Page 86 of The Pakhan’s Unwanted Bride

"Ana's pregnant?" The accusation in his voice is unmistakable. His hands curl into fists at his sides as he stares at Samuil. The betrayal on his face is so raw, so visceral, that I feel like I'm intruding on something deeply personal.

"Gregory." Samuil's voice carries a warning.

Without another word, he turns sharply and walks toward the door. The sound of it slamming echoes through the library like a gunshot. The silence that follows is suffocating. I look at Samuil, whose expression has gone cold and unreadable. My father is watching him carefully, concern evident in his eyes.

"That went well," I mutter, trying to break the tension.

My father stands slowly, moving to where Samuil is still standing rigid by the table. "You need to be careful with that boy."

"He's not a boy," Samuil says flatly. "He's a man, and he's my second in command."

"He's a man who just looked at you like you betrayed him." My father's voice is gentle but firm. "His loyalty has crossed a line, Samuil. You need to watch him, not trust him blindly."

Samuil's jaw tightens, but he doesn't argue. I can see the conflict playing across his face, the war between the man who raised Gregory and the Pakhan who needs to protect his family.

"I'll handle it," Samuil finally says.

My father nods once, then turns to me. "You should rest, Ana. You look exhausted."

He's right. The emotional weight of the morning has left me drained. I stand slowly, smoothing down my dress. "I think I will."

Samuil watches me leave, but he doesn't follow. I can feel the tension radiating off him even from across the room. By afternoon, I'm lying in the massive bed in our suite, staring up at the ceiling. The blankets are pulled up to my chin, and the room is quiet except for the distant sounds of the estate. My mind keeps replaying Gregory's reaction, the shock and betrayal in his voice.

I rest my hand on my stomach again, feeling the flatness beneath my palm. In a few months, this will be undeniable. My body will change, and everyone will know. The secret we're trying so desperately to keep will be impossible to hide.

The thought should terrify me. A year ago, it would have. I never wanted children. The idea of being tied down, of losing my freedom, of becoming someone's mother instead of just myself, felt like a prison sentence. But now, lying here with Samuil's child growing inside me, I don't feel trapped. I feel determined.

This baby is mine. Mine and Samuil's. And I will protect it with everything I have. My priorities have shifted so completely that I barely recognize the woman I was before the wedding. That Ana cared about parties and attention and being the center of everyone's world. This Ana cares about keeping her family safe and building something real with the dangerous man she married.

I close my eyes and let exhaustion pull me under, my hand still resting protectively over my stomach.

Evening arrives too quickly. I wake to find Samuil sitting in the chair by the window, watching me with an unreadable expression. He's changed into fresh clothes, black pants and a dark gray shirt that makes his eyes look almost silver in the fading light.

"How long have you been sitting there?" I ask, my voice still rough with sleep.

"Not long." He stands and crosses to the bed, sitting on the edge beside me. "Ready to eat? Benedikt's special meal is waiting for us."

The mention of food makes my stomach turn slightly, but I push the nausea down. "Sure."

Samuil offers his hand and helps me sit up. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Just tired." I smooth my hair back, trying to make myself presentable. "Let's go before Benedikt's hard work turns cold."

The dining room is warm and inviting when we arrive. Candles flicker on the long table, and the rich aroma of traditional Russian cooking fills the air. My father is already seated at the head of the table, looking pleased with himself. Benedikt stands near the sideboard, wearing a simple white shirt and dark pants, his expression carefully neutral.

"Princess Anastasia, Pakhan." Benedikt inclines his head respectfully. "I hope you'll enjoy the meal. It's my grandmother's recipe."

The smell hits me harder as I take my seat beside Samuil. Rich meat, heavy spices, something with cabbage. My stomach immediately rebels, and I have to swallow hard against the wave of nausea.

Benedikt serves the plates with careful precision, setting them in front of each of us. My father's plate arrives first, a deep crimson borscht topped with a generous dollop of sour cream that swirls across the surface, the earthiness of beets rising in pungent waves. Beside it sits a generous portion of beef stroganoff, the meat tender and swimming in a rich cream sauce studded with sautéed mushrooms that glisten with butter. Egg noodles form a golden nest beneath the stroganoff, and a small pile of mushroom pelmeni sits to the side, their delicate pleats catching the candlelight. My father digs in immediately, making appreciative sounds as he lifts a spoonful of the borscht to his mouth.

My plate is identical to my father's, and I stare down at my plate and feel my stomach turn over violently. The rich aroma of the cream sauce hits me like a physical force, thick and cloying, mixing with the earthy mushroom smell and the deep, almost metallic scent of the beets. My mouth waters, but not because the food is making me hungry. The stroganoff's glossy surface seems to shimmer under the candlelight, and all I can think about is how heavy it will feel in my stomach. I wrinkle my nose, trying not to be obvious about my distress.

Samuil's plate is starkly different. A simple grilled salmon fillet, pale pink and unadorned, with a light squeeze of lemon. Beside it sits plain white rice, fluffy and pristine, and steamed vegetables arranged with minimal seasoning, their natural colors bright and clean. No cream sauce. No mushrooms. No heavy spices. Just simple, plain food that doesn't assault the senses.

Without a word, I slide my untouched plate across the table toward Samuil and reach for his instead. His meal is simpler and less heavily spiced. He raises an eyebrow at me but doesn't comment. A hint of amusement plays at the corner of his mouth as he accepts the stroganoff plate without complaint.

"The baby doesn't like it," I say simply, picking up my fork.