Page 25 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

Pavel opens the door, leaning against the frame with his usual controlled posture. He’s changed from his earlier suit into dark pants and a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His gaze sweeps the room, landing on the empty tray.

“You ate,” he observes.

“Your staff was very insistent.” I stand, putting the chair between us like a barrier. “Was that the point, to prove you can force me to follow routines even when I try to resist them?”

“The point was ensuring you didn’t skip meals out of stubborn defiance.” He crosses his arms, expression unreadable. “The kitchen prepared dishes you enjoy. That seemed more effective than sending up food you’d refuse to touch.”

“How considerate of you to snoop and figure out my preferences.”

“Yes,” he agrees simply, no trace of irony. “It is considerate. You’re welcome.”

The audacity of that response leaves me momentarily speechless.

“Did you come here just to collect gratitude?” I finally manage. “I’m not going to thank you for the bare minimum of ensuring I’m fed.”

“I came to check that you actually ate rather than throwing the food away or feeding it to the guards out of spite.” His gaze remains steady on mine. “Since you did eat, my purpose is served.”

He turns to leave, and I hear myself speak before I can think better of it.

“Why do you care?”

He pauses, glancing back. “About whether you eat?”

“About any of it. The specific food, the careful preparation, making sure I’m comfortable in my captivity.” I grip the back of the chair harder. “You’ve made it very clear this is a business arrangement. So why bother with details that don’t serve any strategic purpose?”

For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. Just studies me with that assessing gaze I’ve come to recognize, like he’s calculating exactly how much truth to reveal.

“You’re more useful healthy and functional than starving and miserable,” he finally says. “Small considerations cost me nothing while potentially making this arrangement less antagonistic.”

“So it is manipulation.”

“Everything is manipulation, Serena. The question is whether it’s also true.” He straightens from the doorframe. “I do prefer you fed and healthy. I do notice details about the people in my household. Whether those observations serve strategic purposes doesn’t make them less genuine.”

He closes the door before I can respond, leaving me alone with the empty tray and the uncomfortable realization that Ican’t tell if he’s being honest or simply very, very good at making calculated gestures seem sincere.

I sink back into the chair, pressing my fingers against my temples.

This would be so much easier if he were simply cruel. If he ruled through fear and violence with no complexity underneath. But instead, he’s this impossibly controlled man who runs his organization with cold precision while somehow still noticing that I prefer salmon to chicken and remembers to order it prepared when I skip dinner.

I hate how much that small attention unsettles me.

I hate that I ate every bite.

I especially hate the small, treacherous part of me that’s wondering what else he’s noticed, what other details he’s cataloged and filed away for future use.

If Pavel Rudenko pays this much attention to something as minor as my food preferences, what else does he know that I haven’t realized yet?

Chapter Ten - Pavel

Something has shifted.

I notice it first on a Tuesday morning while reviewing security reports in my office. Through the open door, I hear laughter drifting up from the lower floor—genuine, unrestrained amusement that sounds completely out of place in this house.

I set down the tablet and move to investigate, following the sound to the kitchen.

Serena stands at the center island beside Anya, one of our senior cooks, both of them focused on something that requires careful hand movements. Flour dusts Serena’s dark sweater, and her hair is pulled back in a casual ponytail that makes her look younger than her twenty-four years.

“No, like this.” Anya demonstrates, her heavily accented English patient as she shapes dough with practiced efficiency. “Fold, press, turn. The rhythm matters more than speed.”