Page 14 of The Pakhan’s Hidden Heir

“A little over forty thousand, once you fold in the penalties and the interest they’ve piled on. The grandmother had cancer treatments not covered by the state.” He slides another paper across my desk and grimaces. “Seems there may be some hidden debt too, but all of it’s medical—sixty thousand or more. I’m not sure she’s even aware of some of these bills.”

Akim meets my eyes with a smug expression, as if learning this bit of information about Raina is going to change my mind. I’ve already told him, the stain on her financial past isn’t an indicator of what sort of child she will bear.

I’m not interested in her darkness; I’m interested in her womb—and a little bit interested in the way she made me so turned on I couldn’t control myself.

“Pay it,” I say, “all of it—today, if we can move that fast. I want those people to have no reason left to dial her number.”

Akim’s jaw tightens, and he leans forward with his forearms on his knees. “Bastian, think about what that does. You pay off her debt and you’ve tied yourself to her financially. You’ve spent a year telling me a woman is a way in, a weakness⁠—”

“I said,” I interrupt him, glowering at him. “Pay. It.”

He isn’t wrong to remind me of my past folly, of Agnya and the pain I went through. It’s the same argument I’d make if I were watching out for him. But I’m losing patience with this. Unless he comes into this office telling me she has some incurable disease or ties to one of my enemies, I’m not changing my mind.

“This is pocket change to me, but to her it’s lifesaving. If it alleviates her stress so that she can be rested and in a good place mentally to incubate my heir then it’s worth the expense.” I’m not budging on this, and talking about her is making me want her. I’ve been so busy for two days I’ve barely slept and haven’t even had the pleasure of indulging a second time yet. I want this business taken care of so I can go find her.

Akim glowers at me, but he sits back and lifts both hands in surrender.

He doesn’t like it but he’ll do it anyway, and he’ll do it well. I know when I’ve made my mind he can be trusted to do what I’ve asked.

“Work out the details among yourselves,” I tell them, pushing my chair back to stand. “Grigor, handle the zoning quietly. Akim, the debt. I don’t need to hear about either one again unless it goes wrong.”

I leave the three of them there with the folders and their grumbling and walk out of my office.

I’m frustrated with both of them talking at me like they get to affect my choices. When they come around, and they will, they’ll see how my way is the best way.

For now, I stalk the halls, looking for the one thing in this house that will bring me some relief.

Miss Volina sits in my library, nestled into one of the upholstered chaise lounges near the window, deep in a thick volume, which she closes as I approach.

“Mr. Dravenko.” She uses one finger to hold her place.

“Raina,” I tell her, “please call me Bastian.”

Her cheeks flush as she sits a little straighter. “I should thank you. Ingrid said I could use the library, and I’ve been in here more than anywhere else, so—thank you. I didn’t realize we both share a love of books.” Her face beams, and it’s radiant. I find myself staring at those perfect bow-shaped lips, so plump and ready to be devoured.

“It’s meant to be used.” I cross to her chair and tip my head to read the spine under her hand, expecting something soft—a smutty romance or a murder mystery.

What I find gives me pause. She’s holding Dostoevsky. The Idiot—well into it by the look of where her finger’s wedged, and she seems eager to return to it too.

“You’re reading Dostoevsky?” I ask, letting some of my surprise leak into my tone. I love the old classics, especially traditional Russian literature.

“I’m rereading it, actually.” A little more color washes her face, but she doesn’t drop my gaze. “I read it the first time when I was eighteen and I don’t think I understood half of it.” She lifts one shoulder, almost apologetically. “I rather enjoy reading.”

I said in her interview that her file left out more than it told me, and here’s the proof.

She’s gorgeous, and perhaps that’s why I chose her, but she’s brilliant too.

And fascinating to me. I cock my head again, standing back and watching the blush on her cheeks deepen at my awestruck silence, but finding I have something in common with this woman twenty years my junior has my tongue.

“Most people mistake Myshkin’s goodness for weakness,” I say absently, still mesmerized by our common interest.

Her brows lift, revealing she’s pleased and trying not to show it. “You’ve read it.”

“I’ve read all of them. This room isn’t decoration, Miss Volina.” I take the arm of the chair across from hers and lower myself into it. “So you like the classics?”

“I do, very much. They remind me of my grandmother, whom I miss very much. She would read to me when I was young, usually Dumas or Hemmingway. Both authors she loved, but I have always preferred Dostoyevsky.”

The attraction I’ve been feeling toward her only intensifies as I find we have more in common than I realized. It’s one thing even Agnya could never tolerate—my love of literature.