Page 24 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
I throw my hands up in frustration. “That makes no sense! Why am I here? Why did you make me sign those papers? Why—”
“You ask a lot of questions for someone who jumped out of a moving car three nights ago. Where were your critical thinking skills then, Doctor?”
I shove his chest in annoyance—he barely moves. Solid as stone. His grin only widens, like this whole exchange is foreplay to him.
“This is insane,” I grit out. “Let me go.”
Instead, he shifts, brushing past me with infuriating ease. “You hungry? The chef can make anything.”
“I want to leave and don’t have much of an appetite, thanks,” I growl.
“Not happening.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
I stare at him, rage vibrating under my skin. “You really think the world bends to what Trifon Yuri wants, don’t you?”
He smirks, insufferably smug. “Generally? It does.”
My hands curl into fists, and I glower at him.
He crosses his arms, towering over me like the smug, dangerous storm cloud that he is. “You’re being ungrateful, you know? Let’s be honest. Most women would kill to wake up in this house, married to me.”
I bark out a laugh so sharp it could slice through steel. “Most women clearly have brain damage.”
His brows lift, but I bulldoze over whatever arrogant comeback he’s cooking up.
“I don’t care how many people cower when you walk into a room,” I bite out, stepping back, pulse thundering in my ears. “I’m not one of them.”
I spin on my heel and stalk toward the door. Just before I reach the threshold, I glance back—just once.
He’s still there, leaning against his desk like this is some game, eyes tracking every move I make, like he’s already plotting his next play.
“You’re not going to tell me the truth, are you?” I hiss.
“Nope,” he grins.
God…I hate how my heart races when he looks at me like that. Hate that I still hover, wondering if he has more to say. Before I make a fool of myself by staying a beat too long, I slam the door behind me so hard that the walls shudder.
The days pass in a maddening blur. One becomes two, becomes three, and I’m still trapped in this house. Trifon brought over some fresh clothes. Asked me if I’d like to joinhim for meals a few times. I kept saying no. He stopped asking. Now? He comes and goes—sometimes absent for most of the day, sometimes working from his study. When we cross paths, it’s tense. We circle each other like wary animals, neither willing to give ground.
I spend most of my time in the library, trying to distract myself with books. Or in the gym, punching a bag until my knuckles ache, imagining it’s Trifon’s smug face. I try the gates sometimes, hoping for a moment of neglect, but they remain stubbornly locked.
By day four, desperation sets in. I’ve missed nearly a week of my residency—a residency I fought tooth and nail to get. What if they replace me? What if all those years of sacrifice amount to nothing because of one tattooed egomaniac?
I need leverage. Something to force his hand. And the only way to get it is to figure out what the hell is going on.
I wait until Trifon leaves one morning, watching from my window as his car disappears down the driveway. Then I make my move.
His study is easy. Unlocked. Like he doesn’t expect me to be bold enough to snoop through his life.
Idiot.
The room is exactly as I remember—all dark wood and leather, windows overlooking the manicured grounds. I head straight for his desk, where his computer sits.
Password protected, of course. I try a few obvious guesses—his name, his brother’s names, combinations of common numbers—but nothing works. Then I spot a sticky note tucked into a desk drawer: V42-1978-SL.
