Page 22 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
Sleep had barely touched me last night. I’d been too busy replaying his words on a loop.
This is your home now.
No, it’s not.
It’s not my home. It’s not my life. It’s not even my story anymore. It’s his. Whatever this is, he’s writing it.
For a moment, I consider burying myself back under the covers and pretending none of this is real. But I can’t hide from this horrid reality forever, can I?
I push myself up and out of bed, and that’s when I realize I have no clothes apart from the scrubs I’ve been wearing since yesterday, which are rumpled beyond salvation now. But I’m not about to sit around in them all day. I need to think, and thinking means routine. And routine means work.
Work. Oh god. My shift starts in two hours.
Whatever Trifon’s up to, I can’t let it derail my career. I didn’t spend years clawing my way through med school andlanding this residency just to throw it all away because some tattooed psychopath decided to kidnap me!
I head into the shower. Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed in the same damn clothes from yesterday, my hair is combed, and I feel semi-human again. I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders in the mirror.
“You’ve got this,” I tell my reflection. “Just get to work. Figure the rest out later.”
Next up, I try the door, half-expecting it to be locked from the outside, but the handle turns effortlessly. Okay, so I’m not a prisoner. That’s... something.
I head downstairs, replaying the path from yesterday. The house is quiet. No Trifon. No staff. Perfect. Maybe I can just walk out.
I find the front door and pull it open, stepping onto the wide stone porch. The morning air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine and grass. Freedom is just a car ride away. Except...
I don’t have a car. Or my phone. Or my wallet.
Shit.
Still, the hospital isn’t that far. I can walk to the nearest main road and catch a cab there, and can ask to borrow cash from one of the nurses. I just need to get off this property.
I stride down the front steps, following the curved driveway toward the gates I saw yesterday.
But when I reach the gates?
I realize quickly—I’m not going anywhere.
Massive iron gates stand locked, not a security guard in sight, but cameras follow me as I pace, scanning for a panel, a button, anything.
I try the code pad and press the exit button. It doesn’t work. I press it again. Harder.
Still nothing.
I try yelling at the cameras. Silence answers me.
My chest tightens with frustration. No. No. I’m not a hostage. I’m not some caged thing he can just keep.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter, shoving the gate with both hands. It doesn’t budge.
I pace the perimeter, eyes darting. The stone wall runs the length of the property, tall enough to block out everything beyond. I’d need a ladder—or the upper body strength of a Navy SEAL—to clear it.
Anger bubbles up, hot and immediate. I’m trapped. Actually trapped. In a mansion that looks like it belongs in a luxury real estate magazine, sure, but trapped nonetheless.
Fury lights my veins. I pivot on my heel and storm back inside, my sneakers slapping the ground as I track him down. Time to get the bastard responsible for this to give me some real freaking answers.
The mansion’s bigger than I realized—an endless maze of polished floors, vaulted ceilings, and hallways designed to confuse. I throw open doors as I go—a theater, a gym, guest rooms that look like they belong in luxury magazines, a library straight out of a billionaire’s fever dream. But no Trifon.
Figures. A man that insufferable wouldn’t make himself easy to find.
