Page 51 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

I set down my fork carefully. “Excuse me?”

“You’ll sleep in my room going forward.” He continues eating like he’s just commented on the weather. “It’s more practical given the circumstances.”

“What circumstances? We had sex once.”

“It means you’re mine now in ways that extend beyond legal documents.” His gaze meets mine across the table, direct and unwavering. “Which means you stay where I can protect you. Where I can see you. In my bed.”

The possessive declaration should spark my usual defiance. Should make me argue about autonomy and personal space and the fact that one night together doesn’t give him rights to dictate where I sleep.

Instead, heat pools low in my stomach at the memory of exactly what happens in his bed.

“Maybe I don’t want to.” The challenge comes out weaker than intended.

“You won’t refuse.” Not arrogant, just certain. “You want this as much as I do. Stop pretending otherwise.”

He’s right, which makes it infinitely more frustrating.

So now I’m here, in Pavel’s room—our room, I suppose—standing near the window while he works at his desk like having me present is perfectly normal. My clothes hang in his closet beside his expensive suits. My toiletries occupy half the bathroom counter. The physical evidence of integration is everywhere.

The emotional reality is significantly more complicated.

I can’t stop thinking about the way his hands felt on my body, the controlled strength tempered with unexpected gentleness, the heat in his eyes when he looked at me.

The memory makes my skin flush and my breathing quicken despite the fact that we’re just occupying the same space right now. He’s reviewing reports, I’m supposedly reading a book, everything perfectly civilized.

Except I’ve read the same paragraph four times because my attention keeps drifting to him.

The way his shoulders fill out the dark shirt he’s wearing. The slight furrow between his brows when he’s concentrating. The way his fingers move across the tablet screen with precise efficiency that makes me remember exactly how those fingers feel—

“You’re staring.”

I jerk my gaze back to my book, face burning. “I’m not.”

“You are.” I can hear the amusement in his voice without looking up. “Something on your mind?”

Everything. Nothing I’m ready to articulate.

“Just thinking,” I say vaguely.

“About?”

“Nothing important,” I lie.

The silence stretches. I force myself to focus on the book, reading words that don’t register while hyperaware of Pavel’s presence across the room.

Eventually he stands, and I track the movement peripherally. He crosses to the bar, pours himself vodka, then moves to the window where I’m seated.

“Come here,” he says quietly.

It’s not a request. Something in his tone makes it feel less like a command and more like an invitation.

I set down the book and stand, closing the distance until I’m within reach. He studies me for a long moment, and I wonder what he sees—the bruises have faded to yellow-green, the splint on my finger is less obtrusive now that the swelling has reduced, but the evidence of the warehouse is still visible.

“You’ve been tense all evening,” he observes.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” His free hand reaches out to cup my jaw, thumb brushing across my cheekbone. “Tell me what you need.”