Page 72 of The Pakhan's Forced Bride
I lie on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slowly ease, his breathing evening. His hand traces patterns over my back as we snuggle closer together beneath the warmth of the blankets.
I can’t believe how incredible that was. Ten times more intense than before, but now I feel ten times closer to him.
I want to share everything with him.
But how do I put that into words?
I close my eyes and focus on his breathing. And as Ardalion drifts off to sleep, so do I, spent, happy, safe in his arms.
***
I wake to the sound of Ardalion’s voice. He’s on a call, woken up by it; he’s sitting on the edge of the bed with his hand over his eyes.
“When?” he huffs, angry.
“But we had extra security, how did they get past?” he asks, standing up.
I sit up in bed, my stomach knotting when I realize there’s been another attack, so soon after the last series.
I wait for him to finish speaking and hang up the call.
“Again?” I ask tensely.
“I have to go,” he huffs. “I need to find out what the hell is going on.”
Ardalion grabs clothes and gets dressed quickly. I sit waiting, my knees pulled against my chest as worry sifts through me.
I want to help.
I have internet and phone access now. Maybe I can do some research and find out something useful.
Ardalion leans over the bed, cupping his hand beneath my chin, and he lifts my face to kiss me goodbye. “Sorry, I have to leave in such a rush.”
“No, I completely understand. I’ll be here. Waiting,” I reply.
His smile is soft and touched with sadness. He walks towards the door, and I call his name, causing him to turn back to look at me.
“Last night was incredible,” I smile.
He smiles broadly, his gorgeous face lighting up.
Then he’s gone.
I climb out of bed and get dressed, determined to find a way to help him. In his office, I open his laptop, using the password that he gave me when he returned my phone.
But instead of going to browse the internet, I search for his security programs, the ones that have the video feed for his warehouses.
I spent two hours watching the videos from the attack that took place during the early hours of this morning
I watch them over and over again, and a sick sense of understanding settles in my stomach.
I can’t make out the men; they are all masked, wearing dark tactical gear, anonymous.
But I do recognize certain things.
I recognize the formations. The way the men move. I’ve seen it before.
Those are my brother’s men.
