Page 13 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

Pavel’s gaze flicks to the officiant, then back to me. For a long moment, he doesn’t move. The room is completely silent,everyone waiting to see how this particular power play will resolve.

Then he steps closer, his hand settling on my waist with the same controlled grip he’s used before. Not painful, but absolutely possessive. He leans down, and I force myself not to retreat, not to show how much I want to recoil from this final violation.

His mouth brushes mine. It lasts perhaps three seconds, but I feel it everywhere. The heat of him, the firm pressure of his lips, the way his hand tightens fractionally on my waist before he pulls back.

When he releases me, something in his expression has shifted. Not quite satisfaction, but close.

“Mrs. Rudenko,” he says quietly, testing the name.

The sound of it makes my stomach drop.

The officiant shuffles his papers nervously. “If you’ll both just sign here.”

The marriage certificate is produced, and Pavel signs with the same efficient precision he applies to everything. Then the pen is handed to me, and I stare at the line where my signature will make this legally binding.

This is the moment. The final point of no return.

I sign my name in sharp, angry strokes. Serena Marie Souris, soon to be legally recognized as Serena Rudenko. The letters blur slightly, and I realize my hand is shaking.

The room clears almost immediately once the paperwork is complete. The Bratva men file out with quiet efficiency, the officiant practically fleeing with his payment secured. Within minutes, the sitting room is empty except for Pavel, his brother who’s remained seated in the front row, and me.

Pavel’s brother stands, moving forward with the same controlled grace his brother displays. Up close, the differences become more apparent—he’s younger, with lighter coloring and a slightly less imposing build. But the intelligence in those pale blue eyes is just as sharp.

“Congratulations,” he says, and there’s something almost sardonic in his tone. His gaze shifts to me. “Mrs. Rudenko.”

I don’t respond.

“Mikhail,” Pavel says, a note of warning in his voice.

Mikhail’s expression doesn’t change. “The car is waiting whenever you’re ready. I’ll handle the remaining details here.”

Pavel nods, then turns to me. “We’re leaving.”

“Where?” The question comes out sharper than intended.

“My residence in the city. This estate served its purpose.” He gestures toward the door. “Unless you’d prefer to stay here?”

It’s not really a question. We both know I have no preference that matters.

I walk toward the exit with my head high, the white dress whispering against my legs, the ring heavy on my finger. Pavel falls into step beside me, his hand settling on the small of my back—proprietary, possessive, a silent claim in front of his brother and the remaining guards.

The car is a sleek black Mercedes with tinted windows, already running. A driver stands beside the open rear door, his expression carefully blank as I approach.

I slide into the backseat without assistance, arranging the dress around me with mechanical precision. Pavel enters from the other side, the door closing with an expensive click that sounds far too final.

The car pulls away from the estate, and I watch through the window as the building disappears behind us. Two days ago, I was brought here as a captive. Now I’m leaving as a wife.

The distinction feels meaningless.

Pavel sits beside me in silence, not touching, not speaking. Just present in that controlled, overwhelming way he has—filling the space without effort, commanding attention without words.

I turn my attention to the city passing outside the window, watching familiar streets that suddenly feel foreign.

Somewhere out there, my father is going about his evening, secure in the knowledge that his political career is protected. Somewhere out there, people are living normal lives—choosing their partners, planning their futures, free to make their own decisions.

Here I am, wearing a white dress and a platinum ring that feels like a brand, sitting beside the man who orchestrated all of this with cold, strategic precision.

Mrs. Rudenko.