Page 47 of The Russian Pakhan's Forced Bride
Chapter 16 - Victoria
Having sex with Roman was unlike anything I had ever experienced before…and I was willing to acknowledge that.
After enduring that tension for far too long, it brought me a sense of ease to finally dive into it. To give in and follow that desire, even if it was a dangerous thing.
But now, he’s expecting more from me, and he’s not exactly accepting anything short of compliance.
He wants me in his bed again, and not just for sex.
In a way, part of me wishes that was all he wanted. At least then, it would be simpler…easier. If that were the case, I wouldn’t have to worry about the other aspects of our situation.
I hoped giving in would just be fun and act as an outlet for our pent-up emotions. Now I know I likely bit off more than I’d ever be capable of chewing.
We’re a complicated mess…of me resenting him for everything he has done to me, trying to fight him at every turn, and with Roman trying his hardest to form me into the wife he wants, almost like he’s trying to convince himself he hasn’t completely screwed up.
He wants to believe we’ll be fine, but I know better. We were doomed from the start—the moment he mistook me for another woman.
I think Roman believed I would change the moment we had sex…as if I’d suddenly fit within that domestic role he made just for me.
But I’ve made it my silent mission to do the opposite.
My protests are loud, and I know it’s driving him crazy.
He’s been trying so hard not to crack, but I know I’m wearing him down. His patience, while already precarious, has become even more so.
The tension in his shoulders, the ever-growing defeat in his gaze, and the near-teeth-crushing grit of his jaw reveal it all with absolute ease.
Despite all of his attempts to be calm, present, and even soft, he’s struggling.
If things were different, I wouldn’t waste my time being a pain in his ass, but given the world he’s used to operating in, I can’t pull my punches. He has grown far too accustomed to giving orders that he can’t stand it when I refuse in one way or another, and that only makes my job easier.
Regardless of how exhausting it is to maintain that air of indifference or find new ways to piss him off, I know I can’t stop until he gives up.
I’m tired of bending, and I’m tired of Roman believing he can keep me trapped in this one-sided deal.
In a way, I enjoy the power it gives me to refuse him and his attempts to shepherd me. While it might be an illusion of control—the only sense of control I’ve been able to feel since being roped into this mess—it’s better than being powerless.
In all of his commanding glory, a man like Roman knows how to make others feel small, even if it’s unintentional.
Despite how unforgettable it was to be tangled up in the sheets with him, I refuse to let him break me. To shape me into the wife he believes he deserves.
In the kitchen, I feel his eyes on me from the other side of the kitchen island while I slowly stir my tea.
Neither of us has said much of anything since getting up, and while it’s vaguely uncomfortable, I gain a sense of satisfaction from how irritated he looks because of it.
The spoon clinks quietly against the inner walls of the mug, and I can practically see him twitching with each ring of it.
Then, he murmurs, “Still not speaking?”
“I don’t have anything to say.”
“What, no sarcastic comments? No reasons why you can’t stand to be here?”
“You’re being dramatic,” I say calmly, halting my stirring as I lift the cup closer to my mouth.
“And you’re being unreasonably difficult. As always.”
It’s getting to him.
