Page 35 of Pregnant By the Russian Pakhan

Anger warred with confusion inside of her. Her mother had died when Mikhail had been a mere seventeen-year-old boy. How could he have already been a killer as far back as then? And why had he killed her mother?

She was going to discount the picture as another of her father’s tricks, when she suddenly recalled how she had overheard Mikhail, on their wedding night, telling Williams that Mira could never find out he’d been present at her mother’s death.

She paled as she stared at the picture again in a new light.

Now she was assailed by suddenly painful memories of how she had let Mikhail touch her and screw her to his heart’s content. She’d offered herself up for his touch like a sacrificial lamb, and all the while, he must have been laughing at her. She’d let her mother’s killer fuck her and touch her whenever he wanted.

Even before they got married, she’d proved she had no self-control whatsoever where he was concerned.

Bile rose in her throat and before she could hold it back, Mira retched and then vomited all over the thick, expensive rug in her room.

As she considered the mess, her thoughts were in turmoil. She hated Mikhail, she realized. She hated him with a passion that defied all logic. She hated him more than any feelings of tenderness she had ever felt toward him.

It didn’t make sense that he had rushed her into marriage. It didn’t make sense that he had let her think her father was a killer. The only thing that made sense was the knowledge that he was her father’s long-sworn enemy, and he had evidently decided to use her as a pawn in his games.

He had tricked her into marriage. She had at least respected him before, but now she was filled with nothing but contempt for him. She hated Mikhail with a virulence that defied all logic.

As she gathered up the ruined rug and dumped it outside her door for the servants, one thought continued to ring through her mind—she would avenge her mother’s death if it was the last thing she did.

Mikhail Nikolai would have to die at her hands.

Now that she was ensconced in his home as his reluctant, captive wife, she had only one mission—his death.

Chapter 22 - Mikhail

The cold reception Mikhail received when he returned home with Sarah was a far cry from what he had expected, especially after he had dodged what seemed like a trap.

Dostoevsky’s men had been stationed at the entrances. Luckily, Mira’s map of the place had shown a small secret door, and when Mikhail and his men had used the place to enter, it had led them straight down to a tiny corridor that passed by the dungeons.

He grimaced now, recalling how the dungeons had stank so much that even his men had struggled not to choke. When they’d passed a particular dungeon, they had seen Sam’s unmistakable rotting remains hanging from the ceiling.

Vlad had been so close to Sam that most of the men had been somewhat jealous of their friendship. When he saw Sam, his toughness had vanished.

He stood staring for a few seconds, until Mikhail had prodded him gently to move along. And even when they had found and rescued Sarah, Vlad still had a crazy look in his eyes.

He’d asked to be left behind to find and kill Dostoevsky or die trying.

Mikhail had been seriously tempted to let him, but after all, Dostoevsky had done to him over the years, he was sure of one thing—Dostoevsky was his to kill and no one else’s.

He had denied Vlad’s request and watched the light go out in the other man’s eyes.

Vlad was his most trusted of all his men, and had been with him for years. He had never asked Mikhail for anything, so denying him this one thing had been difficult for him, but he had to do it because Mira had looked at him with so much trust and hope in her eyes when she’d asked him to rescue her friend. If they started up a ruckus, they would be outnumbered in a heartbeat, and saving the girl would be that much harder. He didn’t want to disappoint Mira.

When they returned to his villa, Mira was sitting in the living room working on a laptop. As soon as she saw them, she crossed the room at a run to catapult into Sarah’s arms.

“Sarah,” Mira breathed in relief, engulfing the girl in a very tight hug as she burst into tears.

They hugged tightly, tears streaming down both their cheeks. When they fell apart, Mikhail started to mention that Sarah had already been in the dungeon when he rescued her, but his wife wouldn’t let him say a word. She launched into a monologue about how she’d missed Sarah and how she’d been beside herself with loneliness with no one to talk to.

That last part stung. Mikhail had been more than available and on hand to try to keep her entertained since she came to his house; he’d suspended his business dealings and even his trips. As a matter of fact, he hadn’t stepped one toe out of Chicago since she came, because…

Well, because he had come to care for her so much that he couldn’t stand the thought of anyone or anything hurting her, he admitted to himself. He couldn’t stand to let her out of his sight for very long. Every time, even when he was working elsewhere, he felt the urge to keep an eye on her.

And why wouldn’t she look at him now when he and his men had almost died saving her friend? Why wouldn’t she even meet his gaze?

“Sarah is fine. She just needs to be fed and given some clean clothes,” he said, testing his theory that Mira was avoiding him.

This time she did look at him, offering him a wan smile that didn’t reach her eyes. But she said nothing else. She threaded her hand with Sarah’s and whisked her upstairs.

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