Page 30 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

“I’m sure you are.” Volkov’s hand settles on my arm, fingers curling around my elbow with casual presumption. “If you ever need someone to help with that adaptation, someone who understands both worlds, I’d be happy to assist.”

“I’m fine, thank you.” I try to pull my arm free, but his grip tightens slightly.

“Don’t be so quick to dismiss the offer.” He leans closer, voice dropping to something meant to be intimate but feels predatory. “Pavel is a powerful man, but he’s not known for his warmth. A woman like you deserves someone who appreciates—”

His words cut off abruptly as his wrist is seized with brutal force.

Pavel appears beside us with frightening speed, his hand locked around Volkov’s wrist in a grip that makes the other man’s face go pale. “Remove your hand from my wife.”

“Pavel, it was just friendly conversation.” Volkov releases my arm immediately, trying to step back.

Pavel doesn’t let go. Instead, his grip tightens, twisting Volkov’s arm at an angle that makes the man gasp. “Friendly conversation doesn’t require touching what belongs to me.”

The room has gone quiet, all attention shifting to our corner. Mikhail moves closer but doesn’t intervene, his expression coldly neutral as he watches the confrontation unfold.

“I apologize. I didn’t mean any disrespect.” Volkov’s voice rises with panic as Pavel continues applying pressure to his wrist.

“You disrespected her the moment you put your hands on her without permission.” Pavel’s tone remains terrifyingly calm. “You disrespected me by thinking you could touch my wife in my presence and walk away without consequences.”

He twists harder, and the sound of bone breaking echoes through the sudden silence.

Volkov screams, dropping to his knees as Pavel finally releases him. He cradles his shattered wrist, face contorted with pain, while the entire room watches in frozen horror.

Pavel crouches down to Volkov’s level, voice dropping low enough that only those closest can hear. “Touch my wife again and you lose more than bones. Are we clear?”

Volkov nods frantically, tears streaming down his face.

Pavel stands, adjusting his cuffs with the same casual precision he might use after a business meeting. He looks around the room, gaze sweeping across every witness with cold authority. “The same warning applies to anyone else who forgets appropriate boundaries.”

Then his hand settles on my lower back, gentle despite what just happened. “We’re leaving.”

I follow him toward the exit in a daze, aware of every eye tracking our movement, every whispered conversation starting the moment we pass. Two guards fall into step behind us, and within minutes we’re in the car pulling away from the property.

The silence is absolute.

I sit in the passenger seat, staring at my hands in my lap, replaying the scene over and over. The sickening crack of breaking bone. Volkov’s scream. The cold certainty in Pavel’s voice as he made his warning crystal clear.

I should be horrified. Disturbed by the casual violence, by how quickly Pavel escalated from verbal warning to physical punishment.

Except all I can think about is how fast he crossed that room. How he positioned himself between me and Volkov without hesitation. The protective fury underneath his controlled exterior.

“Are you injured?” Pavel’s voice breaks the silence.

“No.” My own voice sounds distant. “Just processing.”

“Volkov has a reputation for pushing boundaries with women. I should have anticipated he’d try something.” There’s an edge of self-recrimination in his tone. “That was a failure in preparation.”

“You broke his wrist.” I finally look at him. “In a room full of witnesses.”

“Yes.” No hesitation, no apology. “He earned it.”

“What if there are consequences?”

“There won’t be.” Pavel’s certainty is absolute. “Volkov operates on the periphery of our world. He has no real power, no significant alliances. Breaking his wrist sends a message to everyone present about what happens when someone disrespects what’s mine. The benefits outweigh any potential consequences.”

What’s mine.

The possessive phrasing should make me angry. Should remind me that I’m property in his eyes, leverage to be protected for strategic purposes.