Page 4 of The Pakhan’s Unwanted Bride

The light from the ballroom catches his face and for just a minute, I see his expression darken. My hand automatically goes to my side and hovers over my Glock. Benedikt doesn't look pleased to see me. In fact, I'm not mistaken, the big guy looks like he'd like to see me dead.

3

ANA

Iwake Sunday morning to sunlight streaming through the silk curtains of my bedroom, and the first thought that enters my mind is the powerful Pakhan, Samuil Galkin.

I roll onto my back, staring at the ornate ceiling with its hand-painted frescoes of angels and clouds, scenes from old Russian fairy tales that my mother commissioned before she died. The room is decorated in soft creams and golds, with antique furniture that belonged to my grandmother and fresh white roses in crystal vases on every surface. It's beautiful, expensive, and perfect. Everything I've ever had has been beautiful and expensive and perfect.

And I'm irritated with myself because none of it matters right now. I shouldn't be thinking about him. I shouldn't care that he dismissed me like I was nobody, like I was just another woman at that gala instead of the Bratva princess every man in that room would do anything for if they thought it would get somewhere with me. But I do care. And that's what pisses me off most.

I throw back the covers, the Egyptian cotton sheets sliding against my skin, and pad across the plush carpet to my bathroom. The marble floors are cold under my bare feet. I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror and pause. I'm wearing a silk nightgown, pale pink and barely there. My blonde hair is tangled from sleep, falling over my shoulders in waves, and there are shadows under my eyes because I didn't sleep well. I kept replaying the gala, kept seeing the way he looked at me with those dark eyes and then turned away like I was nothing. Like I was ordinary.

The shower does nothing to clear my head. I stand under the hot water, letting it cascade over my shoulders and down my back, and I'm still thinking about him. About the way he stood there in that perfectly tailored suit, the vine tattoo visible above his collar, the muscular build that spoke of violence and power. About the way he shook my hand once, brief and professional, and then released it like touching me meant nothing.

I replay the moment over and over. The feel of his palm against mine, rough and callused. The way his fingers wrapped around my hand for exactly two seconds before letting go. The polite smile that didn't reach his eyes. The way he turned back to his conversation like I hadn't just interrupted, like I was an inconvenience he'd dealt with and dismissed.

Everyone touches me like I'm precious. Like I'm something to be treasured and protected and worshiped. He touched me like I was ordinary.

And damn if that doesn't fascinate me more than anything else.

I dry off and pull on casual clothes, soft gray cashmere pants and a cream sweater that hangs off one shoulder. It's Sunday, and I have no obligations today, no performances to give. But I can't stop pacing my bedroom and thinking about the way he dismissed me. My bare feet make hardly a sound as I cross the floor to the window, and then around the room.

I've spent my entire life being the center of attention. From the moment I was born, I was the Bratva princess, the last surviving heir to one of Russia's oldest bloodlines. Men have fallen over themselves to gain my favor. Women have envied me. I've been adored and admired and desired by everyone I've ever met.

I can't count the number of men who've talked to my father, trying to broker some kind of deal so they could marry me. Thankfully, father never paid them much thought. Although, he has been pressuring me lately to find a husband. I frown for a second over the thought, then push it aside. I'm not ready yet to settle down. And even if I were, I haven't found a man who would suit.

By the time lunch rolls around, I've convinced myself that I need to know more about Samuil Galkin. Not because I'm interested, I tell myself. Just because I'm curious about the man who had the audacity to dismiss me.

The dining room is formal, all dark wood and crystal chandeliers, with a table that could seat twenty but today holds only two place settings. I've changed into a navy dress, fitted at the waist with a modest neckline, the kind of thing my father approves of. Conservative and elegant. The princess playing her role. My hair is pulled back in a neat chignon, and I've applied just enough makeup to look polished without seeming like I'm trying too hard.

My father sits at the head of the table, and I take my usual seat to his right. He's fifty, still handsome despite the gray in his hair, and there's a sharpness in his eyes that misses nothing. Born into privilege like me, he's used to the finer things in life. But unlike our royal relatives who live in Russian palaces, he's carved out respect here in America with the Bratva and isn't afraid to do whatever is necessary to get what he wants.

We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, a nice meal consisting of roasted chicken, vegetables, and bread that's still warm from the oven. I cut my food into small pieces, trying to appear casual, but thoughts of the Pakhan still consume me. Then I decide to test the waters.

"Pakhan Galkin was at the gala last night." I keep my tone light, conversational, like I'm simply making an observation. "He seemed particularly focused on business."

My father's fork pauses halfway to his mouth. He sets it down carefully, the silver clinking against the fine China, and looks at me with those sharp eyes that have always seen too much. I know immediately that I've made a mistake.

"Did he." It's not a question. It's a statement loaded with understanding.

"I noticed him speaking with several politicians and businessmen. He commands quite a presence." I take a sip of water, trying to keep my hands steady around the crystal glass.

"Anastasia." My father's voice is gentle but firm, the tone he uses when he's about to tell me something I don't want to hear. "Don't play games with me. I've known you your entire life. I know when something… or someone… has caught your interest."

Heat rises to my cheeks, and I hate that he can read me so easily. "I'm not playing games. I was simply making an observation about a powerful man."

"A powerful man." My father leans back in his chair, studying me with an intensity that makes me want to squirm. "Yes, Samuil Galkin is powerful. He's also dangerous. And he's not a man you can manipulate with your charm or your beauty, no matter how accustomed you are to getting what you want."

The words sting because they're true. I set down my fork, my appetite suddenly gone. "I wasn't trying to manipulate anyone."

"Weren't you?" My father picks up his wine glass, swirling the deep red liquid. "You know the history between our families," he continues, his voice quieter now.

"The Galkins and Rostovs have never gotten along. Even now, when Samuil and I do business together, the relationship is strained. It exists out of necessity, not friendship or trust. There's too much history there, too many old wounds that never quite healed."

I nod slowly, keeping my expression neutral. "I understand, Papa. I know the families have always been at odds."

"Then you understand why pursuing anything with Samuil Galkin would be complicated at best, dangerous at worst." He sets down his wine glass and looks at me with concern. "He's not like the others who fall at your feet, Anastasia. He won't be charmed or manipulated. And our families doing business together doesn't change decades of tension."