Page 12 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

The officiant stands on the small platform—a thin, nervous-looking man in an ill-fitting suit who won’t quite meet anyone’s eyes. He’s been paid well for this, I’m sure. Paid to legitimize a forced marriage and ask no questions about the bride who clearly isn’t here by choice.

Pavel waits beside the platform, and when I see him, something tightens in my chest.

He’s wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal suit with a black shirt underneath, no tie. Everything about him radiatescontrolled power—from his precisely combed hair to the way he stands with absolute confidence that this ceremony will proceed exactly as planned. His steel-gray eyes track my approach with that same assessing quality I’ve come to recognize, studying me like I’m a problem to be solved rather than a woman about to become his wife.

Our eyes meet, and I refuse to look away first. Refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing fear or surrender in my expression.

His mouth doesn’t quite smile, but something shifts in his gaze. Approval, maybe. Or just acknowledgment that I’m still fighting despite knowing I’ve already lost.

The guards guide me to stand beside him on the platform. This close, I’m hyperaware of the height difference—he’s nearly a foot taller, broad-shouldered and solid in a way that makes me feel small despite my heels. The scent of his cologne reaches me, something expensive and understated that shouldn’t be this distracting.

I force my attention to the officiant instead.

He clears his throat nervously. “We are gathered here today to—to witness the union of Pavel Dmitriyevich Rudenko and Serena Marie Souris in holy matrimony—”

The words blur together, formal and meaningless. I stopped believing in the sanctity of marriage the moment my father signed a contract trading me for political protection. This isn’t holy. It’s a business transaction dressed up in legal language and white flowers.

“—if anyone present knows of any reason why these two should not be joined—”

I almost laugh. What would happen if I spoke up? If I told everyone in this room that I’m here under duress, that thisentire ceremony is coerced, that the groom is a criminal who kidnapped me and threatened my family?

The pause is perfunctory, barely a breath before the officiant continues. “Then we shall proceed with the vows. Pavel Dmitriyevich Rudenko, do you take this woman—”

Pavel’s voice is steady and certain as he recites the required words. The irony would be funny if it weren’t so horrifying.

Then it’s my turn.

“Serena Marie Souris,” the officiant says, and I can hear the tremor in his voice now. He knows. Of course he knows. “Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward?”

Every instinct screams at me to refuse. To say no, to walk out, to make them physically force the words from my mouth. It would be satisfying to disrupt Pavel’s carefully controlled ceremony, to prove that he can’t completely break me.

What would that accomplish beyond brief satisfaction? He already told me the legal documents will be signed regardless of my cooperation. Refusing the vows won’t stop this marriage—it will only force them to use methods that strip away even more of my dignity.

I meet Pavel’s gaze, letting him see exactly how much I hate him in this moment.

Then I say the words that seal my fate.

“I do.”

The officiant looks relieved as he moves to the ring portion. A young Bratva soldier steps forward with a small velvet box, opening it to reveal two simple platinum bands. No diamonds, no ornamentation. Just smooth metal circles that look more like shackles than symbols of devotion.

Pavel takes the smaller ring, then reaches for my left hand.

His fingers close around my wrist first. The contact sends an unwelcome jolt of awareness through me, his skin warm against mine, his grip controlled and deliberate. He studies my hand for a moment, thumb pressing lightly against my pulse point where it must be racing despite my attempts at composure.

Then he slides the ring onto my finger with agonizing slowness.

The metal is cool and foreign. What unsettles me more is the way his thumb drags across my skin as he completes the movement—a deliberate caress that feels far too intimate for this clinical transaction. His eyes never leave mine throughout, watching for my reaction with that same calculating assessment.

My pulse spikes under his touch, and from the slight shift in his expression, he feels it.

He releases my hand, and I immediately want to strip the ring off and throw it at him. Instead, I curl my fingers into a fist, feeling the weight of it against my skin.

The officiant hands me Pavel’s ring, and I’m forced to take his hand in return. His fingers are long, calloused in places that suggest he’s done more than just give orders. I slide the platinum band onto his ring finger with none of the deliberate slowness he used—quick, efficient, wanting this over with.

“By the power vested in me,” the officiant says quickly, clearly eager to finish, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You… you may kiss the bride.”

Everything in me goes rigid.