Page 23 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
Finally, near the back of the house, I hear faint typing. I follow the sound to a half-open door and shove it wider without knocking.
There he is.
Trifon sits behind an enormous desk like he owns the world—and annoyingly, he probably does. Blue button-down rolled to his elbows, the same shade as his eyes. His dark hair was damp, as if he had just stepped out of the shower. He glances up as I barge in, completely unfazed.
“Good morning,” he drawls, like this is normal. Like I’m a houseguest who’s just come down for breakfast.
“Let me out,” I snap, skipping the small talk entirely. “I have a shift in two hours.”
His eyes lock with mine, cool and unreadable. “You’re not going to work today.”
“Yes, I am.” I march across the room, planting both palms on the desk, leaning in until I’m practically in his space. “People depend on me. I save lives, remember? Unlike you, I actually contribute something useful to society.”
“I called your hospital. You’re on medical leave.”
My jaw drops. “You did what?”
“Food poisoning, wasn’t it?” He tilts his head, all mock concern. “Turns out it’s more serious than expected. You’ll need a week to recover.”
The casual way he says it—like he’s discussing the weather instead of hijacking my entire life—makes me want to scream.
“You can’t do that!” I cry, my voice rising. “That’s my job. My reputation. Do you have any idea how hard I worked to get there?”
“I’m sure you’ll get another job if this one doesn’t work out,” he says with a dismissive wave.
Something inside me snaps.
“Listen to me, you arrogant, control-freak asshole,” I hiss, leaning across the desk until we’re nearly nose to nose. His eyes darken at the proximity, but I keep going. “I didn’t spend four years of medical school and rack up student loans that would make your accountant weep just to have some—some thug with control issues derail my entire career. Either you let me out of here, or you tell me exactly what I’m doing here.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his face before it fades behind that infuriating calm. “Sit down, Yulia.”
“I don’t want to sit down. I want my life back.”
“You’ll get answers when you stop breathing fire.”
“Stop—breathing—fire?” I echo, incredulous. “You kidnap me, forge marriage papers, trap me here, and you expect me to be polite? Are you that fucking delusional?”
His lips twitch. “Are you always this dramatic with your patients? It must be exhausting for them.”
“Only when they’re complete psychopaths,” I fire back, crossing my arms. “What do you even want from me?”
Trifon rises, all slow, dangerous grace, rounding the desk until he’s standing too close. The air tightens. He smells like expensive cologne, cedar, and something darker. It’s deeply unfair how attractive he is with menace dripping from every pore.
“I told you yesterday,” he says, voice dropping. “You’re safer here.”
“Safer from what? The only danger I’ve encountered lately is you.”
His mouth quirks, almost amused. “The men shooting at us might disagree.”
“Men who were shooting at you,” I correct. “I was just collateral damage.”
“And now you’re not.”
I glare, but the heat climbing my neck has nothing to do with anger. God, I hate my body for noticing him—the sharp jaw, the broad shoulders, the way his eyes drag over me like I’m his next acquisition.
“You’re delusional,” I mutter.
“And yet here you are.”
