Page 46 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

The heel of my palm digs ruthlessly at my breastbone. No amount of kneading seems to alleviate the pressure.

“Filip,” I wrestle the name free from my throat. “I need—Can you come here a second, please?”

I can’t tell if I’m truly as choked-up as I sound to my own ears. But I must be, to some degree. His immaculate Ferragamo loafers tap briskly across the marble floor. In a handful of seconds, he’s knocking at the bathroom door.

If he’s alarmed or unnerved by my uncharacteristic state of hysteria, his features don’t betray it. They remain schooled into the same passivity as ever. In fact, he’s all business, prompting, “Can I get you some medicine? Extra clothing? A tampon?” without any of the options harboring any judgment either way.

I’d commend him for it if I weren’t breaking into a cold sweat.

If I weren’t having to grimly shake my head and choke out, “I need you to go to the store and get me a pregnancy test, please.”

Chapter 16 - Anton

There’s nothing about this woman that I don’t notice. If I let myself admit it, I suppose it’s always been there, this innate awareness of her, oftentimes to my own annoyance.

But what had once been unchosen curiosity has, in a remarkably short period of time, become knowledge and understanding about who she is, how she works, and what is unusual for her. It seems, however, that I haven’t gotten to know her as much as I believed that I had, since I can’t for the life of me name exactly what it is about her that has felt off all week.

She’s still Darya. Dry and quick-witted Darya. Beautiful and mercurial Darya. Effortlessly put together and unfailingly adept Darya. On the surface, all is well. There’s no overt friction between us. We are maintaining the new status quo of balancing tongue-in-cheek quips and keeping the peace.

Yet, though it isn’t as if she’s suddenly recoiling from my touch, she’s been feeling distant even when she’s looking right at me. She hasn’t let me touch her all week, claiming her breasts feel sore. I have no reason not to believe her, except—

When our eyes meet, it’s like looking at her through a glass partition; I can see her, clear as day, but I’m aware of a solid, impenetrable blockage in the path.

It’s strange, isn’t it, how all I’d wanted when she first walked up to me all those months ago was for her to leave me the fuck alone. I’d wanted for her to stop talking—to cease her random philosophizing. To not look at me with familiarity and warmth, as if we were friends. She feels like my friend now, albeit in an entirely different way than Anastasia does. Or she did right up until a week ago.

Now that I know how it feels to have her, no matter the past, I’m not willing to give her up. Not even to her own secrets.

It doesn’t matter how much I rack my brain. I can’t figure it out. What the fuck did I do? Was it something someone else did—one of her brothers? Would it piss her off further for me to ask one of them? Miron, maybe?

No. That would be fucking insane, probably.

Par for the course, I guess, since I feel like a madman.

A madman who can’t focus on anything, as can be seen from the fact that I come home early, then find myself irritated beyond belief when Darya is nowhere to be found.

I’m acting like a clingy little bitch.

This realization should probably stop me in my tracks. But it doesn’t. Without preamble, I have my phone out of my pocket and in my hand. Let’s call it a fucking win that I don’t call her and demand where she is like some alpha male motherfucker; she’d probably divorce me on the spot. In comparison, surely it is leaps and bounds more tame to shoot her a quick, pithy text message.

Me: Let’s go out tonight

Me: Dress for me, and I’ll make it worth your while

Not needy. Sexy, right?

It slakes my thirst for her attention for a moment when it appears that she is typing a response within the next minute. The relief of it doesn’t last long, but it’s something.

My phone vibrates in my fist.

Darya: Define “out”

I consider Google searching for the word and shooting a screenshot of the definition her way, like a juvenile smartass. However, in case I did actually piss her off somehow, I don’t want to accidentally make it worse.

So, I reassess my approach. I pause, take a beat.

Then start typing.

Me: To dinner. Do not be difficult.