Page 70 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

She leaves, and I return to work with her words echoing in my mind.

Impossible choice.

She’s right. If the investigation concludes without definitive proof either way, I’ll be forced to choose between the woman I love and the operational security I’ve spent years maintaining.

I genuinely don’t know which I’ll choose.

***

By evening, the immediate crisis has stabilized enough that I can step away from constant coordination. Mikhail has operational command, Viktor is managing security protocols, and the counterattack has successfully disrupted Kravin’s offensive capabilities.

We’re not winning yet, but we’re not losing either.

I find Serena in the master bedroom, sitting by the window with a book she’s not actually reading. The setting sun casts golden light across her face, highlighting features I’ve memorized over weeks of proximity.

“Any changes?” she asks without looking up.

“Holding. Kravin’s forces are regrouping, but we’ve inflicted significant damage.” I move to the dresser, shedding tactical gear with mechanical precision. “The war will continue, but the immediate crisis is managed.”

“Good.” She sets down the book, finally turning to look at me. “That means you can actually rest instead of pushing yourself to exhaustion.”

“Rest isn’t exactly what I need right now.” The admission escapes before I can control it.

Her gaze sharpens with understanding. “What do you need?”

You. The answer is immediate and visceral. I need the distraction, the connection, the physical proof that we’re both alive despite the chaos trying to destroy everything around us.

Saying that out loud feels like admitting vulnerability I’m not ready to expose.

“Nothing,” I lie, turning away to remove my shoulder holster. “Just time to decompress.”

I hear her stand, hear her footsteps crossing the hardwood floor. Then her hands settle on my shoulders from behind, fingers finding the knots of tension with unerring accuracy.

“You’re lying,” she says quietly. “I can feel it in how tight your muscles are. In how you’re avoiding looking at me.”

Her touch is both soothing and arousing, making it difficult to maintain the control I’m desperately trying to hold on to. “Serena—”

“Tell me what you need, Pavel.” Her hands slide down my back, tracing the line of my spine through my shirt. “After everything today, what do you actually need?”

The question breaks something in my carefully maintained composure. I turn to face her, catching her wrists before she can touch me again because if she does, I won’t be able to stop what comes next.

“I need to stop thinking,” I admit roughly. “Need to stop analyzing and just—”

“Just what?” She steps closer, close enough that I can smell her shampoo, feel the warmth radiating from her body.

“Just feel something other than this constant tactical assessment.” I pull her against me, one hand sliding into her hair while the other grips her hip possessively. “I need you, Serena. Right now. Without doubt or suspicion or any of the complications that exist between us.”

“Then take me.” Her voice drops to something breathless and wanting. “Take what you need. I’m right here.”

The permission shatters what’s left of my restraint. I capture her mouth in a kiss that’s more demand than request, weeks of suppressed want and fear pouring into the contact. She responds immediately, her hands fisting in my shirt while she presses closer.

I walk her backward toward the bed, my mouth never leaving hers, one hand already working the buttons of her shirt. She helps, tugging at my clothes with equal urgency until we’re shedding layers between kisses and gasped breaths.

When the back of her legs hits the mattress, she starts to sit, but I catch her hips and turn her around instead.

“Hands on the bed,” I order, my voice rough with need.

She complies immediately, bending forward to brace her palms against the mattress. The position puts her ass at the perfect height, her back arched in a way that makes my cock throb painfully.