Page 59 of The Pakhan’s Unwanted Bride

I wake with a gasp, my heart racing, my body covered in cold sweat. The nightmare clings to me like a physical thing, refusing to fade even as consciousness returns. My sheets are tangled around my legs, damp with perspiration. My hands are shaking.

I sit up, pressing my palms against my eyes, trying to force the images away. But they remain, burned into my mind with terrible clarity. My hand goes to the side of the bed and reaches emptiness. Samuil hasn't come to bed yet.

A chill of foreboding snakes through my body. What is that symbol that was painted on my father's car? Why do I have a feeling I should recognize it?

30

SAMUIL

Ana's cries wake me with a jolt. In an instant, I'm sitting upright in bed. My hand moves to the pistol on the nightstand before my eyes fully open, muscle memory taking over. I'm on my feet in seconds, weapon raised, scanning the bedroom for threats.

Nothing. The room is empty except for Ana thrashing in the bed, her body twisted in the sheets. A strangled cry escapes her throat. I lower the gun and move to her side, setting the weapon on the nightstand. It takes a second for my heart to steady, and then I gently lay a hand on her shoulder and give it a little shake.

"Ana." I keep my voice low and steady as I sit on the edge of the bed. "Wake up."

She doesn't respond, still trapped in whatever hell her mind has conjured. Her face is pale, damp with sweat, and her breathing is rapid and shallow.

"Princess. You need to wake up now."

Her eyes snap open, wide and unfocused. For a moment she doesn't recognize me, and I see genuine terror in her expression. Then awareness returns and she gasps, her hand flying to her chest.

"Samuil." My name comes out broken, barely a whisper.

"You're safe." I brush damp hair back from her forehead. "It was just a dream."

"No." She shakes her head violently, struggling to catch her breath. "It wasn't just a dream. It was a memory. I know it was."

"Tell me what you saw." I shift closer, giving her my full attention. "Every detail you can remember, before it fades."

She pulls herself up against the headboard, wrapping her arms around her knees. The silk nightgown she's wearing clings to her body, outlining the curve of her breasts and the flat plane of her stomach, but for once I'm not distracted by how fucking beautiful she is.

"I was running through corridors." Her voice is steadier now but still shaken. "The stone walls seemed very old, and so very cold." She pauses and shivers, pulling the covers up to just under her chin. "There were torches providing light, but it was still dark. And there was screaming. Not me." She shakes her head. "I don't know who was screaming, but it was several people."

"How old were you?"

"Young. Maybe five or six. I was small, my legs were short, and I couldn't run very fast." She closes her eyes, concentrating. "Someone grabbed me. A man. I can't see his face clearly, but he was terrified. He kept telling me to close my eyes, not to look."

"But you looked anyway."

"Children never listen." A bitter smile crosses her face. "I saw the symbol. The same one that was painted on my father's car. But in the dream, it wasn't paint."

"What was it?" I prompt when she doesn't continue. I have an idea I already know what it will be, but it's important she tells me. She needs to face this nightmare, and the best way is to talk about it while it's still fresh, before it disappears as most dreams do.

"Blood." She opens her eyes and looks directly at me. "Fresh blood dripping down a stone wall. I could smell it. And the screaming got louder and louder until I woke up."

Fuck. This isn't just childhood imagination or random nightmare imagery. This is something she witnessed, something traumatic enough that her mind buried it for twenty years.

"Have you had this dream before?"

"Never. Not until after seeing that photograph you showed me of the symbol on my father's car." She hugs her knees tighter. "Why would someone make me forget something like that? Why would no one ever talk about it?"

"Because whatever happened was dangerous enough that they wanted to protect you from the memory." I stand and move to the window, looking out at the dark grounds. "Or they were protecting themselves from what you might remember."

The implications settle between us, heavy and oppressive. If Ana witnessed something connected to that symbol when she was a child, and now that same symbol appears on her father's vehicle after he disappears, we're not dealing with random violence or simple kidnapping.

"I need you to think carefully." I turn back to face her. "The man who grabbed you, who told you to close your eyes. Do you remember anything else about him? His voice? His size? Anything?"

She's quiet for a long moment, her brow furrowed in concentration. "He was tall. Taller than my father. And his hands were rough when he grabbed my shoulders. Working hands, not soft like the aristocrats who visited the estate."