He’s not wearing the suit from earlier. Instead he’s in dark pants and a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, looking somehow more dangerous in casual clothes than he did in formal wear.
I try to push past him anyway, darting around the car toward the still-open gate. He moves faster than someone his size should be able to, catching my arm before I make it two steps. The sudden stop throws me off-balance, and I stumble forward.
He catches me, his other hand settling on my waist to steady me. The contact sends heat through the thin fabric of my shirt, his palm broad and warm against my side. I’m pulled close enough that I can feel the solidity of his chest, smell the faint scent of expensive cologne and something darker underneath—gunpowder, maybe, or just the particular danger that seems to emanate from him naturally.
“Let go of me,” I demand, trying to wrench free. His grip doesn’t hurt, but it’s absolutely immovable.
“No.” The single word is delivered with the same calm certainty he used earlier, like my compliance is simply a matter of time rather than question.
I twist harder, anger burning away the fear. “You can’t keep me here. This is kidnapping, coercion, false imprisonment—”
“All accurate,” he agrees, his tone maddeningly even. “All irrelevant to your current situation.”
Behind us, I hear guards approaching, their footsteps crunching on gravel. They must have discovered my absence and followed. Pavel raises his free hand slightly, a silent command that stops them in their tracks several yards away.
He hasn’t looked away from me once.
“You’re remarkably predictable for someone who considers herself strategic,” he says quietly. Conversationally, almost, like we’re discussing the weather rather than my failed escape attempt. “Mapping the guard rotations. Testing the locks. Waiting for shift change. I’ve seen it before.”
“Then maybe you should invest in better security,” I snap, still trying to pull away from his grip.
“The security is fine. I gave specific instructions to make this achievable.” He shifts his hold slightly, his thumb pressing against my pulse point—whether deliberately or by accident, I can’t tell. “You needed to try. To confirm that you’re trapped here, that running won’t work. Now you know.”
The calculation in that statement steals my breath. He let me get this far on purpose. Gave me just enough rope to hang myself, all so he could prove a point about how completely he controls this situation.
The fury that realization sparks is hot enough to override common sense. I stop pulling away and instead step closer,getting in his space the way he got in mine at the car. “You arrogant—”
“Careful.” His voice drops lower, barely above a murmur, but something in it makes my next words die in my throat. He leans down slightly, close enough that I can see the faint silver flecks in his gray eyes. “You don’t run from me. Not tonight. Not ever. The sooner you accept that, the easier this becomes.”
It’s not a threat, exactly. There’s no anger in his voice, no heat. Just absolute, calm certainty that borders on inevitability. Like gravity or mathematics—simple facts about how the world works.
My heart is still racing, but now I can’t tell if it’s entirely from fear and exertion or if some other reaction is creeping in. Standing this close to him, I’m hyperaware of details I didn’t notice before. The controlled strength in the hand wrapped around my wrist. The precise way he’s positioned himself to block any escape route without making it obvious. The complete absence of uncertainty in his expression.
Pavel Rudenko doesn’t doubt for a second that he owns this situation. That he owns me.
The realization makes something twist in my chest—part rage, part terror, and something else I absolutely refuse to examine.
“I will never accept this,” I tell him, keeping my voice steady through sheer force of will. “You can lock me up, threaten me, control every aspect of my life, but I will never willingly cooperate with this forced marriage. Never.”
For the first time since stepping out of the car, something shifts in his expression. Not concern, exactly, but a flicker of what might be interest.
“We’ll see,” he says simply.
Then he releases my wrist and steps back, the sudden absence of his hand leaving my skin feeling strangely cold. He gestures toward the house with that same economical movement, commanding without words.
The guards move forward immediately, flanking me but not touching. Pavel walks beside me as we head back up the driveway, his pace unhurried, like we’re simply returning from an evening stroll rather than my failed escape attempt.
“The wedding is still scheduled for Saturday,” he says as we approach the house. “Additional security measures will be implemented to prevent future incidents. You’ll find your movements more restricted going forward.”
“You can’t actually believe you can force me to go through with it,” I say, hating how breathless I sound. “I’ll refuse to say the vows. I’ll object during the ceremony. I’ll tell everyone exactly what you’ve done—”
“The ceremony will be private. Bratva witnesses only, plus the officiant we’ve already compensated for discretion. Your objections will be noted and ignored. The legal documents will be signed regardless of your cooperation, using methods I’d prefer not to employ but will if necessary.”
He holds the door open for me, the gesture almost mockingly polite. “You have four days to decide whether you walk down that aisle with dignity or have to be carried. Either way, Saturday evening you will be my wife.”
Chapter Four - Pavel
The meeting with Senator Souris takes place in a private room at one of the Bratva’s downtown properties, neutral territory that won’t raise suspicion if anyone happens to notice his arrival. He brings two of his attorneys and a chief of staff who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.
