Page 1 of The Pakhan’s Unwanted Bride

1

PRINCESS ANASTASIA ROSTOVA

The crystal chandeliers cast golden light across the ballroom, illuminating the crowd of politicians, aristocrats, and Bratva families who've gathered for tonight's charity gala. I move through them with the practiced grace I've perfected over twenty-five years of being exactly who they expect me to be. The Rostova princess and the last surviving heir to one of Russia's oldest royal bloodlines. The woman every man wants and every woman wants to be.

My white silk gown clings to my curves before flowing to the floor, the deep V-neckline drawing eyes to my breasts exactly as intended. Diamond earrings catch the light with each turn of my head, and I've left my blonde hair loose tonight, cascading over my bare shoulders. The small heart-shaped birthmark below my right ear peeks through the strands when I tilt my head just so.

"Anastasia, you look absolutely radiant tonight." An older man whose name I can't be bothered to remember takes my hand, pressing his lips to my knuckles. His eyes linger on my chest a beat too long.

"You're too kind." I offer him the smile I've perfected. Warm enough to seem genuine, distant enough to maintain mystery. He's already boring me, but I let him prattle on about his latest business venture while I scan the room over his shoulder.

A woman in an emerald dress approaches, her eyes bright with the desperate need for my approval. "That gown is stunning. Is it Valentino?"

"Custom," I say, because of course it is. Everything I wear is custom. I've never worn off-the-rack clothing in my life, and I'm not about to start now.

She laughs like I've said something incredibly witty, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. This is my life, an endless parade of people seeking my attention or one reason or another. For whatever I can do for them. They orbit around me like planets around the sun, and I've grown so accustomed to the gravitational pull that I barely notice it anymore.

I excuse myself from the conversation with grace and ease and accept a glass of champagne from a passing server. The bubbles tickle my throat as I take a sip, my gaze drifting across the sea of designer suits and expensive gowns. Everyone here is wealthy. Everyone here is powerful. And everyone here knows exactly who I am.

My eyes scan the area and then pause when I see Pakhan Samuil Galkin. He stands near the far wall, surrounded by three men in dark suits who lean in close as he speaks. But it's not the men I notice. It's him. Tall, easily over six feet, with shoulders broad enough to fill out his black suit jacket in a way that suggests the muscle beneath isn't just for show. His short black hair is graying at the edges, giving him a distinguished look that somehow makes him more attractive rather than less. He's older than the men I usually entertain, probably in his late forties, but there's something about the way he carries himself that makes age irrelevant.

He commands attention without saying a word, without even trying. While everyone else in this ballroom is performing, he simply exists, and that existence is enough to make people notice. I find myself unable to look away.

His jaw is sharp, his features hard but sculpted perfectly. There's a tattoo peeking out from beneath his collar, dark vines that start under his right ear and disappear down his neck. The ink is bold against his skin, unapologetic, and completely at odds with the refined setting.

One of the men says something, and he laughs. The sound is low and rough, and I feel it in my stomach. His green eyes crinkle at the corners, and for a moment, the hardness in his face softens into something almost approachable.

I take another sip of champagne, my pulse quickening in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol. I know him, of course. I know everyone who is anyone, and Samuil Galkin is notorious in the Bratva circles. He's done business with my father, so I've seen him at our palace, but I never paid much attention when he was there. I wasn't allowed to sit in on business, anyway. But seeing him here, in this posh setting… well, I can't seem to take my eyes off him.

I set my glass on a nearby table and smooth my hands down my gown, checking that everything is in place. My breasts sit high and full in the low-cut bodice, my waist is cinched tight, and the silk clings to my ass in a way that's made more than one man stumble over his words tonight. I'm perfection, and I know it.

With the confidence of a woman who's never been rejected, I cross the ballroom toward him. The crowd parts for me without my having to ask. They always do. By the time I reach him, the three men he was speaking with have noticed my approach, their conversation trailing off as they turn to stare. One of them elbows Samuil, nodding in my direction.

He turns, and those green eyes land on me with such intensity and force, it makes my heart race. Up close, he's even more imposing. The top of my head barely reaches his shoulder, and I have to tilt my chin up to meet his gaze. His suit is expensive but understated, the kind of quality that doesn't need labels to prove its worth. The vine tattoo is more visible now, dark ink that crawls up his neck in intricate patterns that make me want to trace them with my fingers.

"Good evening." I offer him my most dazzling smile, the one that's made grown men forget their own names.

"Evening." His voice is deep, rough around the edges like gravel and smoke. He doesn't smile back.

I wait for the usual response. The compliments, stumbling words, and the desperate attempt to hold my attention. Instead, he just looks at me, his expression polite but distant, like I'm a stranger he's passing on the street rather than the most sought-after woman in the room.

"I don't believe we've met." I extend my hand, expecting him to take it, kiss it, and hold it a moment too long like every other man here tonight. We have met, briefly when he visits my father, but I don't want him to know I remember him.

He shakes it once, firm and brief, then releases it. "We've met," he says. "But I'm Pakhan Samuil Galkin."

"Princess Anastasia Rostova." I let my name hang in the air between us.

"I know." He turns back to the men he was speaking with, effectively dismissing me.

I stand there, frozen, my hand still extended slightly in the space where his was. Did he just… did he actually just dismiss me?

"I was hoping we could talk." I step closer, invading the circle of men, forcing him to acknowledge me again.

Samuil glances at me, and there's something in his eyes that I can't quite read. Not interest or attraction. Just a mild, polite acknowledgment of my existence. "About what?"

"About…" I falter, because I hadn't actually planned this far ahead. I never have to. Men usually trip over themselves to keep me talking. "About your work. I've heard impressive things."

"Have you." It's not a question. He shifts his weight, and I catch a glimpse of the gun holster beneath his jacket. The sight sends a thrill through me, surprising me. Despite being around Bratva and violence all my life, if only from a distance since my father goes to great lengths to shield me from such nasty business, the sight of that gun does something to my insides.