Page 19 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

He’s not using force. He’s using something far more unsettling.

His thumb continues its slow path down my throat, tracing the hollow at the base before sliding along my collarbone. The touch is light, almost casual, but it sends sparks of unwanted sensation through my entire body.

“You’re quite good at this,” he observes, his voice low and intimate. “The innocent smiles, the careful flirting, making young soldiers forget their training. Very effective manipulation.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.” His thumb drags back up to press against the corner of my mouth. “Now you’re discovering what happens when you try those tactics on someone who won’t be distracted by pretty smiles and batting eyelashes.”

I want to argue, to push him away, to reassert some kind of control over this situation. Instead, I’m standing here breathless and flushed, my body betraying me with every rapid heartbeat he can undoubtedly feel.

His hand moves from my jaw to tangle gently in my hair, tilting my head back further. “You want me to stop?”

The command hangs between us, heavy with implication. We both know I should. We both know this is crossing every boundary that exists in our forced arrangement.

The words won’t come.

“That’s what I thought.” There’s dark satisfaction in his tone now as he leans closer, his mouth near my ear. “You’re not nearly as immune as you pretend to be.”

His lips brush the sensitive skin just below my ear. Then his teeth graze the same spot, a controlled bite that sends electricity straight down my spine.

I gasp before I can stop myself, and I feel him smile against my skin.

“Responsive,” he murmurs. “Good to know.”

His hand slides lower on my back, fingers spreading wide across my spine as he pulls me flush against him. I can feel every hard plane of his body now, the controlled strength in the arm wrapped around me, the steady rhythm of his breathing that contrasts sharply with my own ragged gasps.

This is wrong. This is my captor, my jailer, the man who destroyed my freedom and forced me into marriage. I should be fighting, screaming, doing anything except standing here letting him touch me like this.

When his mouth moves to trace the line of my jaw, when his hand tightens in my hair just enough to send pleasant tingles across my scalp, I find myself leaning into the touch instead of pulling away.

“Pavel—” His name escapes as barely a whisper.

“Yes?” He pulls back just enough to look at me, and the dark heat in his eyes steals whatever words I was trying to form. “Tell me what you want, Serena.”

It’s a trap. Whatever I say will give him more leverage, more control, more proof that he can affect me in ways I desperately don’t want to admit.

So I don’t say anything.

His thumb traces my lower lip, the touch maddeningly gentle. “No answer? That’s fine. Your body is communicating clearly enough.”

To prove his point, his hand slides from my back to my hip again, then lower to grip my thigh through the thin fabric of my dress. The possessive touch makes heat flood through me, and I hate myself for the small sound that escapes my throat.

“There it is,” he says with dark satisfaction. “Honesty.”

Then, just as suddenly as it began, he releases me.

I stumble slightly without his support, my legs unsteady, my entire body still humming with unwanted arousal. Pavel steps back, putting distance between us with the same controlled precision he applies to everything.

“Consider that a lesson,” he says, his voice returning to its normal calm tone, though his eyes remain dark. “You want to play games? Be very certain you understand the rules before you start.”

I stare at him, breathless and disheveled and absolutely furious—at him for touching me like that, at myself for responding, at the entire impossible situation.

“You’re an asshole,” I manage finally.

“Yes.” He moves to his desk, adjusting his shirt cuffs with casual efficiency like he didn’t just have his hands all over me. “You won’t flirt with my guards again.”

Finally, I force myself to move toward the door. My hand is on the handle when his voice stops me.