Page 55 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

“Don’t,” I warn quietly.

“Don’t what?” She does it again, poking harder.

My hand shoots out, catching her wrist before she can poke me a third time. “Don’t test my patience when you know exactly how thin it is right now.”

“Or what?” She steps closer, close enough that I can feel her breath.

The challenge in her eyes is deliberate provocation. She’s pushing specifically to get a reaction, to see if I’ll default to the control she’s accusing me of maintaining.

Every tactical instinct screams to de-escalate. To release her wrist, step back, approach this argument with the same calm discipline I apply to negotiations and strategic decisions.

She’s so close, and the defiance in her expression makes something primal surge through me—anger and desire tangling together until I can’t separate them.

“You want to see control?” I back her against the desk, my body crowding hers. “You want me to prove I’m exactly what you’re accusing me of being?”

“I want honesty.” Her breathing has quickened, pupils dilating despite the anger in her voice. “I want you to admit that you’re still trying to manage me like a variable in your strategic calculations.”

“You’re not a variable.” My free hand finds her hip, gripping with possessive pressure. “You’re a complication I never planned for and can’t seem to control no matter how hard I try.”

“Then stop trying.” Her uninjured hand fists in my shirt, pulling me closer even as she glares. “Stop trying to control me and just be with me. As equals and as partners.”

“We’re not equals, Serena.” The admission is brutal honesty. “I have more power, more resources, more experience in this world. Pretending otherwise doesn’t change reality.”

“You could choose to share that power instead of wielding it over me.” Her voice cracks slightly. “You could trust me to handle the truth instead of deciding what I’m capable of knowing.”

She’s right. The realization cuts through anger and frustration with uncomfortable clarity. I’ve been treating her like an asset to protect rather than a partner to include, defaulting to control because it’s safer than vulnerability.

Acknowledging that internally and admitting it out loud are entirely different things.

“You don’t understand what you’re asking for,” I say instead, my grip on her hip tightening. “Transparency means exposure to details that will keep you awake at night. Operations that cross lines you might not be comfortable with. Decisions that prioritize organizational survival over moral considerations.”

“Then let me make that choice.” Her chin lifts defiantly. “Stop deciding what I can handle and let me prove I’m stronger than you give me credit for.”

“I know you’re strong.” My other hand moves to brace against the desk beside her, effectively caging her in. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” She doesn’t back down despite the way I’m crowding her space. “It looks a lot like you’re using protection as an excuse to maintain the same control you’ve always had.”

The accusation makes anger spike hot and immediate. “You think I enjoy lying to you?”

“I think you’re comfortable with it.” Her hand comes up between us, fingers splaying across my chest. “I think you’ve structured your entire life around control, and including me asan actual partner means giving up some of that control. Which terrifies you.”

She’s reading me too accurately, seeing through carefully maintained walls to the fear underneath. I should step back, create distance, approach this rationally.

Instead, I lean closer.

“You want to talk about terror?” My voice drops lower, more dangerous. “You have no idea what terror is. Terror is watching surveillance footage of you being forced into a vehicle by men who specialize in torture. Terror is knowing every second that passes is another second you’re in pain because I failed to protect you adequately.”

“I’m not asking you to stop protecting me.” Her fingers curl into my shirt, gripping the fabric. “I’m asking you to trust me enough to let me help protect myself. To give me the information I need to make informed decisions instead of keeping me ignorant for my own good.”

“Ignorance is safer.”

“Ignorance is what got me kidnapped.” Her eyes flash with frustration. “I didn’t understand the danger of attempting escape during that specific window. If you’d trusted me with that information, maybe I would have chosen differently.”

The logic is sound, but it doesn’t change the visceral fear that drives my need to control. “Or maybe you would have used that information to attempt escape anyway and gotten yourself killed.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Exactly.” I shift closer, close enough that our bodies are nearly flush. “I don’t know. Can’t predict. Can’t control what you’ll do with information once you have it. That uncertainty is dangerous in ways you clearly don’t appreciate.”