Page 16 of The Pakhan’s Unwanted Bride

The formal use of my title feels like a slap. I want to throw something at him, or scream, anything to crack that perfect control. But I force myself to stay seated and keep my hands in my lap. I need to maintain some shred of dignity… if I have any left.

The rest of dinner is torture. My father and Samuil return to their earlier conversation about business and investments like nothing happened. I push food around my plate without eating, my appetite completely gone, not that I had much to begin with.

By the time dessert is served, I'm furious with both of them. With my father for his stubbornness, and with Samuil for his silence and for treating this whole situation like it's just another business transaction.

When Samuil finally stands to leave, I don't bother saying goodbye. He shakes my father's hand, and then I glare at his back as he walks out of the dining room without so much as a glance in my direction.

I throw my napkin on the table and get up, not even bothering to ask to be excused. Taking a page out of Samuil's book, I leave the room without a word to my father. I don't go to bed, though. I'm too wound up. Instead, I make my way through the quiet hallways of the estate to the massive family library on the second floor.

The library is my favorite room in the entire house. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line every wall, filled with books collected over generations. A massive fireplace dominates one end, cold and dark this time of year. Heavy curtains frame tall windows that overlook the gardens. The air smells like old paper and leather and history.

I flip on the lights and head straight for the section where we keep family records, journals, ledgers, historical accounts, all carefully preserved and organized by date. Father has talked about the issues between our families, but he's never been specific. If I'm going to be forced to marry Samuil—even though I have every intention in finding a way out—then I want to know more about our families.

I start with the most recent records and work backward. Business dealings, property transfers, and alliance agreements. I smother a yawn. Boring.

Hours pass. I pull book after book from the shelves, scanning pages by lamplight. The deeper I dig into our family history, the stranger the patterns become. Carrying the book over to the couch, I settle in and start reading more.

For centuries, the relationship between royal families like mine and warrior families like the Galkins has been complicated. We ruled. They protected. We held the titles and the bloodlines. They held the strength and the loyalty of the soldiers. Both sides needed each other, but both sides also feared the other held too much power.

There are references to marriages between the families going back generations, but they're sparse. Most of the unions ended badly. Betrayals, accusations, and mysterious deaths. No wonder our families learned to keep their distance.

I smother another yawn and stand, intending on going to bed, but an old journal tucked behind the others catches my eye. The leather cover is cracked and faded, the pages yellowed with age. The handwriting inside is elegant but difficult to read, written in an older style of Russian that takes me a moment to decipher.

It's a personal journal belonging to one of my ancestors, a woman named Ekaterina Rostova who lived over two hundred years ago. Most of the entries are mundane, daily observations about court life and family matters. But then I reach an entry dated 1804, and my breath catches.

Tucked between the pages is a sketch. It's rough, clearly drawn by an amateur hand, but detailed enough to make out what it depicts. A sword, long and elegant, with an ornate hilt and a blade that seems to shimmer even in the simple pencil drawing. And there, etched into the cross guard, is the Galkin family crest.

My hands shake slightly as I lift the sketch closer to the light. Why would my ancestor have a drawing of a Galkin sword hidden in her private journal? Then I see the note written beneath the drawing in Ekaterina's careful script. The words are faded but still legible.

The guardians must never learn what the sword truly protects.

10

SAMUIL

Last night's dinner was a disaster. I came home with a pounding headache that is still pounding behind my eyes this morning. Princess Ana's declaration that she won't marry me only makes the situation worse. Of course Ivan refused to cancel the engagement, as I knew he would. He got his hooks into me and isn't going to easily let go, no matter how much his daughter argues against it.

Part of me was relieved when she said she wouldn't marry me, but another part of me was unexpectedly disappointed. The contradiction pisses me off more than anything else. I don't do complicated emotions. I don't second-guess my reactions. Yet here I am, driving through the city at dawn, unable to figure out what the fuck I actually want.

I pull into the private garage beneath my residence and kill the engine. The silence feels oppressive. I sit there for a moment, hands still gripping the steering wheel, while I try to sort through the mess in my head.

Ana Rostova is beautiful, intelligent, and complicated. The kiss in my office shocked the hell out of me. Despite her flirtatious nature, I expected her to be cold, not kiss me with a passion that rivaled my own. The marriage bed wouldn't be cold and lonely—it'd be fucking hot!

But she's also twenty-five years old, entitled as hell, and comes with political baggage I don't need. Marrying her would tie me even more to the Rostova family, and I'd rather not make that connection. Our families have been tied together for generations without involving marriage.

"Fuck," I mutter, finally climbing out of the car.

I head straight through the house to a private room on the third floor. Few people are allowed to enter this space. Gregory has been inside maybe twice in all the years he's lived here. The door is reinforced steel disguised as wood, and it’s my private hiding space where I keep valuables I don't want on display or want anyone to know about.

Inside, the room is sparse. Dark hardwood floors, bare walls, a single window with bulletproof glass overlooking the grounds. In the center stands a secured display case made of reinforced glass and steel inside which the ancient Galkin sword rests.

I approach slowly, my footsteps echoing in the quiet space. The sword is over three hundred years old, passed from eldest son to eldest son for generations. The blade is long and elegant, the steel still sharp despite its age. The hilt is ornate, wrapped in leather that's been replaced countless times over the centuries. And there, etched into the cross guard, is the Galkin family crest.

Standing before it, I feel the weight of responsibility that comes with my bloodline. It's not just about being Pakhan or running the organization and maintaining power. That's business. This is something older that predates the Bratva by centuries.

According to family tradition, the Galkins were guardians long before we were crime bosses. We protected the royals for generations. The Rostovas represented the opposite side of that history. Royals and warriors. Rulers and protectors. Two sides of the same coin, but never meant to touch. Bringing the two families together has always been considered dangerous.

I stare at the sword, trying to understand why so many ancestors worked so hard to keep the bloodlines separate. What were they protecting? What were they afraid would happen if a Galkin married a Rostova? As I'm about to do.