Page 69 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
“I think world domination can wait an hour,” I concede, kicking off my shoes and settling deeper into the couch.
She tosses me half the throw blanket, and I drape it over my legs, hyperaware of how close she is, how easy it would be to pull her against me.
As the show continues, I find myself watching her more than the screen. The little crease between her brows appears when something particularly egregious happens on screen. The soft curve of her lips when she smiles at some inside joke only a real doctor would understand.
I should be strategizing. Planning my next move against the Zakharovs. Figuring out how to handle the Fyodorovs’ arrival. Instead, I’m mesmerized by the way Yulia tucks her feet under my thigh for warmth without seeming to realize she’s done it.
When did this happen? When did my prisoner become something else entirely?
I think back to Valentin’s warning. You’ve changed since she came into your life. Don’t let it blind you.
But as Yulia’s head gradually droops onto my shoulder, her body relaxing into sleep beside me, I wonder if it’s already too late. Because right now, with the weight of her against me, I feel something I haven’t felt in years.
Peace.
The sense that, for this moment, everything is exactly as it should be.
Let the storm come, I think, pressing my lips to the top of her head. For tonight, at least, we’re sheltered from it.
Chapter 17 - Yulia
I was feeling tired on the drive over, but I told myself it’s just because I had a long day. The dress is too tight at the waist, the heels are too high, and I forgot to eat lunch.
I have a solid headache, but I smile anyway. In no way is it forced. The truth is, I’ve been working so damn hard at the clinic for over a month now that tonight’s gala feels like the perfect way to let loose.
The massive ballroom sparkles under thousands of lights, packed with Boston’s underworld royalty. Tonight’s gala is hosted on neutral ground—Trifon told me in the car—a mix of allies, rivals, and Bratva families with too much history between them to ever truly be comfortable. He hadn’t said much else during the drive and looked tense, jaw locked the whole way over. I presumed he was just stressed at the thought of seeing rivals tonight.
“You look pale,” Trifon murmurs, his hand warm against the small of my back.
I straighten my spine. “I’m fine. Just tired. Double shift yesterday, nothing serious.”
I don’t tell him about the waves of nausea that started this morning, or how my breakfast came right back up. No point worrying him over what’s probably just exhaustion or a stomach bug. Besides, I’ve been looking forward to tonight—to seeing his sisters, to stepping out of that massive house for something other than work.
His fingertips trace a small circle at the base of my spine. “You should have said something.”
“And miss all this?” I gesture at the dazzling display around us. “Not a chance.”
The Stradivari Hotel ballroom has been transformed into something out of a fever dream—crystal chandeliers, white roses dripping from every surface, champagne fountains that never seem to empty. It’s the most beautiful party I’ve ever been to.
Trifon seems tenser than usual, his eyes constantly scanning the room. His shoulders are rigid beneath his perfectly tailored tuxedo, and there’s a tightness around his mouth I’ve learned to recognize as trouble.
“Is something wrong?” I ask, studying his profile.
He shakes his head. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
Before I can press him, a familiar voice cuts through the crowd.
“Yulia! Oh my God, you came!”
I turn to see Nadya weaving through the crowd, looking utterly divine in a skin-tight red dress that makes her look like a movie star.
“Nadya!” I grin, genuinely happy to see her.
She throws her arms around me in a hug. “I wasn’t sure if Trifon would actually let you attend. Thought up he might have you locked up in his castle.”
“I’m right here,” Trifon says dryly.
Nadya ignores him, looping her arm through mine. “Darya’s been asking about you. Come on, she’s by the bar.”
