Page 54 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

Work should provide the distraction I need. The shipping manifests require approval, territory negotiations with the remaining Kravin contacts demand attention, and there’s a security briefing scheduled for this afternoon that can’t be postponed.

Serena is in my study now, curled up in the armchair near the window with a book, and my attention keeps drifting toward her despite conscious efforts to maintain focus.

She’s wearing fitted jeans and one of my shirts—taken from my closet this morning without asking, the fabric hanging loose on her smaller frame in a way that shouldn’t be this distracting. Her hair is pulled back in a messy knot, a few strands escaping to frame her face. The bruises have faded almost completely now, leaving only faint shadows that will disappear entirely within days.

She looks comfortable, which in itself is unusual.

“You’re staring again,” she observes without looking up from her book.

“I’m thinking.”

“About what exactly?” Now she does glance over, one eyebrow raised.

“Operational concerns,” I lie smoothly.

She doesn’t believe me—I can see the skepticism in her expression—but she returns to her book without pushing.

I force my attention back to the tablet, reviewing the proposed terms for the shipping route consolidation. The numbers are solid, the timeline reasonable, the risk assessment thorough. I should approve it and move on to the next item requiring decision.

Instead, I find myself reading the same paragraph three times because I’m listening to the subtle sounds Serena makes—the soft rustle as she turns a page, the quiet sigh when she shifts position, the barely audible hum of contentment that suggests she’s enjoying whatever she’s reading.

This is a problem.

My phone buzzes with an incoming message from Mikhail:Council meeting moved to tomorrow morning.

I type a response confirming the meeting and authorizing Mikhail to handle it however he sees fit.

“Is everything okay?” Serena asks, and I realize my jaw has tightened with irritation.

“Minor business issue. Nothing that concerns you.”

“Everything about your organization concerns me now.” She sets down her book. “I’m your wife. Your issues are my issues.”

“This is Bratva business. You don’t need to.”

“Don’t patronize me, Pavel.” Her tone sharpens. “I’m not some fragile thing you need to shield from reality. I’ve seen what you do. I know what your organization is. Stop treating me like I can’t handle the truth.”

The challenge in her voice makes something primal stir. “I’m protecting you from unnecessary exposure to violence and criminal operations.”

“It’s controlling.” She stands, crossing her arms. “You make decisions about what I should and shouldn’t know, what I can and can’t handle, without even consulting me. How is that different from the forced marriage that started this?”

“Now you’re choosing to be here.” I set down the tablet with controlled precision. “You’re in my bed willingly. You say you love me. That changes the context entirely.”

“Does it?” She moves closer, her expression defiant. “Or does it just give you another excuse to maintain total control while pretending it’s for my protection?”

The accusation hits harder than it should. “You think I’m using your feelings as manipulation?”

“I think you’re so used to controlling every variable that you can’t recognize when you’re doing it anymore.” She stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell her shampoo. “I love you, Pavel. That doesn’t mean I’m willing to be kept ignorant of the life I’m part of now.”

“Keeping you ignorant keeps you safe.” I stand, closing the remaining distance. “The less you know about specific operations, the less leverage anyone has if they—”

“If they what, kidnap me again?” She laughs, bitter and sharp. “That already happened. Kravin already tortured me for information. Keeping me ignorant didn’t protect me then.”

“Which is exactly why I’m ensuring it doesn’t happen again.” My voice drops lower, more controlled despite the frustration building. “You don’t need operational details. You need to trust that I’m handling threats appropriately.”

“Trust without transparency isn’t trust, Pavel. It’s blind faith.” Her hand comes up to poke my chest, emphasizing the point. “I’m not built for blind faith in men who make decisions for me.”

The gesture is small but challenging. She’s deliberately pushing boundaries, testing how far she can press before I push back.