Page 76 of The Pakhan’s Unwanted Bride

"There's my daughter." He smiles when he sees me, and I cross the room to kiss his cheek. "You look well rested. Marriage must agree with you."

Heat rises to my cheeks at the knowing look in his eyes, but I refuse to be embarrassed. "I am glad to see you looking better. How are you feeling?"

"Strong enough to take a walk if you will accompany me." He swings his legs over the side of the bed with only a slight wince. "I have been cooped up in this room for too long. I need fresh air and sunshine."

We make our way slowly through the estate and out into the gardens. The afternoon sun is warm on my face, and the scent of flowers fills the air. My father walks with careful steps, but his strength is clearly returning. We stroll along the paths in comfortable silence for several minutes before he speaks again.

"Do you remember the piano lessons?" His voice is amused, and I cannot help but laugh at the memory.

"How could I forget? I convinced the entire household staff that I had been kidnapped just to avoid practicing scales." The memory is vivid even after all these years. "You were furious when you discovered me hiding in the attic reading novels."

"I was more impressed than furious." He chuckles and shakes his head. "You managed to fool everyone for nearly six hours. Even your bodyguards were convinced something terrible had happened. That takes real skill."

"Or real desperation to avoid piano practice." I grin at him, feeling lighter than I have in days. "I was never going to be a musician. You should have accepted that sooner."

"Perhaps." He squeezes my hand gently. "But watching you scheme your way out of responsibilities taught me more about your intelligence than any piano recital ever could have. You have always been clever, Ana. Do not let anyone make you forget that."

The words settle over me with unexpected weight, and I realize how much I needed to hear them. We continue our walk, sharing more stories and laughing over memories, both good and ridiculous. By the time we return to the house, he looks tired but content, and I feel more grounded than I have since the wedding.

That afternoon, I prepare for the children's hospital visit I have been planning with the Aristocrat Wives' Circle. The initiative is mine, a way to use my position for something meaningful rather than just attending galas and looking decorative. When I mention it to Samuil over lunch, I expect him to dismiss it or send security in his place. Instead, he simply nods and says he will accompany me himself.

"You don't have to come." I try to keep the surprise out of my voice. "I know you have other responsibilities."

He doesn't answer, just raises an eyebrow at me. I shrug. "Oh, all right, I get it. Your protective instincts are running away with you and you need to be there to guard me."

His warm chuckle sends warmth flooding through me.

The hospital is a large modern building on the edge of the city. We're greeted by the director, then led to the children's wing, where young patients in various stages of treatment are gathered in a large playroom.

The children's faces light up when we enter, and I spend the next hour playing games, helping with crafts, and listening to their stories. Samuil stays close but doesn't interfere, letting me take the lead. I'm in the middle of helping a young boy build a tower of blocks when I hear delighted laughter from across the room.

I turn to see a little girl, maybe six years old with a bright pink scarf covering her bald head, tugging insistently on Samuil's sleeve. He looks down at her with an expression of mild confusion, clearly unsure how to handle the situation. The girl holds up a bottle of nail polish and points to his hands with absolute determination.

"Please?" Her voice is sweet and hopeful. "I want to paint your nails. My daddy always lets me paint his nails."

I watch, fascinated, as Samuil's expression shifts from confusion to something softer. He glances at me, and I can see the question in his eyes. I nod encouragingly, curious to see what he will do. To my complete surprise, he lowers himself into one of the small chairs and extends his hands toward the little girl.

"Alright. But you have to do a good job." His voice is gruff but not unkind. "No sloppy work."

The girl squeals with delight and immediately gets to work. She takes her task very seriously, her small tongue poking out in concentration as she carefully paints each of his nails bright pink. Other children gather around to watch, giggling and offering suggestions about which color should go on which finger. Samuil sits perfectly still through all of it, his tattooed forearms resting on the small table while this tiny girl transforms his hands into a rainbow of glitter and color.

I can't look away. This man who commands respect through strength and fear, who has built an empire on discipline and control, sits patiently while a six-year-old paints his fingernails pink. He doesn't complain or check his watch or show any sign of impatience. He simply lets her work, occasionally offering a small smile when she looks up at him for approval.

Something shifts inside my chest as I watch him. This is not the Pakhan who delivered brutal justice to a traitor. This is not the cold strategist who calculates every move three steps ahead. This is a man who understands that sometimes the most important thing you can do is sit still and let a sick child paint your nails because it makes her happy.

I am falling in love with him.

The realization hits me with startling clarity, stealing my breath and making my heart race. Not just attracted to him or fascinated by him, but genuinely, deeply falling in love. Oh, God, I have it bad, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. He's already told me what he feels about tender feelings, so he'll likely never love me. I mentally shake my head and focus on the children. There'll be time to unpack these feelings later, when I'm alone and can concentrate.

The afternoon passes too quickly, and eventually, we must say our goodbyes. The children hug me and thank me for coming, and several of them insist on hugging Samuil as well. He accepts their affection with surprising grace, his large hands gentle as he pats their heads and promises to visit again. As we prepare to leave, I notice one of the senior members of the Aristocrat Wives' Circle standing across the lobby, watching me with the intensity of a hawk.

Our eyes meet, and for a long moment, neither of us looks away. Then, slowly and deliberately, she gives me a single subtle nod before turning and walking away without a word. I freeze in place as understanding crashes over me. The entire afternoon was a test, an evaluation of my worthiness to be the Pakhan’s wife, to carry the responsibility that comes with my position. The question is, did I pass?

38

SAMUIL

Ireturn from downtown business to find the estate quiet, only the night security detail making their rounds. Something feels off, though I can't identify what. I find myself standing outside my office thinking about Gregory. We haven't spent real time together in weeks. Not since the engagement was announced. Our interactions have become strictly professional. The easy camaraderie we once shared has disappeared beneath layers of formality and distance.