Page 8 of Claimed By the Pakhan

“That’s a half hour away from the city in the middle of?—”

“The forest,” finishes Emil. “Yes. Well aware.”

My breath catches. Only people with something to hide live in the middle of the forest. Emil has trouble written in capital letters across his forehead.

Leaving civilization and being alone with this man is a murder story waiting to fucking happen, especially since I don’t even have autonomy over my own mind.

But what is the alternative? I return to my roots in Broadmoor and live with my father, who will welcome me back home with closed arms and a fist?

Both options seem they could violence, which means I must choose my violence.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“You don’t,” says Emil, stepping forward. “But you should listen to your body more. It might start to give you some answers.” He strokes my cheek, his rough finger causing shivers. “You always blush like this when you want me, spitfire.”

“I don’t want you.”

“Still a little stubborn thing, aren’t you?” he purrs, standing over me.

I swallow the boulder-sized lump in my throat, staring into his eyes. His body completely engulfs mine, shadows curling around the room as he blocks the light.

His face is full of mystery, the fine lines and gray hair roots indicating lots of life experience. He’s twice my fucking age, old enough to be my father, perhaps even slightly older.

He leans in, stroking his rough finger along my temple. By default, I melt into him. He appears to have his life together, and I could borrow some of his strength right now.

My heart drums in my throat, my thighs slippery underneath this hospital gown as I clench them together.

Emil places his hand over my stomach, and this time I actually let him. His warmth feels reassuring, like I finally have someone to lean on, even though the rational side of me is urging me to run for the hills.

I gasp, his hand on my stomach hitting a nerve, pushing the fog away for just a moment.

My skin tingles as he brushes his hand over my bare belly.

“What the hell are you saying? Speak English.”

Afternoon light seeps in through the kitchen windows, landing on my naked body. My pussy is sore from when he fucked me over the countertop only moments ago.

“It’s a Russian lullaby, supposed to protect the most innocent souls from evil eyes.”

I blink back to reality, the white hospital lights filling my vision. I find Emil at the bedside staring at me, multiple lines forming between his brow as he watches me with concern.

“Everything okay?”

“You fucked me over the kitchen countertop?”

“There she is.” Emil winks. “My little spitfire.”

“Why would I let you do that?”

“Come back home with me,” says Emil, offering me his hand. “And you might find out.”

4

EMIL

I swerve backinto the middle lane, almost drifting into the next one.

Fia is to blame for my reckless driving, sitting in my passenger seat being a fucking cock tease without even meaning to. She’s always testing my limits for how long I can go without fucking her, hence why I bent her over the kitchen countertop that time. Her screams were loud enough to wake the dead.