Page 54 of The Russian Pakhan's Forced Bride
As much as the not knowing part is grating on my nerves, I can’t exactly slip out of the house and grab a test to find out. And if I ask anyone to get one for me, that will be cause for immediate suspicion.
I’m not ready to face it yet, even if I should be. Addressing it will only make the situation more real, and if I am pregnant, then I can kiss any chance of getting away goodbye.
I’ve been trying not to focus on it lately, but being stuck at the house with nothing better to do, it’s an impossible feat. I can’t help my mind from getting caught up on it.
I’m not exactly afraid of how he would react…not with how logical and strategic he is. Roman would likely say it was inevitable; maybe he has even been anticipating this.
As much as the idea terrifies me, he wants permanence—he has made that abundantly clear by marrying us in the first place. A baby would only further unite us in his eyes, and our child would be a testament to the dedication of his plans.
I wouldn’t be able to run from being a Lukov. Not with his baby in my belly.
Initially, I thought being his unwilling wife was scary enough, but the idea of now having a baby between us is a horror all on its own.
Even if Roman has been changing lately and doing things to try and make the situation easier for me…even if we gave in to our urges before and felt something for each other…I still can’t ignore who he is and what he did to me.
Regardless of how many times he tries to kiss my cheek or speak to me with rare warmth in his tone, he’s still Roman Lukov. He’s still a Pakhan and a dangerous man.
To my dismay, I find myself wrapped up in rich, deep crimson silk with a slit high enough to be vaguely provoking. My black heels are high enough to give me extra height to better match Roman’s, and the diamond earrings feel heavy…expensive. The dainty necklace he placed around my neck is more like a collar than anything, regardless of how nicely he put it on me.
And he…he’s dressed up even more than usual. His tux is perfectly tailor with all the right edges and smooth plains of fabric, his shoes shine, and his hair is groomed to make him look both refined yet intimidating.
He’s walking sin, and I have the feeling he knows it.
The gala is stuffy and the last place I want to be, but for what it’s worth, apparently it was arranged by Elena, so I can’t be entirely disgruntled about it.
Still, it’s too much for someone like me.
The chandeliers cast their luxurious light across the venue, the red carpets strewn about the ballroom floors give everyone a certain air of importance, and there’s enough crystal in the place to end world hunger.
Roman keeps his hand at the small of my back as we walk in, not hovering this time. No, instead, he’s letting me feel the full warmth of his palm.
He uses it to guide me, both acting as a propellant and a way to exert his control.
Given how he gazes around the room with his stoic expression, I know the gears are already turning. He’s calculating his every move, and likely that of everyone else in attendance.
His thumb vaguely traces against my back while we move with decided precision, capturing a few stray eyes. It feels possessive, almost like he’s allowing me to be seen, but only for as long as he decides.
Feeling the attention shift to us while we move along the space makes me feel far too exposed and raw. It makes my skin crawl, and somehow, my body doesn’t seem like my own. Givenhow there’s likely something growing inside me, it seems even more like the case.
Vaguely dizzy, I follow his lead, but no part of me wants to be there. My face is surely showing it, too.
A champagne flute is handed to me, but I don’t drink from it. It’s like a prop more than anything.
Roman nods his head at a few of the men nearby, then he ducks closer to me while we continue.
“You could at least try to pretend like you’re enjoying yourself,” he murmurs, voice quiet enough for only me to hear.
I bristle and look ahead. “Well, I’m not.”
“Hence thepretendpart,” Roman returns with hushed impatience. “Everyone here is supposed to know you’re my wife…not some bitter extra. Just act like it.”
Narrowing my eyes at him, I stop moving. But given how we’re surrounded by others, I keep my tone low. “And why should I?”
A flicker of irritation moves through him, yet he has no choice but to stay composed for the sake of his image. “Because youaremy wife, and we both have images to uphold. Regardless of how you feel, you are a reflection of me and my empire…so I need you to cooperate and behave. It wouldn’t kill you to smile, either.”
Part of me wants to tell him it will, in fact, kill me. But I hold my tongue and feel that hostility festering in me.
There are so many things I could scream at him…all the ways I could ruin his precious reputation right then and there. But the way he holds my gaze tells me this is important…this means something to him.
