Page 30 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
I rise, grabbing my jacket, smoothing my cuffs like we didn’t just spend the flight in a cold war with one another. “New York,” I say coolly, ignoring the panic bleeding into her expression.
Her breathing quickens as the stairs lower outside, the cabin door popping open with a hiss. The smell of jet fuel and city air wafts in.
“No,” she whispers, shoving to her feet as I gesture for her to follow. “No, you—you said it was educational—”
“It is.” I head for the stairs, not bothering to look back.
She scrambles after me, footsteps heavy behind mine as we descend to the tarmac. Black SUVs idle beside the plane, engines running.
By the time we’re in the car heading into the city, she’s practically vibrating with tension.
“Please,” she says suddenly, grabbing my arm. “Don’t hurt them. Whatever you think they’ve done—”
“I’m not going to hurt your family,” I cut her off. “I’m just going to show you who they really are.”
“I’ll cooperate,” she promises, desperation edging into her voice. “I’ll stay with you. Be your wife. Whatever you want. Just leave them alone.”
Something twists in my chest at her plea. She’s willing to sacrifice herself for them, even now. It’s admirable. Foolish, but admirable.
“I don’t want your forced cooperation,” I say. “I want you to see the truth.”
She falls silent again, staring out at the familiar streets of her hometown. I watch her as we drive, the way her hands twist in her lap, the tight set of her shoulders. Part of me wants to turn the car around and take her back to Boston, shielding her from this. But she needs to know. For both our sakes.
My phone buzzes with an update from Miron. Perfect timing.
“They’re at the docks,” I tell the driver, and feel Yulia stiffen beside me.
“The docks?” she repeats.
“Your brothers are there,” I inform her.
“Why would my brothers be at the docks?”
I don’t answer, and she doesn’t push.
Twenty minutes later, we’re pulling into an industrial area—weathered warehouses, shipping containers, the smell of salt water heavy in the air. I direct the driver to park behind a row of containers, out of sight.
“Stay close,” I instruct Yulia as we get out. “And stay quiet.”
She nods, eyes wide with fear and something else.
Curiosity.
She wants to know, even as she dreads the truth.
I lead her through a maze of containers, keeping to the shadows. The sound of voices grows louder as we approach a large warehouse at the edge of the dock.
“That’s Damien’s voice,” she whispers, freezing in place.
I nod, guiding her forward until we reach a vantage point with a clear view inside the warehouse’s open bay doors.
Her gasp slices through the dockyard air, sharp and panicked.
I clamp a hand over her mouth fast, dragging her back into the shadows before anyone notices.
She’s trembling against me—small, warm, wrecked.
I wait.
