Page 33 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

I set down the glass with controlled force.

This is manageable. Physical desire can be controlled, compartmentalized, ignored until it fades back to irrelevant background noise. I’ve handled more complicated situations than being attracted to my own wife.

The conviction sounds hollow even in my own mind.

Through the wall separating our rooms, I hear movement—drawers opening and closing, footsteps pacing. She’s upset, probably furious about the invasion of privacy, definitely not thinking about me the way I’m currently thinking about her.

Better that she stays angry and distant than risk discovering this attraction isn’t entirely one-sided.

If Serena ever realizes the effect she has—the way my attention tracks her constantly, the awareness that borderson obsession, the desire that’s becoming harder to dismiss as strategic irrelevance—it creates leverage I can’t afford to give her.

Control requires distance. Distance requires discipline.

Right now, my discipline is being tested by the memory of soft curves and warm skin that I have no right to want this badly.

Chapter Thirteen - Serena

The party was five days ago. Five days, and I still can’t stop replaying the sound of breaking bone, the cold fury in Pavel’s voice, the way he crossed that room like violence personified.

I’m lying in bed at two in the morning, staring at the ceiling, when the realization hits with uncomfortable clarity: I’m not disturbed by what Pavel did. I’m disturbed by how much it affected me. How the memory makes my pulse quicken, heat pooling low in my stomach despite every logical reason to feel otherwise.

He broke a man’s wrist for touching me. Some traitorous part of me found that protective fury devastatingly attractive.

I press my palms against my eyes, frustration building until I want to scream.

This is exactly what he wants. Not consciously maybe, but the end result is the same—Stockholm syndrome dressed up as adaptation, my mind finding ways to rationalize captivity because the alternative is acknowledging how completely trapped I actually am.

Except it doesn’t feel like rationalization when I remember his hand on my back, guiding me through that gathering. The absolute certainty in his voice when he said it was about me, not strategic interests.

The way he looked at me two nights ago when he walked into my room.

My face flushes hot at the memory. Those few suspended seconds where neither of us moved, his gaze traveling over exposed skin with an intensity that made breathing difficult.I saw want in his expression—raw and unguarded for once—before he controlled it and left.

I’ve been replaying that moment almost as much as the party. Analyzing the heat in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curled into fists like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for me.

Pavel Rudenko wants me.

The knowledge sits heavy in my chest, equal parts terrifying and intoxicating.

I can’t keep softening toward my captor, finding excuses to justify his actions, letting physical attraction cloud the fundamental truth that I’m here against my will. The walls of this beautiful prison might feel less suffocating than they did three weeks ago, but they’re still walls.

If I don’t leave soon, I’m afraid I’ll stop wanting to. The thought crystallizes into decision with sudden clarity.

I need to escape. Not to prove a point or test boundaries, but because staying here is eroding my sense of self in ways I can’t allow to continue.

I wait until after eleven, when the household settles into its nighttime rhythm. Pavel is in his office—I heard him on a phone call speaking in Russian about twenty minutes ago. The staff have retired to their quarters. The mansion is as quiet as it ever gets.

I change into dark leggings and a fitted black sweater, pulling my hair into a tight bun. My hands shake slightly as I lace up running shoes, adrenaline already building despite my attempts to stay calm.

This is insane. Reckless. If Pavel catches me, the consequences will be severe—more restrictions, tighter security,possibly the complete loss of what limited freedom I’ve managed to claim.

If I don’t try, I’ll never know if I could have made it.

I slip out of my room at eleven forty, moving silently through the darkened hallways. The back staircase is rarely used at night, providing a direct route to the ground floor without passing the main guard stations.

My pulse thunders in my ears as I ease open the door to the garden terrace. Cool night air hits my face, carrying the scent of jasmine from the landscaping. Security lights illuminate the main pathways, but the edges near the garden walls remain shadowed.

I check my phone—eleven forty-three. The rotation shift happens at eleven forty-five.