Page 71 of The Pakhan's Captive
The ride home is charged with a tension we aren’t naming. It’s not just the sex, and it’s not just the fear. It’s the realization that we are walking into a storm and the only thing we have to hold onto is each other—the man who took everything and the woman who has everything to lose.
“St. Petersburg is going to be a bloodbath, isn’t it?” she asks against my chest.
“Probably,” I admit.
“Good,” she says, her voice hardening, the survivor re-emerging. “I’m tired of playing defense.”
I close my eyes, breathing her in. I’m the Pakhan. I’m the most dangerous thing in the woods. But as the car stops and the silence of the compound swallows us, I realize that the danger isn’t out there in the snow. It’s right here, in my arms, and I’m the one who taught her how to sharpen the blade.
20
LENA
The Russian landscape is a blurred streak of skeletal birches and gray slush against the window of the Maybach. We’ve been on the road for hours, the silence inside the car heavy enough to choke on. Razvan is buried in his phone, his thumb tapping out commands that likely decide the survival of men I’ll never meet. His face is a mask of Siberian granite.
I shift my gaze to the rearview mirror. I catch Mike’s eyes for a split second before he looks back at the road.
Mike doesn’t talk much. He’s one of Razvan’s shadows, a silent fixture of my captivity. But my heart softens every time I look at the back of his head. I remember the dungeon, the cold, damp stone and the way the dark felt like it was eating me alive. Mike was the one who brought me bread. He was the one who whispered that I needed to eat if I wanted to stay strong.
In this world of monsters, he feels like the older brother I never had—a silent sentinel who saw me at my lowest and didn’t look away.
I want to thank him. I want to reach forward and squeeze his shoulder, to tell him that I haven’t forgotten. But Razvan is sitting three inches away, and gratitude is a weakness I can’t afford to broadcast. So I just watch the road and pray that Lyosha is holding the line back at the estate. Every time I think of Theo, my stomach knots.
“Stop biting your lip, Lena,” Razvan says, not lifting his eyes from the screen. “You’ll draw blood.”
“I’ll do what I want with my lips, Razvan.”
He finally looks at me, his dark eyes tracking the movement of my mouth with a slow, predatory focus. “We’re twenty minutes out. Adjust your disposition. The Yusupovs were one thing; the St. Petersburg circle is a different breed of vulture. They don’t just want power; they want to see if we’re worthy of it.”
“I’m thrilled,” I deadpan.
When we pull up to the hotel, it’s like a Czar’s fever dream. Gold leaf, vaulted ceilings, and more marble than a cathedral. The staff bows so low I’m surprised they don’t hit the floor.
The lobby is filled with the elite of the northern families. Men in wool coats worth more than a Moscow apartment, women draped in furs that look like they’re still breathing. We are immediately intercepted by Arkady Volkov—a distant cousin with eyes like a shark—and a small entourage of his lieutenants.
“Razvan,” Arkady says, his voice a smooth, oily purr. “The city has been buzzing since your motorcade crossed the city limits. We have much to discuss before the charity gala tomorrow night. The shipping manifests from the Baltic ports are…complicated.”
“Complications are just opportunities for better oversight, Arkady,” Razvan replies, his voice like a blade wrapped in velvet.
Arkady tilts his head, eyeing me with a patronizing smirk. “And this is the prize? She’s a beautiful thing, Razvan. But the Sokolova blood…it’s tainted now, isn’t it? After the father’s little accounting errors? Some say a Pakhan’s wife should bring a cleaner lineage to the table. A bit of legitimacy goes a long way when the crown is still new.”
I feel the air leave the room. I expect Razvan to make a political retort, to weave some clever lie about my father’s loyalty.
Instead, Razvan moves so fast it’s a blur.
He doesn’t draw a weapon. He simply steps into Arkady’s personal space, his hand snapping out to grip the man’s throat. He slams him back against the mahogany wainscoting with a thud that rattles the crystal glasses on a nearby tray.
“Razvan!” someone gasps, but no one moves.
Razvan leans in, his face inches from Arkady’s. His voice is a low, terrifying growl that isn’t performed for an audience—it’s pure, unadulterated violence. “If you ever speak her father’s name with that filth in your mouth again, I will peel the skin from your face and gift it to the Neva. She is the Pakhan’s wife. Her legitimacy is defined by my word, and my word is law. Do you understand, or do I need to start carving the lesson into your chest?”
Arkady gurgles, his face turning a mottled purple. He nods frantically.
Razvan lets go, and the man slumps to the floor, coughing. Razvan doesn’t even look back. He adjusts his suit jacket,smooths his tie, and looks at me. “We’re done here. Let’s go to the room. We have a gala to prepare for tomorrow, and I won’t have our time wasted by fools.”
I walk beside him in a daze. I’ve seen him be protective before, but that…that was different. It wasn’t a strategy. It was a man reacting to an insult against something he considershis. I hate him. I know I hate him. But my heart is hammering against my ribs, and it’s not from fear.
We reach the suite. It’s massive. A sprawling expanse of velvet, silk, and a view of the city that’s worth more than my life.
