Page 34 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

Two minutes.

I press against the wall, watching the guard near the back gate through the shadows. He’s young, relatively new based on how often I’ve seen him fumbling with his radio. At exactly eleven forty-five, his replacement approaches from the east wing.

They exchange brief words I can’t hear from this distance, then the first guard heads toward the main house while his replacement settles into position facing the opposite direction.

The service path is clear.

I move fast, staying low and using the garden landscaping for cover. My heart slams against my ribs hard enough to hurt, every sense hyperalert for sounds of discovery.

The back gate’s electronic lock requires a code I don’t have, but the service path runs parallel to the wall before connecting to a maintenance entrance that’s sometimes left unsecured for groundskeeping equipment deliveries.

Please be unlocked.Please.

My hand closes around the handle, and it turns.

Relief floods through me so intensely I almost laugh. I slip through the narrow opening, pulling it closed behind me with painstaking care to avoid noise.

The path beyond is darker, lined with trees that block most of the security lighting. I can see the perimeter wall ahead, maybe fifty yards away. Beyond that, the road. Freedom. A chance to disappear before Pavel even realizes I’m gone.

I run.

The gravel crunches under my shoes despite attempts at stealth, but I’m committed now. The wall looms closer with every step, and I’m already calculating how to scale it when headlights suddenly flood the path from my right.

I freeze, blinded by the sudden brightness.

A black SUV blocks the side access road—not one of Pavel’s vehicles. It’s the wrong make, appearing from a direction that shouldn’t have vehicle access.

Two men emerge before I can process the wrongness of the situation. They move with military precision, cutting off my escape routes before I even start running.

“Don’t scream,” one of them says in heavily accented English, his hand already reaching for me.

I scream anyway.

His partner clamps a hand over my mouth, arm wrapping around my waist to lift me off the ground. I thrash violently, getting one solid elbow strike into his ribs before the first man grabs my legs.

“Sedate her,” the one holding my legs grunts in Russian.

Terror spikes sharp and cold. I fight harder, twisting and kicking, but they’re trained and prepared. A sharp pinch in my upper arm, and I realize one of them has injected something.

“No—” The word comes out muffled against the hand still covering my mouth.

“Relax, Mrs. Rudenko,” the first man says, his tone almost polite. “The Kravin Syndicate has been very interested in meeting you. Your husband will receive our contact information soon enough.”

The Kravin Syndicate.

The name registers through mounting panic. Pavel mentioned them—rivals competing over territory and political influence. The organization responsible for the infiltration that led to the basement interrogation I witnessed.

I walked directly into their hands.

The sedative works fast, my limbs growing heavy despite desperate attempts to keep fighting. They carry me toward the SUV with efficient coordination, and I catch a glimpse of the mansion in the distance—security lights peaceful and undisturbed, completely unaware that I’ve just been taken.

Pavel doesn’t know. Won’t know until someone notices I’m missing, and by then these men will have me miles away.

The irony would be funny if I weren’t so terrified. I spent weeks plotting escape from Pavel’s control, only to deliver myself directly into something infinitely worse.

“Please—” I try again as they lift me into the vehicle, but my tongue feels thick and uncooperative.

“Save your energy,” one of them advises, securing my wrists with zip ties that bite into skin. “You’ll need it for the conversation our boss wants to have about your husband’s recent activities.”