Page 83 of The Pakhan's Captive
“You are the only thing that makes sense,” he whispers, his lips traveling down the center of my chest. “The only thing that isn’t a lie.”
When he enters me, it isn’t a claim. It’s a homecoming. It’s slow, rhythmic, and agonizingly deep. I wrap my legs around his waist, my heels digging into his glutes, pulling him as deep as he can go. Every thrust is a vibration of sensation that travels from my core to my toes, turning my bones to liquid.
I watch his face. He is grit-toothed, his eyes locked on mine, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. I can see the flicker of pain when he moves too far to the left, but he doesn’t stop. He is focused on me—on the way my breath hitches, on the way my eyes roll back, on the way I am falling apart beneath him.
“Look at me, Lena,” he rasps, his hands pinning mine to the pillows. “Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m here,” I sob, my climax beginning to build in a terrifying, tidal wave of heat. “Razvan…I’m here.”
It’s enough for him. He picks up the pace, his breathing turning into a rhythmic, animalistic grunt. The friction is perfect, the heat is absolute, and when I finally break, screaming his name into the quiet room, he follows me. He buries his face in my neck, his body shuddering with a release that feels like it’s tearing him apart, his internal muscles clenching around me in a desperate, final hold.
We lie there as the sun begins to bleed over the horizon, painting the room in shades of violet and gold.
I wait for the guilt to come. I wait for the nausea to return, for the memory of my father to scream in my ears. But as I look at Razvan—now truly asleep, his face peaceful for the first time since I met him—all I feel is a profound, terrifying clarity.
I can’t make this mean nothing.
I stand up, my body aching in a way that feels like a reminder of every moment we just shared. I walk to the window and watch the sun rise over the Moscow skyline.
I’m going to go see Theo now. I’m going to be a mother. I’m going to live the life I’ve been given.
I look back at the man in the bed. The monster. The protector. The husband.
I don’t hate him. God help me, I don’t hate him at all.
And as I walk out of the room, I stop trying to pretend I do. The Republic has fallen. And for the first time, I think I might actually be free.
25
RAZVAN
The cold side of the bed hits me before I even open my eyes.
I reach out, my palm sliding over the silk sheets, searching for the heat of her skin, but there is only a lingering scent of peonies and the fading indentation of her head on the pillow. The room is still bathed in the blue, ghostly light of four in the morning. My heart skips a beat. Since St. Petersburg, my internal alarm is wired to the sound of breaking glass and gunfire, but the house is silent. Too silent.
I’m out of bed in a second, not bothering with a robe or shoes. I’m halfway down the hall toward the nursery before my brain even catches up with my feet. Every shadow looks like an intruder; every creak of the floorboards sounds like a threat. I push the door to Theo’s room open so hard it hits the stopper with a dull thud.
“Lena?” My voice is a low, jagged rasp.
She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, her back to me. The small lamp on the nightstand is dimmed, casting a pale yellow glow over the scene. She doesn’t jump. She doesn’t even turn around.She’s leaning over Theo, her hand moving in a slow, rhythmic circle on his chest.
“He’s burning up, Razvan,” she whispers.
I move to the bedside, my lungs suddenly feeling like they’ve been filled with wet sand. I look down at him. Theo’s face isn’t pale anymore. It’s a deep, terrifying crimson. His curls are matted to his forehead with sweat, and his breathing is coming in short, wet gasps that rattle in his tiny chest.
“What do you mean, burning up?” I ask. I reach down, my large hand covering his entire forehead.
The heat is a physical shock. It’s like touching the hood of a car in the middle of a July afternoon. My skin stings from the contact. I pull my hand back as if I’ve been branded, my heart slamming against my ribs so hard it hurts.
“How hot is he? Did you check the numbers? Where is the tool?” I start looking around the room, my movements jerky and uncoordinated. I’m the Pakhan. I coordinate hits on three continents. I manage millions of dollars in untraceable assets. But right now, I can’t remember where the fuck we keep the thermometer.
“I checked, Razvan. It’s 103.5F,” Lena says. Her voice is steady, but I can hear the strain in it. “I’ve already given him the medicine, but it hasn’t started working yet.”
“103…39C?” I shout the number, the sound echoing off the walls. “That’s too high. That’s—his brain will fry, Lena. We have to do something. Why are you just sitting there? We need a doctor. No, I’m calling the chief of pediatrics at the state hospital. I’ll have them fly a specialist in.”
“Razvan, breathe,” she says, finally looking at me. Her eyes are tired, rimmed with red. “It’s a fever. Children get fevers.”
“Not like this,” I snap, already reaching for the phone on the wall. My fingers are shaking. I can’t even hit the right buttons for the internal line to the security gate. “He’s shaking. Look at his hands, Lena. Why are his hands shaking? Is he having a seizure? Is he dying?”
