Page 49 of The Pakhan’s Unwanted Bride

Whatever happened tonight changes nothing. It has to change nothing.

A discreet knock sounds at the door before the sun fully rises. I carefully extract myself from Ana's embrace and pull on my pants, crossing to the door.

"Someone had better be dead," I growl through the closed door, then open it and stand so that whoever is on the other side can't see Ana in bed.

"Ivan Rostova has disappeared. His convoy never reached home after leaving the wedding reception last night."

25

ANA

The quiet click of the bedroom door wakes me. I open my eyes just enough to see Samuil's broad shoulders disappearing through the doorway, already dressed in dark slacks and a crisp white shirt. The early morning light filters through the curtains, painting everything in soft shades of gray and gold. He moves with purpose, his footsteps deliberate and controlled even at this ungodly hour.

I consider calling out to him, asking where he's going so early, but exhaustion pulls at me. My body aches in places I didn't know could ache, a reminder of last night that sends heat flooding through me despite my fatigue. I let my eyes drift closed again and listen to his footsteps fade down the hallway.

He's returning to Pakhan duties, I tell myself. The man probably hasn't taken a full day off in years. Of course he'd be up before dawn handling business, even the morning after his wedding.

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, my mind refusing to let me fall back asleep. Last night plays through my memory in vivid detail, and I press my palms against my heated cheeks like that will somehow stop the thoughts.

I'd expected our wedding night to be awkward. Intimidating, even. Pure obligation wrapped in tradition and duty. Two people going through the motions because that's what married couples do, especially in our world where alliances matter more than affection. Even though there was obvious attraction between us.

Instead, Samuil surprised me. Yes, he was commanding, dominant in ways that made my toes curl and left me breathless. But beneath all that intensity, he showed unexpected restraint. He paid attention to my responses, adjusted his touch when I tensed, and made sure I was with him every step of the way. Not an easy thing to do with how demanding and impatient I was.

My stomach flips-flops and my entire face flames at the memory. When did I get so bold? And what the hell did he think of my responses? Definitely not befitting a princess. But I couldn't help it. I was crazy with desire and just wanted his big, beautiful body inside mine.

I shouldn't be thinking about him this much. This marriage was arranged, forced upon both of us by circumstances neither of us wanted. The fact that we have chemistry doesn't change the reality of what this is. But God, the chemistry is undeniable.

I throw back the covers and climb out of bed, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. His bedroom is massive, more like a small apartment than a bedroom, decorated in dark woods and rich fabrics that scream old money and masculine taste. My wedding dress lies draped over a chair where Samuil put it last night, the ivory silk catching the morning light. I wasn't so far gone that I didn't notice he was careful with the dress—unlike me and how I'd ripped his shirt open, uncaring that every button went flying in different directions.

This time, embarrassed heat floods my whole body and I hurry to the ensuite bathroom. I shower quickly, letting the hot water ease the soreness in my muscles. By the time I'm dressed in tailored black pants and an emerald silk blouse, the sun has fully risen and the estate is coming to life around me.

I make my way downstairs, taking in the surroundings with fresh eyes. This is my home now. Not the Rostova estate where I grew up. This is the Galkin estate, and I'm no longer just a visiting princess. I'm the wife of the Pakhan, the mistress of this household. Which means, I have every right to transform it into something I like… keeping Samuil's tastes in mind too, of course.

I find the housekeeper in the main sitting room, a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and efficient movements. She looks up when I enter, her expression carefully neutral.

"Good morning, Mrs. Galkin." The title sounds strange to my ears, but I don't correct her. "Can I get you anything? Breakfast, perhaps?"

"Coffee first," I say, then pause. "Actually, I'd like to speak with you about some changes to the household."

Her eyebrows rise slightly, but she nods. "Of course. What did you have in mind?"

I walk through the sitting room, studying the heavy furniture and dark color scheme. It's all very masculine, very controlled. Very Samuil. But it's also cold and impersonal. This estate should reflect both of us now, not just him. Plus, as his wife, and the fact that I'm still a princess—marriage doesn't change that—I'll be expected to have gatherings, and we need something a little more cheerful and less depressing for entertainment purposes.

"The guest rooms on the east wing need to be reassigned," I begin, my voice taking on the authoritative tone I've used my entire life when dealing with staff. "The blue suite should be converted into a proper office space for me. I'll need a desk, bookshelves, and better lighting. The rose suite can remain as is for now, but I want fresh linens and new curtains. Something lighter and less oppressive."

The housekeeper pulls out a small notebook and begins writing. "Yes, Mrs. Galkin."

"The artwork in the main hallway needs to be moved. Those hunting scenes are depressing. I want something with more color and more life. Contact the gallery we use for the Rostova estate and have them send over a selection for me to review."

"Of course."

I continue through the house, the housekeeper trailing behind me as I issue orders. Fresh flowers for every major room, not just the entryway. The dining room table needs a new centerpiece, something elegant but not ostentatious. Several pieces of furniture in the library are too dark and heavy. They need to be replaced with something that doesn't make the room feel like a tomb.

By midmorning, I've transformed into a whirlwind of activity. Staff members scramble to fulfill my requests, moving furniture, taking measurements, and making phone calls to vendors and suppliers. I can see the quiet confusion in their eyes, the unspoken questions about whether their new mistress has lost her mind.

To me, it's all perfectly reasonable. I've never lived any other way. When something doesn't meet my standards, it gets changed. When a room doesn't feel right, it gets redesigned.

I'm in the sitting room reviewing fabric samples when I hear the front door open with enough force to slam against the wall. Heavy footsteps echo through the hallway, and then Samuil appears in the doorway. I can tell immediately that something is wrong and a feeling of dread drops into my stomach.