Page 48 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

Serena’s breath catches. “Pavel…?”

“I would have killed everyone between me and you,” I continue, the truth pouring out with brutal honesty. “Razed every Kravin property to the ground. Declared war on every organization that stood in my way. The strategic concerns, the political complications, the risks to my position; none of it mattered compared to getting you back.”

“Why?” The question is barely a whisper.

“Somewhere between forcing you into this marriage and watching you integrate into my life, you stopped being leverage and became—” I stop, searching for the right word.

“Became what?” She takes a step closer, eliminating more distance between us.

“Mine,” I finish, the possessive carrying different weight now. “Not as property or strategic asset. Just… mine.”

For several long seconds, neither of us moves. Serena studies my face like she’s searching for the lie, for the manipulation underneath the admission.

She won’t find it. This is the most honest I’ve been since this arrangement began.

“I can’t stop thinking about you either,” she admits. “Even when I should be planning escape or hating you or anything rational. I just think about your hands and your voiceand the way you look at me sometimes like I’m—like I matter beyond the alliance.”

“You do matter.” The confession feels dangerous but necessary. “Far more than strategy alone justifies.”

The space between us feels charged with weeks of suppressed tension finally given permission to surface. I can see her pulse racing in her throat, watch her breathing quicken, feel the shift in atmosphere as acknowledgment becomes something more immediate.

“This is a terrible idea,” Serena whispers, but she’s moving closer even as she says it.

“Yes,” I agree.

Then her mouth is on mine.

The kiss is hesitant at first—testing boundaries, confirming permission, both of us aware this crosses lines we’ve carefully maintained. The hesitation lasts only seconds before weeks of want ignites into something urgent and consuming.

I cup her face with both hands, angling her head to deepen the kiss. She responds immediately, her good hand fisting in my shirt while her injured one presses carefully against my chest. The taste of her is intoxicating, sweet and desperate and real in ways I wasn’t prepared for.

She makes a small sound against my mouth when I bite her lower lip gently, and the noise sends heat straight through me.

“Pavel,” she gasps when I move to her throat, finding the pulse point that’s been driving me insane for weeks. “We shouldn’t.”

“Tell me to stop if you want.” I scrape my teeth along her collarbone, feeling her shiver. “Say the word and I will.”

She doesn’t say anything. Instead, her hand slides up into my hair, gripping hard enough to sting, pulling me back to her mouth with surprising force.

The kiss turns fierce, demanding, all the anger and fear and suppressed desire of the past weeks pouring into the contact. I back her against the desk, my hands moving to her waist to lift her onto the surface.

She wraps her legs around me immediately, pulling me closer despite the way it presses us together with unmistakable evidence of exactly how much I want this.

“Bed,” she manages between kisses. “Not here. Someone could see.”

She’s right. The study isn’t private enough for what this is becoming.

I lift her from the desk, and she keeps her legs locked around my waist as I carry her through the connecting hallway toward my room. I wince as my shoulder stings, but it’s worth it to see the delight flash across Serena’s face.

She uses the movement to her advantage, kissing my throat, scraping her teeth along my jaw, making focused walking significantly more difficult than it should be.

We make it to my room through sheer determination. I kick the door closed and lay her on the bed with more care than the urgency demands, conscious of her healing injuries.

“I’m not fragile,” she protests, pulling me down with her. “Stop treating me like I’ll break.”

“You have a broken finger and bruised ribs.” I brace myself above her, drinking in the sight of her flushed and wanting beneath me. “Some caution is warranted.”

“Then be careful for your own sake too. You’re the one who got shot.” She reaches for my shirt, pulling it over my head with her good hand while being mindful of my healing shoulder.