Page 17 of The Russian Pakhan's Forced Bride
Even if he seems to mean it, I still find something vaguely mocking in his words.
Wife, care, mine...
Recoiling internally, I find myself pushing back against that reality.
Despite my reluctance to be part of this marriage in any way, I’m bound to him. Trapped in an arrangement I never agreed to.
Now, he’s dressing me up for the part. Fitting me to be some kind of wife he imagined.
“You have a funny way of disguising care as control,” I mutter, unable to catch myself before letting the words come out.
His gaze on me is unwavering. “Sometimes they look one and the same.”
As much as I want to snap at him, to show even a semblance of teeth in the face of everything he’s roping me into, I don’t answer.
It’s tempting to let my true feelings out and to be as incorrigible as possible, but something about him screamsDon’t push it.
If I did, I’d find myself in a far worse position than I’m already in.
Instead, I look at him for another moment and decide I’ve had enough.
There’s a touch of smugness in the way his eyes gleam back at me, but for the most part, he seems sincere in his gesture.
Maybe in another timeline that would feel nice, but in this one, it irks me.
Turning on my heel, I move back up the stairs, careful to keep the shirt tucked in close around my body. Heading back to the room that’s supposed to be mine, I pass the men on their way out again.
Entering that space, it’s suddenly cluttered with things I never asked for—things I never needed.
Still, I push the door shut behind me and lean back against it. Pulling in a breath, I exhale until my lungs feel nearly empty again.
It’s too much…all of the bags and expensive things I never would’ve been able to afford in my lifetime…Roman’s words and intentions…the way it’s all happening so fast.
One moment, I was a teacher, finally pulling my life together after enduring year after year of pure shit. The next, I’m an unwilling wife. A prisoner, and one with far too many clothes.
Still…even if it’s excessive, I know Roman has a point.
I don’t exactly feel like wearing his shirts day in and day out. Especially not if he sees it in some territorial kind of way.
Moving over to the pile dropped off near the walk-in closet, along with everything else already inside, I grab the closest one and look inside.
The cashmere sweater is so soft that I can’t stop my fingers from running over the material multiple times. Another bag is full of different bottoms, from tidy slacks to more relaxedathletic wear. And in the third one, lingerie. All delicate lace and silk that would make anyone feel like royalty.
Some cruel, self-sabotaging part of me wonders if he picked them…
Shoving that thought aside, I slide the shirt off and toss it to the floor before taking my time getting dressed.
The brush of his shirt against my skin makes something move in my chest…an annoying flutter that I want gone as soon as it appears.
His scent hits me again, and it both makes me shiver and turns my stomach at the same time.
Even if the material of the new clothes is high-end and comes with a luxury price tag, the ensemble I chose feels simple and comfortable. It’s the closest thing to normal for me.
From upstairs, I hear Roman’s voice carrying through the house while he gives orders, sounding low and calculated. As measured as always, it seems.
It makes me wonder if he ever stops. If he ever just turns himself off and takes a break from it all.
Something in me doubts it.
