Lyosha doesn’t move, but his gaze follows her until she disappears around the corner, his hand twitching at his side as if he wants to reach out and stop her.
“What the—” I start, looking at Razvan. “What is that? Do I miss something? How do you two even know each other?”
Before I can demand an explanation, a blur of motion comes flying down the grand staircase. Theo, now five years old and carrying himself with the terrifying confidence of a prince, skids across the marble.
