Page 83 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

“Every word,” I say firmly, cupping her face in my hands, forcing her to meet my gaze. “Yulia, you are the strongest woman I’ve ever known. It’s not even a question.”

A tear slips down her cheek, but her smile grows. “And the other part? About this not being leverage? About us... about us being your family?”

My thumb brushes the tear away. “Also true.”

She studies my face, searching for the lie, the manipulation, the hidden agenda. I let her look. For once in my life, there’s nothing to hide.

“You would really go to war with my family over me?” she asks, her voice small but steady.

“In a heartbeat,” I answer without hesitation.

“Why?”

It’s a simple question with a complicated answer. One, I’m not sure I fully understand myself. But as I look at her, I know there’s only one truth that matters.

“Because you’re worth it,” I say. “And I don’t say that because you carry my child, Yulia. Even if you weren’t, I’ve learned how fascinating, bright, and strong you are as a woman. To make sure you don’t have to dull your light? Hell yeah. I’ll go to war.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, her eyes never leaving mine. Then, slowly, she leans forward and presses her forehead against my chest.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

I wrap my arms around her, careful not to hold too tight, mindful of her condition. “For what?”

She looks up at me, and there’s something new in her eyes—something I’ve never seen directed at me before.

Trust.

“For defending me,” she says. “For seeing me.”

I pull her closer, resting my chin on top of her head. I don’t have the words to express what’s happening inside me. This strange, unfamiliar warmth is spreading through my chest.

So instead, I simply hold her.

Chapter 21 - Yulia

The sky is bruised lilac when we step outside, the kind of twilight that makes Boston’s skyline soften at the edges. Trifon holds the car door open for me like we’re in some old black-and-white movie, and when I raise a brow at him, he only shrugs, eyes glinting.

“I figured we deserved a night off,” he says. “Just us.”

Just us. He asked me out for dinner. But I can sense the undertone. Tonight’s a date.

The words sit oddly in my chest—not uncomfortable, but unfamiliar. I nod and get in.

He doesn’t tell me where we’re going. Just drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, close enough that I feel the heat of his skin with every turn. There’s music playing, something instrumental and slow, and for once, neither of us speaks.

Twenty-four hours ago, I was certain I knew who the villain in my story was. Now, I’m not so sure about anything. What Trifon said to my family keeps replaying in my head, drowning out even the betrayal I felt hearing my family dismiss me as weak and naive. He called me strong. He said I was worth fighting for.

I haven’t told him yet, but his show of support makes me feel like I’ve finally remembered how to relax.

“You don’t have to go tonight if you’re tired,” he said when he proposed this mystery outing earlier today. But I need the distraction from the echo of my father’s voice calling me “not strong enough.”

“Still not going to tell me where we’re going?” I ask when he takes an unfamiliar turn.

He looks over at me and grins. “And ruin the surprise? Not a chance.”

“I hate surprises,” I remind him. “Or have you forgotten how we met?”

He winces slightly, which gives me a tiny, petty satisfaction. “This is a good surprise,” he promises. “No kidnapping involved.”