Page 27 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

This is a problem.

Serena was meant to be leverage—a strategic asset that ensures her father’s cooperation while strengthening political connections. The marriage serves clear purposes, all of them carefully calculated to benefit the organization without introducing personal complications.

Attraction was never part of the equation.

I’ve handled physical desire before, managed it with the same discipline I apply to every other aspect of my life. Women are available when needed, relationships are transactional and temporary, nothing interferes with operational priorities.

The way my body responded to seeing Serena in that dress wasn’t transactional interest. It was immediate, visceral, and significantly stronger than the calculated assessment I maintain with everything else in my life.

That’s dangerous.

I pour myself vodka and move to the window, staring out at the grounds while forcing my mind through logical analysis.

Attraction creates vulnerability. Emotional investment clouds judgment. Allowing personal desire to influence decisions about Serena would undermine the careful control that makes this arrangement functional.

She’s already proving more complicated than anticipated—the defiance that refuses to break, the intelligence that constantly searches for weaknesses, the way she’s somehow making my precisely ordered household feel warmer and more alive without my permission.

Adding physical want to that equation would be catastrophically stupid.

I drain the vodka and set down the glass with decisive finality.

This is manageable. A fleeting physical response to an attractive woman in my house, nothing more. Acknowledging it, categorizing it, and then dismissing it as irrelevant to the actual structure of our arrangement.

Serena is my wife in legal terms only. She serves strategic purposes that don’t include becoming an actual partner or object of genuine desire. The boundary is clear, and maintaining it is simply a matter of discipline.

I’ve built an entire organization on discipline; this should be no different.

The conviction lasts until dinner, when I enter the dining room to find Serena already seated, still wearing that green dress, candlelight casting warm shadows across her skin.

She glances up when I enter, and something flickers in her expression—awareness, maybe, or just the continued wariness that colors most of our interactions. “You’re late.”

“Business ran long.” I take my seat across from her, accepting the wine Maria pours with practiced efficiency.

The meal proceeds with the same tense formality that’s characterized our dinners since she arrived. Serena eats with precise movements, her attention focused on her plate more than on me. We exchange minimal conversation—logistical details about tomorrow’s schedule, a brief discussion about the upcoming gala that requires her attendance.

Professional. Distant. Exactly how this should remain.

I catch myself watching the way she brings her wine glass to her lips, the slight furrow between her brows when she’s thinking, the unconscious grace in how she moves even while maintaining rigid composure.

The dress was a mistake. Or rather, my reaction to it was a mistake that I’m now struggling to correct.

“You’ve been spending time with the kitchen staff,” I observe, breaking the silence.

She sets down her fork carefully. “Anya offered to teach me some traditional recipes. I accepted. Is that against the rules?”

“No.” I take a measured sip of wine. “I’m simply noting the change.”

“The staff are less intimidating than the armed guards.” Her tone carries subtle challenge. “At least in the kitchen, I’m learning something useful instead of sitting in my room counting the hours until this forced marriage somehow ends.”

“It won’t end.” I keep my voice level. “The sooner you accept that, the less time you’ll waste hoping for alternative outcomes.”

“I’m aware.” She returns her attention to her meal. “That doesn’t mean I have to enjoy the situation.”

“Enjoyment wasn’t part of the arrangement.”

“Neither was cooking lessons, but here we are.” She looks up, meeting my gaze directly. “You said I could use my time however I wanted within the permitted areas. The kitchen is permitted. Anya doesn’t mind teaching me. Don’t tell me to stop.”

“I’m not.” The words come out more sharply than intended. “The observation wasn’t criticism.”