Page 72 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

She’s quiet for a moment, then, “Pavel?”

“Yes?”

“I love you. Whatever the investigation proves or doesn’t prove. Whatever happens with my father and the Kravin Syndicate and all of this chaos, I love you.”

The declaration makes my chest tighten. “I love you too.”

Chapter Twenty-Five - Serena

The safe house is quiet in a way the city mansion never is. No staff moving through hallways, no guards changing shifts with military precision, no constant hum of activity that marks Pavel’s primary residence. Just silence broken occasionally by wind through the trees and the distant sound of perimeter patrols.

I’m curled up on the couch in the main living area, watching flames flicker in the fireplace while my mind replays the past forty-eight hours. The explosions that woke us. The frantic drive here. Pavel’s cold efficiency as he coordinated counterattacks while keeping me close and protected.

The sex that felt more like emotional release than physical need.

“You’re thinking too loud.”

I turn to find Pavel standing in the doorway, dressed in dark pants and a fitted black shirt, his hair slightly damp from the shower. He looks more relaxed than he did earlier—the tactical tension eased slightly now that immediate crisis has stabilized.

“Just processing,” I say, pulling my knees up to make room when he settles beside me on the couch. “Everything happened so fast. One minute we’re sleeping, the next we’re fleeing the city while your organization goes to war.”

“That’s the reality of this world.” He stretches his arm across the back of the couch, not quite touching me but close enough that I feel the warmth radiating from him. “Periods of calm punctuated by sudden violence. You adapt or you don’t survive.”

“Is that what I’m doing, adapting?”

“You tell me.” His gaze finds mine. “Three weeks ago you were actively planning escape. Now you’re sitting here discussing war strategy like it’s normal dinner conversation.”

The observation makes me pause. He’s right; somewhere between the forced marriage and now, I’ve stopped fighting against this life and started learning how to navigate it.

“I never imagined this,” I admit quietly. “Feeling attached to the man who kidnapped me. Finding comfort in a relationship that started with coercion. Actually caring whether you’re safe when you coordinate attacks from a distance.”

“But you do.”

“Yes.” The confession feels dangerous but necessary. “I care, Pavel. More than tactical assessment should allow, more than self-preservation recommends. I care whether you survive this war. Whether we survive it together.”

Something shifts in his expression, vulnerability flickering through before control reasserts itself. “I never planned for this either. You were supposed to be leverage. A political asset that secured alliance with your father while demonstrating Bratva power.”

“What am I now?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, his hand moving from the couch back to settle on my shoulder. “Everything I didn’t know I needed. The complication that makes control impossible. The woman I’d burn the entire city down to protect.”

The declaration makes my breath catch. “That’s terrifying.”

“Yes.” His thumb traces circles on my shoulder through the fabric of my sweater. “Attachment creates vulnerability. Gives enemies leverage. Every tactical instinct I’ve developed screams that caring this much is dangerous.”

“But you care anyway.”

“I care anyway.” He draws me closer, tucking me against his side. “Which makes me either brave or foolish. I haven’t decided which yet.”

I settle against him, my head resting on his shoulder while the fire crackles peacefully. This feels domestic in ways our relationship usually doesn’t—quiet intimacy without the weight of control and defiance constantly pushing against each other.

“Can I ask you something?” I venture after a while.

“Of course.”

“When you shot Kravin in the warehouse—when he was aiming at me and you stepped in front of the bullet—what were you thinking?”

His hand stills on my shoulder. “I wasn’t thinking. There wasn’t time for conscious decision. I saw the gun swinging toward you and moved on instinct.”