Page 68 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
He follows with a guttural curse, hips jerking a few times before he groans, spilling inside me with a force that feels like surrender.
For a moment, everything is still.
Just his breathing, harsh and ragged against my ear. Just the aftershocks rippling through me. Just the weight of him inside me, and the way he doesn’t let go.
I should still hate him.
But right now, all I feel is full.
Of him. Of this moment. Of everything I swore I didn’t want.
Chapter 16 - Trifon
By the time I arrive home, night has fallen. The house is quiet except for the sound of the television coming from the living room. I loosen my tie as I follow the sound, finding Yulia curled up on the couch, still in her scrubs, hair piled messily on top of her head.
She looks up when I enter, and something in my chest loosens at the sight of her. Despite how tired she looks, I swear she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve laid eyes on today.
“Hard day?” I ask, shrugging off my jacket and draping it over the arm of the couch.
She stretches, arms reaching overhead like a cat. “Busy. Had a teenager come in with a knife wound, he swore was from ‘falling on scissors.’“
“And was it?”
“Of course not,” she snorts. “But I patched him up anyway and sent him home with antibiotics and a lecture about lying to doctors.”
I chuckle, settling beside her. She doesn’t flinch away anymore. Doesn’t tense at my proximity.
“You work too hard,” I observe, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The casual intimacy of the gesture—how natural it feels—catches us both off guard.
She recovers first, rolling her eyes. “Says the man who probably spent all day plotting world domination.”
“Just Boston domination,” I correct, smiling despite myself. “World domination is scheduled for the next quarter.”
She laughs, the sound washing over me like a balm. When did her laughter become something I crave?
“You know,” I continue, careful to keep my tone light, “you could hire another doctor for the clinic. Share the load.”
“I like being busy,” she counters. “Besides, the patients are starting to trust me. If I bring in someone new, we’d have to start from scratch.”
I study her face—the passion in her eyes when she talks about her work, the slight flush in her cheeks. She truly loves what she’s doing. What I’ve given her.
The thought of her family arriving next week looms in the back of my mind. I should tell her. Prepare her for what’s coming. For the choice she might have to make.
But looking at her now, relaxed and almost happy in my presence, I can’t bring myself to shatter this moment of peace by talking about family politics.
“I’m proud of you,” I say instead, surprising both of us. “What you’ve built at the clinic and how well you’ve handled things.”
She blinks, clearly caught off guard by the praise. “I... thank you.”
A comfortable silence falls between us. On screen, a medical drama unfolds.
“This is completely unrealistic, you know,” she comments, gesturing at the TV. “No one’s scrubs look that good after a twelve-hour shift. And that procedure they just did? Physically impossible without rupturing the patient’s spleen.”
I smile, watching her get worked up over fictional medicine. “So why watch it?”
“Because it’s hilarious,” she admits. “And sometimes I need to turn my brain off.” She shifts, pulling her knees to her chest. “Stay and watch with me? Unless you have more domination to plan.”
The invitation catches me off guard. It’s so... normal.So domestic.Nothing like the elaborate chess match we’ve been playing for weeks.
