Page 2 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

She follows my gaze, scanning the ballroom. “Which column? There are about twenty very tall men in dark suits.”

“The one who’s been watching me all night.” I point more specifically. “Right there, beside the—”

The space is empty.

I blink, searching the nearby area. He was there less than a minute ago; I’m certain of it. My pulse quickens as I scan the crowd more frantically, but there’s no sign of him among the sea of tuxedos and evening gowns.

“Serena.” Adriana’s voice carries a note of concern. “Are you okay?”

“I…” I shake my head, trying to dismiss the creeping unease. “There was a man. He’s been staring at me since we arrived. Russian, I think, based on the features. Now he’s just… gone.”

Adriana studies me carefully, her analytical mind clearly processing this information. “Do you want me to mention it to security?”

“No.” The word comes out too quickly. What would I even say? A man looked at me at a crowded gala? It sounds paranoid, even to my own ears. “I’m probably just tired. It’s been a long night.”

I don’t believe that, and from the expression on Adriana’s face, neither does she.

An hour later, I’ve had enough. The stranger’s disappearance should reassure me, but instead it’s left me on edge, hyperaware of every glance and movement around me. When my father gets pulled into yet another lengthy conversation with a defense contractor, I see my opportunity.

“I’m leaving early,” I tell him quietly. “I have a headache.”

He barely glances at me, already nodding along to whatever the contractor is saying. “Fine. I’ll see you at home.”

The dismissal stings less than it used to. I’ve learned not to expect more.

I collect my clutch and make my way toward the exits, offering polite goodbyes to the few people who intercept me. The ballroom’s noise fades as I take the service elevator down to the parking garage, my heels clicking against polished floors giving way to concrete.

The garage is dimmer than I expected, overhead lights casting long shadows between the rows of expensive cars. My father’s security usually positions someone near the elevator, but tonight the area is empty. I frown, glancing around, but dismiss the concern. They’re probably stationed closer to the main entrance.

My car—a sleek black BMW my father bought to maintain appearances—sits in its reserved spot three rows back. I’m digging through my clutch for the keys when I hear footsteps. Multiple sets, moving with purpose.

I look up sharply.

Four men emerge from between the cars, fanning out to surround me. Masks cover their faces, black tactical gear replacing the tuxedos upstairs. Everything about them screams dangerous.

My heart slams against my ribs, but I don’t freeze. Years of my father’s enemies making threats, of security briefings and worst-case scenarios, kick in with crystalline clarity.

I run.

The elevator is too far, but there’s a stairwell exit closer. I sprint toward it, my heels hampering my speed, yet I refuseto kick them off—I might need the pointy ends. Behind me, footsteps pound against concrete, gaining fast.

A hand grabs my arm. I spin, driving my elbow up into a masked face with all my strength. The impact jars my arm, but the man grunts and staggers back. I wrench free and keep running, adrenaline drowning out the fear trying to claw its way up my throat.

I don’t make it five more steps.

Two men catch me from either side, hands locking around my arms with bruising force. I thrash immediately, driving my heel down onto one’s instep while twisting to throw my weight against the other. They’re prepared for resistance, but I don’t care. I scream, the sound echoing through the garage, and aim another kick at the nearest kneecap.

“Goddamn it,” one of them hisses in accented English. “Grab her legs—”

I get one more solid strike in—heel connecting with someone’s shin hard enough to draw a pained curse—before they lift me completely off the ground. My arms are pinned, but I keep fighting, bucking and twisting even as they carry me toward a waiting van with tinted windows.

Terror tries to lock down my thoughts, but I force it back, still struggling even as one of them reaches for the van door. If they get me inside, it’s over. I know enough about abductions to understand that much.

“Enough.”

The single word cuts through the chaos like a blade.

The men freeze. Their hands are still on me, restraining me against the van’s side, but they’ve stopped moving. All of them turn toward the voice, and I follow their gazes.