Page 42 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

Serena, tied to a metal chair in the center of the room. Her face is bruised, blood staining her torn sweater, one hand held at an unnatural angle that makes fury spike hot and immediate.

Anton Kravin stands a few feet away from her, his weapon half raised as he turns toward the sound of approaching violence.

Our eyes meet across the warehouse floor.

Recognition flashes in his expression—understanding that I came personally, that he’s facing Pavel Rudenko in the flesh rather than me coordinating through intermediaries and tactical teams.

He starts to speak, mouth forming words I don’t care to hear.

I shoot him.

The bullet catches him high in the chest, spinning him backward into the crates behind. His weapon clatters to the concrete as he goes down, blood spreading across expensive fabric in dark, damning patterns.

I’m at Serena’s side in three strides, knife already out to cut through the zip ties binding her wrists. The plastic parts under the blade’s edge, and her hands fall free with a pained gasp.

Up close, the damage is worse than surveillance photos indicated. The bruising along her cheekbone is deep purple, darkening toward black. Blood seeps from cuts on her shoulder and forearm—shallow but deliberate, torture wounds rather than defensive injuries. Her smallest finger juts at an angle that makes my jaw clench with barely controlled violence.

“Serena.” Her name comes out rougher than intended. “Can you stand?”

She looks up at me, hazel eyes glazed with shock and pain but still aware, still present. For a moment she just stares like she can’t quite believe I’m real.

Then her uninjured hand connects with my chest—a hit that lacks real force but carries emotional weight I wasn’t prepared for.

“You bastard,” she gasps, hitting me again. “Where were you?”

Her voice cracks on the last words, fury giving way to something more fragile underneath.

I catch her wrist gently, careful of the damaged hand. “I’m here now.”

“Fuck.” She struggles for words, adrenaline and trauma making coherent thought difficult. “He had pliers, Pavel.”

“I know.” The words come out cold, deadly calm despite the rage burning underneath. “I saw the photo he sent. Every mark on you will be repaid tenfold before this night ends.”

Behind us, gunfire continues in sporadic bursts as my team finishes neutralizing Kravin’s remaining guards. Viktor’s voice crackles through my earpiece confirming the warehouse is secure, all hostiles eliminated except for the one I deliberately left breathing.

Serena sways slightly as I help her stand, her legs unsteady from hours of restraint and shock. I keep my hand on her waist, supporting her weight while scanning for additional threats.

“We need to move,” I tell her. “Can you walk?”

“I don’t know.” She looks down at the broken finger, and I watch her face go pale. “Oh God, my hand.”

“Don’t look at it.” I turn her face toward mine with gentle pressure on her chin. “Focus on me. We’re leaving now, and I’llhave our doctor waiting at the house. You need to stay conscious and keep moving.”

She nods shakily, leaning against me more heavily than pride would normally allow.

That’s when Kravin’s voice cuts through the relative quiet, wet and labored but still functioning.

“Touching reunion,” he rasps from where he’s collapsed against the crates. Blood bubbles at his lips with each word. “The great Pavel Rudenko, reduced to sentiment over a wife he was forced to marry. How… disappointing.”

I turn toward him slowly, keeping Serena behind me with one hand while the other moves to the weapon holstered at my hip.

Kravin’s face is ashen, blood loss clearly critical, but his hand is sliding across concrete toward the gun that fell when I shot him.

“Don’t,” I warn quietly.

He doesn’t listen. His fingers close around the weapon’s grip, raising it with trembling effort toward where Serena and I stand.

The shot comes before conscious thought—muscle memory and protective instinct firing simultaneously.