Page 70 of The Pakhan’s Unwanted Bride

"I understand that, Pakhan." Benedikt's jaw tightens but he doesn't argue. "I simply thought that if you spoke with him, explained my qualifications and my history with the princess, he might reconsider his decision."

"Samuil doesn't make decisions lightly, and he doesn't change his mind without good reason." My father's tone is gentle but firm. "If he removed you from Ana's detail, he had his reasons. I won't interfere with how he runs his organization or protects his wife."

Benedikt accepts the refusal with a single nod, but I can see the disappointment etched into every line of his face. He thanks my father for his time and leaves the room without another word, and I'm left sitting in the chair feeling like another piece of my old life has quietly slipped away without my permission. Benedikt has been my shadow for as long as I can remember, the constant presence who made me feel safe even when the world around me was dangerous and unpredictable. Now he's been removed from that role, and I didn't even know it was happening until it was already done.

"You didn't know Samuil had reassigned him." My father's observation isn't a question.

"No." I stand up and walk to the window, looking out at the gardens below. "I didn't know. Apparently, my husband makes decisions about my life without bothering to inform me first."

"He's protecting you in the way he thinks is best." My father's voice follows me across the room. "That's what a Pakhan does, Ana. He makes the hard choices so you don't have to."

I want to argue and point out that I should at least be consulted about decisions that directly affect me, but I know my father is right. This is the world I married into, the life I chose when I became Samuil's wife. I don't get to pick and choose which parts of being a Pakhan’s wife I accept and which parts I reject. It's all or nothing, and I chose all when I said my vows.

Later that afternoon, restless energy drives me through the halls of the estate until I find myself near the private indoor shooting range that Samuil had built in the basement level. The sound of gunfire echoes through the corridor, steady and rhythmic, and I follow it until I reach the reinforced door. Through the small window, I can see Samuil standing at one of the lanes, calmly emptying magazine after magazine into targets with remarkable speed and precision. He's wearing dark jeans and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the tattoos that cover his forearms. His movements are fluid and controlled, each shot placed exactly where he intends it to go.

I watch him for several minutes before pushing open the door and stepping inside. The sharp smell of gunpowder fills my nose, and the sound of the shots is much louder without the barrier of the door between us. Samuil doesn't turn around immediately, but I see his shoulders tense slightly, acknowledging my presence even as he continues firing.

"You're sneaking up on an armed man, Princess." He sets down the pistol and finally turns to face me, and there's amusement in his dark eyes. "That's either very brave or very stupid."

"Maybe a little of both." I cross the room toward him, my boots echoing on the concrete floor. "I didn't mean to interrupt your practice."

"You're not interrupting." He gestures to the array of weapons laid out on the table beside him. "Want to shoot? You did well last time, but you could use more practice."

The offer surprises me, but I find myself nodding. Samuil selects a smaller pistol from the collection and checks it carefully before handing it to me. He moves behind me, his body pressing against mine as he adjusts my stance and corrects my grip on the weapon. His hands are warm and steady on my waist, his breath ghosting across my neck as he leans in to speak quietly near my ear.

"Feet shoulder-width apart. Bend your knees slightly. Don't lock your elbows." His voice is low and instructive, each word sending shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with the weapon in my hands. "Good. Now focus on the target. Don't think about anything else. Just breathe and squeeze the trigger slowly."

I follow his instructions, acutely aware of every point where his body touches mine. The heat of him seeps through my clothes, and I can feel the solid muscle of his chest against my back, the strength in his arms as they guide mine into the correct position. When I finally squeeze the trigger, the recoil jolts through my arms but the bullet hits dead center of the target. Pride surges through me, and I turn my head to grin up at him.

"I did it."

"You did." He smiles back, and the expression transforms his usually stern face into something warmer and more approachable. "You're better than last time. Keep practicing and you'll be as good as any of my soldiers."

We spend another twenty minutes at the range, with Samuil patiently correcting my form and offering quiet praise when I hit my targets. By the time we're finished, my arms ache from the repeated recoil and my ears ring despite the protective headphones, but I feel more confident than I did when I walked in. Samuil cleans and stores the weapons, and then we leave the range together and make our way outside to the gardens.

The afternoon sun is warm on my face as we walk along the stone paths that wind through carefully maintained flower beds and sculpted hedges. Guards follow at a discreet distance, close enough to respond to any threat but far enough away to give us the illusion of privacy. I breathe in the scent of roses and jasmine, letting the peaceful surroundings ease some of the tension that's been building in my chest since this morning.

We walk in silence for several minutes, and I find myself studying Samuil from the corner of my eye. He looks more relaxed out here than he does inside the estate, his shoulders less rigid, his expression less guarded. The sunlight catches the gray threading through his dark hair, and I'm struck again by how attractive he is in a way that has nothing to do with conventional handsomeness and everything to do with raw presence.

"Why did you remove Benedikt from my security detail?" The question comes out more abruptly than I intended, but I've been holding it in since this morning, and I really want to know.

Samuil glances at me, his expression unreadable. "Your father told you."

"Benedikt told my father. I was sitting right there when he asked to be reassigned back to me." I stop walking and turn to face him fully. "Why didn't you tell me yourself? He's been protecting me since I was a child. Don't I deserve to know when decisions like that are being made about my own security?"

"You deserve to be safe." Samuil's voice is calm but firm. "That's what matters. Not your feelings about who's assigned to protect you."

Heat rises to my cheeks at the dismissal in his tone. "My feelings matter when they're about my life. Benedikt knows me better than anyone. He understands the threats I face, my routines, everything. He's my best friend, like a brother to me. What possible reason could you have for removing him?"

Samuil studies me for a long moment, and I can see him weighing how much to tell me. Finally, he starts walking again, and I fall into step beside him. "Benedikt watches you like a man in love, not like a bodyguard doing his job." He pauses and shoots me a sideways glance. "Or a brother. That kind of emotional attachment makes people careless. It makes them take risks they shouldn't take because they're thinking with their hearts instead of their heads."

The observation catches me completely off guard. "That's ridiculous. Benedikt has never been anything but professional with me."

"Professional." Samuil's tone suggests he doesn't believe that for a second. "The man looks at you like you're the only thing in the world that matters to him. I've seen how he positions himself between you and everyone else, including me. That's not professional protection. That's bordering on obsession."

I want to argue and insist that Samuil is reading too much into simple loyalty. But the truth is, I've noticed the way Benedikt looks at me sometimes when he thinks I'm not paying attention. I've felt the intensity of his protectiveness, the way it goes beyond what duty requires. I just never wanted to acknowledge it because acknowledging it would mean dealing with it, and I didn't know how.

"Even if you're right," I say carefully, "he's still the best person to protect me. He's proven that for years."