Page 26 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

Serena mimics the movement, her attempts clumsy but determined. When the dough tears slightly, she laughs again, that same bright sound I heard from my office. “I’m terrible at this.”

“You’re learning,” Anya corrects, a smile softening her usually stern features. “First attempts are always messy. Try again.”

I watch from the doorway, unnoticed by either of them. Anya has worked in this house for six years, maintaining professional distance from everyone except the kitchen staff she supervises. I’ve never heard her laugh.

Yet here she is, patiently guiding Serena through what appears to be traditional Russian pastry preparation, looking almost maternal in her attention.

“Afternoon, Pavel.”

I turn to find Mikhail approaching from the office wing, his expression carefully neutral in that way that means he’s noticed something significant.

“The morning briefing materials are ready,” he says quietly, falling into step beside me as I move away from the kitchen. “Also, the household accounts show increased spending in the kitchen budget this week. Nonessential items: specialty ingredients, cookware that wasn’t requested.”

“Anya is teaching her to cook,” I reply, heading back toward my office. “Apparently that requires supplies we don’t normally stock.”

“Is that a problem?”

I consider the question. From a purely operational standpoint, the additional spending is negligible. The time Anya devotes to teaching doesn’t interfere with her primary duties.

Serena’s integration with the household staff could actually serve useful purposes—people who like her are less likely to facilitate escape attempts or outside contact.

“No,” I decide. “It’s fine.”

Mikhail’s slight pause suggests he finds my answer interesting, but he doesn’t comment further.

The changes continue throughout the week.

Music appears in the afternoons—classical piano pieces drifting from the library where Serena has discovered the sound system I rarely use. The selections are good, carefully chosen rather than random, creating ambient atmosphere that somehow makes the house feel less austere.

Staff members smile more frequently when passing through the main hallways. Not dramatic shifts, just subtlerelaxation in postures that were previously rigid with professional discipline.

I overhear Maria humming while organizing linens, something I’ve never witnessed in the years she’s worked here.

One of the younger guards—Alexei, the one from the courtyard incident—actually laughs at something another guard says during shift change, a sound that dies immediately when he notices me approaching.

The mansion is becoming less like an operational headquarters and more like an actual home.

I tell myself this is irrelevant. The primary functions haven’t changed—security remains tight, business operations continue efficiently, the organization’s needs are still prioritized above comfort or atmosphere. What Serena does with her time, how the staff responds to her presence, the subtle shifts in household dynamics—none of it affects anything important.

Yet I find myself noticing.

Thursday afternoon, I’m in the main hallway discussing supply chain adjustments with Viktor when Serena appears at the top of the staircase.

She’s changed from the casual clothes she wore earlier into a dress for dinner—deep emerald green that complements her hazel eyes, fitted through the bodice before falling to just above her knees. Nothing inappropriate, nothing designed to attract attention, just well-tailored fabric that follows the natural curves of her body with elegant precision.

My attention locks on her immediately.

She descends the stairs with unconscious grace, one hand trailing along the banister, completely unaware that I’m watching. The dress moves with her, emphasizing the curve ofher waist, the gentle sway of her hips, the way her body flows through space with feminine confidence.

Something tightens low in my stomach.

“—the timeline for the next shipment should work with those parameters,” Viktor is saying, still focused on the logistics we were discussing. “Unless you want to adjust the… Pavel?”

I force my attention back to him, though my peripheral vision still tracks Serena’s movement across the entry hall. “The timeline is fine. Confirm with the distribution contacts and send me the updated schedule.”

Viktor nods, glancing briefly toward where Serena has disappeared into the dining room. His expression remains carefully neutral, but I catch the slight shift.

I dismiss him more curtly than necessary and return to my office, closing the door with controlled precision.