Page 15 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

“Then I’m not… I won’t share a room with you.” Her voice rises slightly before she forces it back under control. “You can’t expect me to—”

I let the moment stretch, watching as panic finally breaks through the careful composure she’s maintained all evening. Her breathing quickens, her fingers white-knuckled against the doorframe.

For the first time since I took her from that parking garage, she looks genuinely frightened rather than just angry.

Interesting to know where her breaking point actually lies.

“Your room is next door,” I say calmly, nodding toward the adjacent set of doors. “Separate entrance, separate bathroom. It adjoins this suite through a connecting door that remains unlocked.”

She stares at me, the fear slowly giving way to understanding and then fury. “That was a test.”

“An observation.” I move past her into my room, setting my jacket on the chair near the window. “You’ve been very controlled through everything else. I wanted to see what it took to genuinely unsettle you.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Yes.” I turn back to face her. “But an honest one. This is a political marriage, as I’ve stated. Your room is private. I have no interest in forcing physical intimacy.”

The relief that flashes across her features is quickly buried, but I catch it. Good. Let her understand that at least one boundary exists, even if most others don’t.

“I’ll show you your quarters,” I continue, moving toward the connecting door.

Her room is similar in size to mine but decorated in softer tones—cream and dove gray, still modern but slightly less austere. The bed is already made with fresh linens, the closet stocked with clothes in her size. A door on the far wall leads to a private bathroom with marble counters and a tub.

Serena steps inside slowly, taking in the space that’s meant to be hers. “How long have you been planning this?”

“The marriage? Three weeks. The specific accommodations? Five days.”

“Five days.” She moves to the window, looking out at the grounds below. “You’ve had my sizes, my preferences, everything arranged for five days while I was still trying to figure out how to escape.”

“Efficiency is important in my line of work.”

She turns from the window, her expression hard again. “What are the rules? I assume you have a list.”

“Nothing complicated.” I lean against the doorframe between our rooms. “You don’t leave the property without my knowledge and approval. If you do leave, you’re accompanied by security. Communication with certain political contacts associated with your father requires prior clearance, and names will be provided. There’s a curfew of midnight for movement within the house. Restricted areas remain off-limits at all times.”

“This fucking sucks.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have married me.”

“Yeah, because I had such a choice in that.”

I stop a few feet away from her, close enough to make my point without crowding. “What happens now depends on whether you’re intelligent enough to work within reality or stubborn enough to make things significantly harder on yourself.”

Her jaw clenches, fury radiating off her in waves. “I’m not going to just accept this. Follow your rules, play the obedient wife, pretend this is anything other than imprisonment.”

“You’re alive because you’re my wife,” I interrupt quietly.

The words land heavily in the space between us. Her eyes narrow, searching for the threat underneath, but I’m simply stating fact.

“My wife,” I repeat, letting the possessive settle. “That status provides protection you wouldn’t have otherwise. It also comes with obligations and restrictions. You can fight those restrictions and make your situation considerably worse, or you can adapt and find what limited freedom exists within the boundaries.”

From the hallway, I hear footsteps approaching, then stopping. The guards have learned to recognize when a conversation is private, even when it occurs in technically public spaces. They’ll maintain distance until dismissed or called.

Serena notices their retreat, her gaze flicking past me toward the doorway before returning. “What happens if I refuse to follow the rules? If I try to leave anyway, or contact people without your permission?”

“Then security measures escalate accordingly.” I keep my tone matter-of-fact. “More guards, more restrictions, less freedom of movement. Eventually you’d be limited to this wing of the house under constant surveillance. I’d prefer not to implement those measures, but I will if necessary.”

“Of course you will.” Her hands curl into fists at her sides. “Control is all that matters to you.”