Page 69 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

“I know.” She doesn’t pull away. “I’m just saying that once the immediate crisis is managed, we’re going to have to address everything between us. The investigation. My father’s betrayal. The fact that we’re effectively trapped together until this war ends.”

She’s right. Of course she’s right.

Right now, tactical concerns have to take priority over relationship complications.

I release her wrist and return to work. “Go explore the house. Get comfortable. This is going to be our home for the foreseeable future.”

She leaves without further comment, and I force myself to focus on the war unfolding across the city.

The next six hours are a blur of tactical decisions and strategic coordination. Mikhail executes Protocol Crimson with brutal efficiency; simultaneous strikes on fifteen Kravin holdings, destroying infrastructure and eliminating personnel with overwhelming force.

The message is clear: retaliation for attacking us will be swift, thorough, and devastating.

By noon, initial casualty reports show we’ve inflicted significantly more damage than we sustained. Kravin’s forces are regrouping, trying to salvage operations from the coordinated assault.

This is far from over. Anton Kravin survived my bullets once. He won’t stop until one of us is dead.

***

I’m reviewing intelligence reports when Serena reappears carrying two plates of food. “You need to eat.”

“Later.” I don’t look up from the screens.

“Pavel.” She sets a plate beside me with deliberate force. “You’ve been working for six hours straight. Eat something before you collapse.”

The command in her voice makes me glance up. She’s changed into more comfortable clothes—leggings and one of my shirts, her hair pulled back in a ponytail.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re running on adrenaline and fury.” She sits in the chair across from me, picking up her own plate. “Which works short-term but isn’t sustainable. So eat. Maintain your strength. Be strategic about your own well-being the way you are about everything else.”

The logic is sound, even if I don’t appreciate the interruption. I pick up the sandwich she made—simple but well-constructed—and take a bite more to appease her than because I’m actually hungry.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

“The investigation is suspended until the immediate threat is neutralized,” I tell her. “Right now, keeping you alive matters more than verifying your innocence.”

“You still have doubts.” Not accusatory, just observant. “I can see it in how you look at me sometimes. Like you’re trying to reconcile the woman you love with the possibility that I’ve been deceiving you.”

She’s too perceptive. Sees through carefully maintained control to the conflict underneath.

“Yes,” I admit. “I have doubts. Not because I want to, but because tactical assessment demands it. Your father’s betrayal, the timing of the intelligence leaks, the message he sent you; it all creates reasonable suspicion that’s difficult to ignore.”

“Even though you want to ignore it.”

“Even though I want to believe you completely.” I set down the sandwich. “But belief without verification is dangerous, Serena. Especially in our world, where trust can be weaponized and attachment exploited.”

She’s quiet for a moment, processing that honesty. “So what happens when the war ends? When things calm down enough to resume the investigation?”

“Then we prove definitively whether you’re innocent or complicit.” The words taste bitter. “We deal with whatever that proof reveals.”

“That’s an impossible choice.”

“Yes.” I meet her gaze directly. “It is.”

Silence falls between us, heavy with implications neither of us wants to examine too closely.

Finally, Serena stands. “I’m going to shower and try to rest. You should do the same once you finish coordinating for the day.”