Page 24 of The Pakhan’s Unwanted Bride

His eyes darken. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you looked relieved when I said I wouldn't marry you." Now why the hell did I say that? I almost sound… pitiful. Ugh! I straighten to my full regal height, which is only five feet, five inches, but still. "Like you'd just been handed a reprieve from a death sentence."

"Maybe I was."

The words sting more than they should. I yank my wrist free from his grip and take a step back. "Well, congratulations. You got exactly what you wanted. I refused the marriage, and now you're free."

"Except I'm not free." He moves closer, closing the distance I just created. "Your father made it clear that the engagement stands, whether you want it or not. So we're both trapped in this situation, Princess. The only difference is I'm not pretending it's something it isn't."

"And what is it?" I challenge. "Tell me what you think this is." I wave my hand between the two of us for emphasis.

"A business arrangement. An alliance between families who've hated each other for generations. Nothing more."

"Then why are you still standing here?" My voice drops lower. "If it's just business, why haven't you walked away?"

"Because this is my office."

Well, he got me there. I'm just so flustered, I can't think straight. If I drop my anger for even a second, then I start imagining his lips on mine. Remembering how his eyes darkened from passion when he'd kissed me.

My thoughts must be playing across my face because one moment, he's standing there with that controlled, disciplined mask firmly in place. The next, he's closing the distance between us and his mouth crashes down on mine.

The kiss is a bit like the first one, but if possible, even more intense. His hands grip my waist, pulling me against him with enough force to steal my breath. I should push him away and remind him that I just said I was glad I refused to marry him. But my body has other ideas. My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. When his tongue sweeps into my mouth, I meet him with equal intensity.

What begins as anger becomes something else entirely. His hands slide up my sides, his thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts through the thin fabric of my sweater. I arch into the touch, and he makes a sound low in his throat that sends heat pooling between my thighs.

For several reckless minutes, neither of us remembers why we're fighting. I discover that the controlled, disciplined Pakhan hides dangerous passion beneath that carefully maintained exterior. His kiss is demanding, possessive, and claiming me in a way that should terrify me but instead makes me want more.

A whole lot more.

His hands lower to my hips, and lift me slightly so I'm pressed more fully against him. I can feel the hard length of him through his pants, and the knowledge that I affect him this way sends a thrill through me. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and he groans against my mouth.

The encounter escalates quickly. His hands slide beneath my sweater, his palms hot against my bare skin. I tilt my head back, giving him access to my throat, and he takes immediate advantage. His mouth trails down the column of my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, and I gasp.

"Samuil," I breathe, and the sound of his name seems to break whatever spell we're under.

He pulls away abruptly, setting me back on my feet with enough force that I stumble slightly. His breathing is ragged, his hair disheveled from my fingers, and he looks visibly angry with himself for losing control.

"This was a mistake," he says roughly.

I blink, then blink again as I try to catch my breath. What the hell just happened? "A mistake," I repeat flatly.

"Yes." He takes another step back, putting distance between us. "This can't happen again."

"Why not?" I challenge, anger and hurt pride replacing the earlier passion. "Because you're afraid of losing control? Because the great Samuil Galkin might actually feel something?"

"Because it complicates an already impossible situation." His jaw clenches. "Go to your room, Anastasia."

"Don't order me around."

"I'm not ordering. I'm asking." His voice softens slightly. "Please. Just go."

The please is what does it. I turn without another word and walk down the hallway toward the east wing, my heels clicking against the hardwood floor. I don't look back, even though I can feel his eyes on me the entire way.

The evening is miserable. I retreat to my suite determined to hate him, to focus on all the reasons this engagement is a terrible idea. But every time I try to work up proper outrage, I remember the way he kissed me, and I get all flushed. A growing ache remains between my thighs, and I curse him for stopping things just when they started getting interesting.

Sleep proves impossible. I lie in the massive bed staring at the ceiling for hours. I miss my familiar and comfortable bed piled high with soft pillows. I miss my comforter, my room, my home. Here, I'm a stranger. The staff might know who I am, but they don't know me. For the first time in my life, I feel alone and unwanted. And it's a bit terrifying.

By the time morning arrives, I'm exhausted and irritated and determined to pretend last night never happened. I dress carefully in tailored black pants and a cream silk blouse, pulling my hair back into a sleek ponytail. My outfits are my armor and I always dress for whatever situation I'm expecting to face.