Page 39 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

“However.” Kravin’s gaze travels over me with uncomfortable deliberation. “Having seen you in person, I’m reconsidering the timeline. You’re quite beautiful, Mrs. Rudenko. It would be a waste to end things so quickly when there are other uses for a Bratva boss’s wife before she becomes a corpse.”

Bile rises in my throat. I force it down, refusing to give him the satisfaction of visible terror.

“Pavel will come for me,” I say, keeping my voice steady through sheer force of will.

“I’m counting on it.” Kravin stands, resuming his slow circle. “In fact, that’s what makes this situation so entertaining. Pavel Rudenko is known for his control, his strategic thinking, his ability to remain calm under pressure. Everyone has a breaking point. Everyone has something they value enough to lose that famous composure.”

He stops behind me, and I feel his hand settle on my shoulder. I flinch despite myself.

“The question is whether you’re that breaking point for him. Is this marriage genuine enough that he’ll come charging in to save you? Or will he cut his losses, recognize you as the liability you’ve become, and let me do whatever I want while he focuses on protecting assets that actually matter?”

His fingers tighten briefly before releasing.

“Either way, I win. If he comes, I have the opportunity to kill the great Pavel Rudenko in his own moment of weakness. If he doesn’t…” Kravin moves back into my line of sight. “Well. Then I have you all to myself for as long as I find you entertaining.”

“You’re insane,” I whisper.

“I’m practical.” He signals one of the guards, who immediately moves to his side. “Increase security around the perimeter. Rudenko’s people will be searching, and I want to know the moment they get close. Also, bring a camera. I think Mrs. Rudenko’s husband deserves proof she’s being well cared for.”

The guard nods and disappears through the same door Kravin entered from.

“Now then.” Kravin turns his full attention back to me. “Let’s discuss what information you can provide about your husband’s current operations. Guard schedules, meeting locations, political contacts he’s recently cultivated. I’m sure you’ve overheard quite a bit during your time as his wife.”

“I don’t know anything.” It’s only half a lie.

“Of course you don’t.” His tone suggests he doesn’t believe me but isn’t particularly concerned. “That’s what everyone says initially. We have time, Mrs. Rudenko. Plenty of time for you to remember details you didn’t realize you knew.”

He moves to a crate near the wall, opening it to reveal contents I can’t see from this angle. When he returns, he’s holding a knife. Only a simple tactical blade with a worn handle that speaks to regular use.

My breathing quickens despite attempts to stay calm.

“I find that people’s memories improve significantly when properly motivated.” He tests the blade’s edge with his thumb, drawing a thin line of blood that he wipes casually on his pants. “We’ll start simple. Your husband’s primary residence—how many guards are stationed there overnight?”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

The backhand comes without warning, snapping my head to the side with enough force to make my vision blur. Pain explodes across my already-bruised cheek, and I taste copper.

“Wrong answer.” Kravin’s voice remains conversational. “Let’s try again. How many guards?”

I spit blood onto the concrete floor and meet his gaze. “Go to hell.”

This time I see the hit coming, but tied to the chair there’s nothing I can do to avoid it. His fist connects with my ribs, driving the air from my lungs in a painful gasp.

“Defiance is admirable but ultimately pointless,” Kravin observes, circling again while I struggle to breathe. “You’re going to tell me everything I want to know. The only variable is how much pain you endure first.”

Through the agony radiating from my ribs, a strange clarity settles over me.

Pavel will come.

I’m his. His wife, his leverage, his carefully managed asset. Pavel Rudenko doesn’t allow his possessions to be taken without catastrophic consequences for whoever tries.

The certainty anchors me even as Kravin continues his interrogation, his questions growing more specific, his methods of encouragement growing progressively more painful.

“Your husband’s primary residence,” he repeats, the knife now in his hand catching the dim light. “How many entry points does he monitor?”

“I don’t know.”

The blade presses against my forearm, not cutting yet but cold enough to make me flinch. “Wrong answer.”