Page 8 of The Russian Pakhan's Forced Bride
I could easily wipe out Maxim and his men…but red flags aside, there’s something satisfying about orchestrating those games and knowing I have the upper hand. Knowing that I have a plan and a way to bring him to his knees.
Simply killing him wouldn’t force him to sit with the consequences of his actions. Instead, he’d get the easy way out, and that’s the last thing I want.
To be truly sated, I need him to suffer. To understand every reason why he never should’ve crossed my path to begin with.
And with Viktoria as my new bride, I can see exactly what has come to fruition.
Even if she’s unwilling, and even if I don’t know her in the slightest other than her affiliations, it’s still a win in my book. And given how everything has fallen into place, I have no problem claiming this victory already.
Once it’s all said and done, Mikhail escorts the officiant out, leaving me with my new wife.
She looks more like a shell-shocked veteran than a newlywed, but I can’t expect any different. Certainly not when it all happened so quickly.
Still, I let go of a satisfied breath and make my way over to the bar cart, grabbing a glass and my go-to whiskey, pouring it with a grin on my face.
“I know you’re no stranger to this world, but life is about to be quite different for you…and you have your brother to thank for that,” I say while moving across the room and bringing the glass to my lips. But I pause, lifting a brow at the sight of her.
She stands there with a terrified look in her eyes, chest nearly heaving as she pulls in deep yet seemingly unsatisfying breaths. Her face pales.
“What’s going on?” I ask her, taking a small step closer, before she holds a hand out to maintain space between us.
“I’m not…I don’t have a brother,” she manages to get out despite the pure fear brimming in her features. Her breaths quicken, and she looks like she’s on the brink of losing it. “…I grew up in foster homes…”
She is convincing…
I study her closely, trying to get a better read on her despite not believing her attempts to throw me off. Yet, something about her reaction feels too visceral. Too real. It has me tripping over my thoughts and taking pause.
“Even if that’s true, you could’ve gone through the foster system with Maxim—”
“I’m not a Nikolaev!” Viktoria snaps regardless of the way she struggles to pull herself together. “I don’t have a brother.”
That self-assured part of me is telling me not to believe her, but the ever-increasing frantic look in her eyes tells me otherwise, along with the sharp sounds escaping her each time she inhales.
She’s panicking.
“Take it easy,” I mumble, guiding her to sit back on the sofa behind her, regardless of her recoiling at my touch. “…Deep breaths.”
Viktoria sits, but pulls away, trying to steady herself as she puts her head in her hands and sucks in ragged breaths.
Standing there like an idiot, I look down at her, not liking the sinking feeling in my stomach.
There’s no way she isn’t Viktoria Nikolaev…not after all of this. Certainly not after everything seemed to be going so smoothly.
But something about her reaction is too sincere for me to ignore.
Maybe I was wrong…maybe…
“Tell me honestly,” I begin, expression stern and my tone leaving no room for disobedience. “Are you Viktoria Nikolaev? The Bratva princess Maxim stashed away? And if you lie to me, I will find out one way or another.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “No…I’m not her. I’m a teacher, and I don’t know anyone named Maxim…if you don’t believe me, check my bag.”
Staring at her a moment longer, the sinking feeling only gets worse, and I hesitate before moving toward a side table where her purse sits. Of course, I keep myself as composed as possible, unwilling to completely relent, more so refusing to admit that I could be wrong.
There’s no way…
But as the possibility claws at the back of my mind, I feel a sense of urgency moving through me, and I reach for the purse before unzipping it and rifling through her belongings. After sifting through the typical contents, I find her wallet and double-check, only to find one version of her ID. Not two.
Pulling the cards out, I look them over for any telltale signs that they could be fake. But as I look at her photo over and read her name over and over again, I can’t shake the staggering reality I’ve found myself in.
