Page 3 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

He steps out from behind a concrete pillar with the calm, unhurried gait of someone who owns every space he enters. The man from the ballroom. Up close, he’s even more imposing—six-foot-three at least, broad-shouldered and solid in a way that speaks of controlled power rather than bulk. His steel-gray eyes find mine, and recognition hits like ice water.

“Let her go,” he says in Russian-accented English, his voice low and unnervingly calm.

The men release me immediately, stepping back with the deference of soldiers obeying a superior officer. I stumble slightly, catching myself against the van, my breath coming in sharp gasps as I try to process what’s happening.

He moves closer, each step measured and precise. I should run. I should scream again. Instead, I find myself rooted in place.

“Who the hell are you?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel, fury cutting through the fear. “What do you want?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studies me with that same assessing gaze from the ballroom, taking in my disheveled hair, the torn strap of my dress, the defiant set of my jaw despite everything.

Something flickers in his expression—not quite approval, but close.

“My name,” he says finally, “is not important right now. What matters is that you come with me quietly.”

The absolute audacity of that statement sparks rage hot enough to burn through my remaining caution. “Go to hell.”

I lunge for the stairwell exit again.

I make it three steps before his hand closes around my wrist, grip firm but not painful. He pulls me back with effortless strength, spinning me around and pressing me against the sideof my car. The metal is cold against my back, his body a wall of controlled power in front of me.

I try to strike him—knee, fist, anything—but he catches my other wrist and pins both hands against the car above my head. The position forces me to look up at him, and this close I can see the faint scar along his jaw, the absolute absence of emotion in those pale eyes.

“Stop fighting,” he says quietly, his breath warm against my face. “You’re only making this harder on yourself.”

“Let me go.” I put every ounce of command I’ve learned from a lifetime around powerful men into those words. “Now.”

He almost smiles. Almost. “No.”

I thrash again, trying to break his hold, but he doesn’t budge. He’s not hurting me—his grip is controlled, calculated to restrain without bruising—but the casual display of superior strength is more terrifying than violence would be.

This man doesn’t need to hurt me to control me. He knows it, and worse, I know it.

“You should save that fire,” he tells me, his voice dropping even lower as his gaze locks with mine. “You’re going to need it.”

He releases one wrist long enough to gesture to his men. They move immediately, surrounding us again. I try to pull free, but his hand settles on my waist, fingers spreading across my hip with firm possession as he guides me toward the van.

“Don’t touch me!” I twist hard, trying to break away.

His grip tightens, not painfully but enough to stop my movement. He leans closer, his mouth near my ear. “The more you fight here, the more attention you draw. Do you want hotel security to find us? Because I promise you, that ends worse for everyone involved.”

The threat is implicit but clear. My father’s security, the other guests, anyone who might try to intervene; they’d be collateral damage if this escalates.

I stop struggling, but only because I’m calculating odds, looking for any opening. His men move with military precision, forming a barrier between us and the rest of the garage while their leader—because that’s clearly what he is—keeps his hand on my waist as he steers me the final steps to the van.

The door slides open. I plant my feet, preparing for one final attempt to break free.

He must sense it because his hand shifts, grip becoming immovable as he lifts me slightly—just enough to break my leverage—and guides me into the vehicle. I land on the leather seat harder than intended, immediately scrambling toward the opposite door.

Locked. Of course.

He slides in beside me, filling the space with his presence, and pulls the door closed with a decisive click. The sound feels final, like a cell door slamming shut.

I press myself against the far window, putting as much distance between us as possible in the confined space. “When my father finds out—”

“Your father already knows.”

The words hit like a physical blow. I stare at him, searching for the lie, but his expression remains maddeningly calm.