Page 31 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

The memory of his hand on Volkov’s wrist, the cold fury in his voice, the way he positioned himself between us. Well, none of that felt strategic.

We reach the mansion, and Pavel walks me inside without further conversation. The house is quiet, most of the staff already retired for the evening. Security lights illuminate the grounds through the windows, everything peaceful and controlled.

“Get some rest,” Pavel says when we reach the hallway outside our rooms. “Tomorrow we’ll review what happened tonight and adjust security protocols accordingly.”

He starts to turn away, and I hear myself speak. “Thank you.”

He pauses, glancing back. “For what?”

“For…” I struggle to articulate it. “For stepping in. Even though I know it was about protecting your interests.”

“It was about you.” The interruption is quiet but firm. “Volkov touched you, and made you uncomfortable. That’s unacceptable regardless of strategic considerations.”

The admission hangs between us, heavier than it should be.

“Good night, Serena.” He disappears into his room before I can respond.

I stand in the hallway for several long moments, processing the evening, the violence, the unexpected admission. Finally, I retreat to my own room and close the door.

I sink onto the edge of the bed, still wearing everything, my mind racing.

The memory of Pavel creates a restless energy that pools low in my stomach, unwelcome and impossible to ignore.

I lie back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling while my body hums with awareness I desperately don’t want to acknowledge.

This is wrong. Pavel is my captor, my jailer, the man who destroyed my freedom and forced me into marriage. Everything about our arrangement is coercion and control.

Except my body doesn’t care about those logical arguments when I remember his hand on my back, guiding me protectively through that gathering. The thought of the cold command in his voice when he told Volkov to remove his hand makes me shiver.

My hand slides down my stomach almost without conscious decision, fingers tracing the edge of my dress where it’s ridden up slightly.

I shouldn’t be thinking about him like this. Shouldn’t be replaying the memory of his touch on my hip yesterday, the heat of his body when he had me pressed against his office desk, the dark promise in his eyes when he said he was testing a theory.

The images flood through my mind anyway as my fingers slip beneath the fabric, finding heated skin and building need.

I imagine his hands instead of mine as my fingers tease my entrance. I’m soaked already, which should be embarrassing, but I’m too far gone to care.

My breath quickens as my fingers move with increasing urgency, chasing relief from this impossible tension.

In my mind, it’s Pavel’s hand between my thighs. His voice, low and commanding, telling me exactly what he wants. His body pressing me into the mattress with the same controlled strength he uses for everything else.

I bite my lip to stay quiet as the tension coils tighter, my free hand gripping the sheets while I imagine Pavel’s weight above me, his mouth on my throat, his hands everywhere I need them. My fingers pump faster, tension building until it snaps.

When release finally crashes through me, it’s his name I’m biting back, his face behind my closed eyes, his touch I’m craving with desperate intensity.

The aftermath leaves me breathless and shaking, awareness flooding back along with sharp self-recrimination.

This is dangerous. Unfortunately, I’m already in too deep.

Chapter Twelve - Pavel

The awareness starts as background noise—peripheral attention I can easily dismiss while focusing on more important matters. By the third month, it becomes harder to ignore.

I notice when Serena enters a room even when my back is turned, some shift in the atmosphere that registers before conscious thought. The sound of her voice drifting from the kitchen while she works with Anya. The rhythm of her footsteps on the stairs, distinct from the staff’s more hurried pace. The way certain hallways feel different when she’s occupied them recently, like she leaves warmth in her wake.

It’s distracting.

I’m reviewing quarterly financial reports when I realize I’ve read the same paragraph three times because I’m listening to her laugh at something Maria said in the sitting room down the hall. The numbers blur while my attention tracks a conversation I have no legitimate reason to monitor.