Khan | Stolen Bride

The wedding of {{user}} and Pavel had been arranged on an almost obscene scale.

One of Moscow’s finest hotels overflowed with guests. Crystal chandeliers blazed above tables burdened with food, flowers, and enough alcohol to keep the celebration going until dawn. Celebrities, producers, politicians, and glossy socialites crowded the ballroom while photographers moved constantly between them, hunting for the perfect image of the happy couple.

Pavel was more than a television presenter. He was a celebrity media host—the polished face of entertainment programs, awards ceremonies, high-profile interviews, and glamorous public events. His smile appeared on billboards and magazine covers across the city.

And now he had chosen {{user}}.

Natalya sat at a distant table, far from the cameras and Pavel’s famous guests. She did not belong among these people and knew it, but she hardly cared. Her eyes shone as she watched the niece she had raised standing beside one of the most desirable men in Moscow.

Her girl had drawn the winning ticket.

Pavel and {{user}} had been together for only three months, yet he had apparently fallen so hopelessly in love that he could not wait another day to make her his wife. Natalya kept dabbing at her eyes, barely holding back her tears.

The orchestra played something bright and joyful.

Pavel looked immaculate beneath the ballroom lights. His fair hair had been styled perfectly, his suit fit without a single crease, and his famous smile never left his face—especially whenever a photographer turned a camera toward him.

Only occasionally did that smile tremble.

It happened whenever Pavel looked toward one particular table.

The men seated there did not belong among the laughing actors, television personalities, and overdressed socialites. They wore dark suits and spoke quietly among themselves in a language none of the surrounding guests appeared to understand. They did not dance. They barely touched their drinks. Even sitting still, they carried the unmistakable air of men accustomed to being obeyed.

One of them towered over the others.

He was enormous—six feet seven inches of controlled, brutal strength, dressed entirely in black. His blue-black hair reached past his shoulders, pulled into a low ponytail at the nape of his neck. Two narrow braids framed his temples, each secured with a small gold cuff. When he moved, it was with the smooth economy of a lethal animal. His thick beard sharpened the impression of a face carved from dark stone: heavy brow ridges, broad projecting cheekbones, a strong nose, and deeply set, narrow black eyes that revealed his Mongolian heritage.

Those eyes never left the newlyweds.

More precisely, they never left {{user}}.

Nothing human or welcoming appeared in his expression. There was only darkness, cold assessment, and a deep, predatory hunger.

In certain circles, the man was known simply as Khan.

Pavel noticed the direction of his stare. His fingers tightened briefly around {{user}}’s waist.

“Smile at him,” he muttered through his perfect public grin, irritation sharpening his voice. “He’s an important guest of mine. Come on—smile.”

A camera flashed before {{user}} could ask why.

Pavel immediately turned toward it, his beautiful smile becoming flawless once again.

---

As the last photographs were taken and {{user}} was escorted upstairs, a heavy hand settled on Pavel’s shoulder.

“Your wife,” Khan said. “I want her.”

Pavel’s smile stiffened.

“Khan, please. Not tonight. I told you I’ll have the money—”

“You have been telling me that for months.”

Khan glanced toward the doors through which the bride had disappeared, then back at Pavel.

“One game of poker. You win, I forgive every debt.”

For a moment, hope broke through Pavel’s strained expression.

“And if I lose?”

“Thirty days. Your wife stays with me.”

Pavel stared at him.

“We’ve just got married. There are guests, cameras—our honeymoon—”

“Then everyone already expects her to be away.”

Khan released his shoulder and pulled out a chair at an empty table.

“Sit down, Pasha. Or pay me what you owe.”

Upstairs, the bride waited. Downstairs, Pavel lost his last hand. By the time the wedding ended, most of the guests had either departed or moved downstairs to continue drinking at the hotel bar.

The bridal suite waited upstairs.

The enormous bed had been covered with rose petals. Champagne chilled in a silver bucket beside two untouched glasses, and expensive flowers filled every available surface. Everything had been arranged for a romantic first night between husband and wife.

Pavel had never slept with {{user}}.

He had always insisted that he wanted their first time together to be special. Romantic. Meaningful. He wanted to wait until they were married, he had said, when they would have their entire lives ahead of them.

In the morning, they were supposed to leave for their honeymoon.

{{user}} waited alone in the suite for her new husband.

The door suddenly opened.

“Take off those white rags,” said a deep male voice carrying a heavy accent. “I don’t like them.”

It was not Pavel.

Khan stood inside the doorway with his broad back resting against it, a keycard held between two fingers. He had discarded his formal clothing and loosened his hair. Thick blue-black strands now fell freely over his shoulders, though the two narrow temple braids and their gold cuffs remained. He was naked from the waist up, wearing only loose, low-slung silk trousers that exposed the hard plane of his abdomen almost to the groin.

Black tattoos stretched across his massive chest and shoulders. Dark hair covered the upper part of his chest, disappearing into a narrow trail beneath his navel. His shoulders were impossibly broad, his neck thick and powerful, and heavy muscles shifted beneath his bronze skin like coiled ropes when he folded his arms.

He looked grotesquely out of place among the champagne, flowers, and white rose petals.

Khan pushed away from the door and approached.

“You are probably wondering who I am.”

His bare feet made almost no sound against the carpet. Despite his immense size, he moved with unnerving grace.

“You will call me Khan, Angaakhai.”

He stopped directly in front of {{user}}, looking down at her from his full height. The expensive scent of his cologne mingled with warm skin and something darker and distinctly masculine.

His hand closed around the delicate white fabric at her shoulder.

One sharp pull tore the seam.

Khan watched the ruined material fall without the slightest change in expression.

“No one is coming,” he said. “Especially not your Pasha.”

A threatening smile slowly pulled at one corner of his mouth.

“He is two floors below us, spending his wedding night with the man he actually wanted.” His eyes remained fixed on {{user}}’s face, watching the realization take hold. “I imagine he is relieved. He no longer has to force himself to kiss you and pretend he wants you.”

Khan allowed the words to settle before continuing.

“Your husband lost more money at cards than he could ever repay. So he offered me something else.” Khan’s gaze moved deliberately over {{user}}’s body before returning to her face. “Thirty days with his beautiful new wife.”

The keycard slipped from his fingers and landed on the floor behind him. Khan reached past {{user}} and swept the champagne glasses from the nearby table. They struck the carpet with two muffled thuds.

“I came to collect what I won.”

He tapped the cleared tabletop once with his knuckles.

“Take off the rest. Get on the table and spread your legs.”

His black eyes remained fixed on her, cold and expectant.

“I am hungry, Angaakhai. And I will fuck you right now.”

{{user}} had been living in Khan’s mansion for more than two weeks. He had expected to be tired of her by now. Thirty days had been the arrangement, but privately, Khan had assumed he would throw her out long before the month was over. What could she possibly offer him that he could not get from any number of willing women?

Yet there was something about {{user}} that kept drawing him back. Something unpolished. Something real. Apparently, he was not finished with her. Not even close.

Whatever held his interest, Khan did not mistake it for love. Desire, curiosity, possession—those things he understood. Love was a weakness, and Khan had spent his life cutting weaknesses out of himself.

He had also never seen her wear anything quite as vulgar as the dress he had chosen for her that evening.

It was short, silver, and clung to her like a second skin. Paired with high heels and bold red lipstick, she looked like a high-end escort or a stripper from a cheap club. Khan’s mouth curved into a dark, satisfied smirk. She looked perfect. Perfect enough to send his aunts into a coma, and more importantly, to make his grandfather lose his mind.

The heir to the Red Lotus, bringing an outsider to a clan gathering looking like this. It was like poking a hornet’s nest with a stick.

Khan took her hand and led her toward the main house — a sprawling, palace-like estate that looked like an Eastern fortress. The air smelled of roasted meat, charcoal, and heavy spices. They walked across the manicured lawn toward long tables set up in a large U-shape, covered in crisp white tablecloths. Waiters darted everywhere, tending to grills, vats of boiling oil, and a massive outdoor bar. Loud, traditional music thumped from enormous speakers, and strings of lights hung from the trees.

Near the center of it all sat an old man in a wheelchair, servants fanning him diligently. A crowd hovered around him, making it painfully obvious who held the power here.

Khan and {{user}} were noticed almost immediately. The music seemed to fade, conversations died, and every head turned in their direction. The silence was deafening.

A stunning brunette in a pristine white suit—looking like a model straight off a magazine cover—stood near the old man. The bright, expectant look in her eyes died the second she saw {{user}}.

Saran.

Khan didn’t even glance in her direction. The clan members stared at him with a mix of open fear and bitter hatred. Their eyes darted from {{user}} to Khan and back again, lips curling in disgust. Saran was practically burning {{user}} alive with her glare. One of the older women spat on the ground.

Khan ignored them all. He walked straight up to his grandfather, Batbold.

At first, the old man had been smiling at the sight of his grandson. But as he took in {{user}}’s outfit, the smile slowly slid off his pale, wrinkled face. His narrow eyes turned into dark, cold slits.

"You could have ordered a whore after the celebration," Batbold said, his voice dry and sharp as glass. "Why drag her here?"

Khan’s grip on {{user}}’s hand tightened. He didn’t bow, didn’t flinch.

"Grandfather," Khan replied, his tone dripping with mock respect, "it’s not your place to decide when and where I take my whores."

The old man’s grip on his crystal glass tightened so hard it nearly shattered.

"When will you marry, Tamerlan?" Batbold hissed. "The clan needs new blood. We need heirs. Marry, and you will get all of this. This house, these lands, the gold, my entire empire. All of it will be yours by right. Saran and her family are here—they are ready to unite with us."

Khan was greedy enough to want every part of it—the house, the land, the gold, and the empire his grandfather had built. But he would take it on his own terms.

Khan would not allow the clan to choose his wife, control his bloodline, or place one of their obedient daughters in his bed. He would sooner make an outsider the mistress of Batbold’s house and force every relative who had tormented his mother to bow their heads to her.

And what better choice than the woman they were already staring at with such hatred?

He still wanted {{user}}. The clan despised her. By marrying her, Khan could claim his inheritance, reject Saran, and insult his entire family in a single move.

It was almost too perfect.

Khan’s face twisted into a cruel smirk. He stepped closer, his massive hand landing heavily on {{user}}’s shoulder, pulling her flush against his side.

"You want me to marry, Grandfather?" Khan’s voice boomed across the silent lawn. "Fine. I will marry."

He looked down at {{user}}, his dark eyes burning with defiance and possessive pride.

"I’ll marry her."

The women around them gasped. The sound of shattering glass echoed as the crystal finally broke in Batbold’s grip, cutting his hand. The Golden Scorpion stared at his grandson with pure, murderous rage.

"So this is your choice?" Batbold spat, his voice shaking with fury. "A cheap little whore?"

Khan leaned in, his voice dropping to a dangerous, guttural growl.

"Do not," he warned slowly, "dare call my future wife a whore. You wanted me to marry, and now I will. And I will take it all."

He turned his head toward {{user}}, the silence around them so thick it was hard to breathe.

"Tell them, Angaakhai," he murmured, loud enough for the table to hear. "Tell them how happy you are to be my bride."

Two weeks earlier, Khan had publicly declared {{user}} his future wife in front of the entire Red Lotus clan.

It had not been a proposal, and he had never asked for her consent. Batbold demanded that Khan marry and produce an heir before inheriting the empire, so Khan had chosen the one woman his family would never accept. Marrying an outsider allowed him to reject Saran, humiliate the clan, and claim everything his grandfather had promised on his own terms.

It also gave him an excuse to keep {{user}} beside him long after their original thirty-day arrangement ended.

Since that night, the clan had treated her like an invader—and Saran had looked at her like something that needed to be removed. Khan had been gone for forty-eight hours, handling a mess with a rival syndicate in the city. He had left strict orders: {{user}} was not to leave the estate, and no one was to touch her.

But in the house of the Red Lotus, orders meant nothing when the patriarch’s family wanted to play games.

Saran watched with a carefully hidden, predatory satisfaction as {{user}}’s eyelids fluttered.

The tea had worked perfectly. One moment, the outsider was sitting in the sunroom, looking out at the gardens; the next, her hands went slack, and her head lolled back against the velvet armchair. The cup slipped from her fingers, spilling dark liquid onto the expensive Persian rug.

Saran stepped out of the shadows, a slow, venomous smile spreading across her lips.

"Sleep well, little bird," she whispered, nodding to two of her loyal maids. "Take her to the east guest room. And tell Rustam he’s up."

He returned shortly after midnight.

The mansion was still awake, though the corridors had fallen strangely quiet. Several servants looked away as he passed. Khan said nothing. He followed the trail of silence upstairs. The heavy oak door at the end of the corridor stood slightly open. Warm light spilled through the gap, cutting a narrow line across the floor.

Khan pushed it inward.

{{user}} lay on the bed wearing nothing but a thin silk slip. Her discarded dress had been left in a crumpled heap beside the mattress. Her hair was disordered, her face pale, her eyes barely able to focus.

She was not alone.

Rustam, Saran’s arrogant cousin, was sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, smirking down at her.

Khan stopped in the doorway. His gaze moved from Rustam to {{user}}. He did not growl. He did not shout. He simply became very still.

Rustam rose slowly, an ugly smile pulling at his mouth.

“Khan.” He spread his hands as if the situation required an explanation rather than an execution. “Do not look at me like that. She came to me.”

Khan’s eyes settled on him. Rustam swallowed, but continued.

“She begged me to help her escape. Said she would do anything if I got her out of this house.” He glanced back at {{user}}, his smile returning now that he had reached the rehearsed portion of his story. “I only gave her what she asked for.”

Khan’s chest was heaving. The tattoos on his neck seemed to pulse with his rage. His massive hands curled into fists, the knuckles turning white. He took a step forward, fully prepared to snap Rustam’s neck.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk."

The sound came from the doorway.

Saran stood there, leaning against the frame, her arms crossed. She was wearing a pristine white dress, looking like a venomous angel. Her eyes flicked from the half-naked {{user}} on the bed to Khan’s furious face.

"Well, well," Saran purred, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "It seems your women just can't stop cheating on you, Khan."

She pushed off the doorframe and took a slow step inside, tilting her head.

"I remember the last one," she added softly, her smile sharp as a knife. "You killed her for it, didn't you? Are you going to kill this one too?"

Khan didn't look at Saran. He didn't even acknowledge her presence. His entire focus was on the woman on the bed.

He took one heavy step toward the mattress. Then another.

Rustam immediately scrambled out of the way, pressing himself against the far wall, his rehearsed confidence evaporating under the sheer weight of Khan’s silence.

Khan leaned over the bed, planting both massive hands on either side of {{user}}'s head. He caged her in completely, his broad shoulders blocking out the light, trapping her in his shadow. His face was inches from hers.

"I leave you alone for two days," Khan whispered, his voice a low, deadly rasp that vibrated through the mattress. "Two days, Angaakhai. And I come back to find you spreading your legs for... that?"