Page 98 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

I sag back against the wall, chest heaving.

Valentin crouches beside me. “You look like shit.”

I breathe a laugh. “You came.”

He grunts. “Of course I came. But if you hang up on me again, I can’t promise there’ll be a next time.”

My gaze flicks past him, to the four men I last expected to see come to my defense. And I wonder…what the hell’s going on around here?

Chapter 25 - Yulia

I rush across the safehouse living room the moment they bring him in, my heart hammering so hard I can barely breathe. Trifon looks pale, tired.

Anton called for back-up when he said he hadn’t heard from Trifon. Since our families went out looking for him? I’ve been worried sick.

When our eyes meet across the room, everything else fades away—my father, my brothers, his brothers, the danger waiting outside.

There’s only him, alive and whole despite everything, and the overwhelming relief that crashes through me like a tidal wave.

“You idiot,” I whisper, throwing my arms around him, careful of his injury. “What were you thinking?”

He stiffens for a split second before his good arm wraps around my waist, pulling me against him so tightly I can feel his heart beating against mine.

“You left,” he says into my hair, voice rough. “I woke up and you were gone.”

I pull back just enough to look at his face, tears blurring my vision. “I didn’t leave you. I went to fix things.”

Confusion flashes across his features as he takes in the room—my father and brothers standing awkwardly near the door, his own brothers watching us with expressions ranging from relief to amusement.

“What’s going on?” he asks, eyes narrowing as he looks from me to my family. “Why did they help?”

My father steps forward, his face unreadable except for the tightness around his eyes. “Perhaps we should all sit down. There’s much to discuss.”

Trifon’s arm tightens around me, protective even now. “I’m listening.”

I guide him to the sofa, refusing to let go of his hand.

“I went to see them this morning,” I begin, squeezing his fingers. “To make them understand.”

“Understand what?” Trifon’s voice is cautious, wary.

“Everything,” I say simply. “How you and I—we’re a unit now. Why an alliance with the Zakharovs would be suicide.”

My father clears his throat, uncomfortable with this open discussion of family business in front of others. But I don’t care anymore. I’m done with secrets and hidden agendas.

“Our daughter presented a... compelling case,” Father says, each word carefully measured. “For why our families are stronger together than apart.”

Trifon looks at me, surprise evident in his eyes. “You convinced them to help me?”

“She did more than that,” Damien says, stepping forward. “She made us see what we’ve been blind to for years.”

The memory of this morning floods back to me—the way I stormed into their safehouse, the shock on their faces when they saw me, pregnant and furious and finally, finally done being the good, quiet daughter.

I’d planned what to say for hours as I sat by Trifon’s bedside watching him sleep. Every argument, every point, every piece of evidence I needed to present. By the time I walked intotheir house, I was armed with more than just emotion—I had a strategy.

“I told them what you’ve built,” I explain to Trifon. “Not just the power or the money, but the loyalty. How your men would die for you without question. How you protected me, gave me the clinic, defended me to them even when I wasn’t there to hear it.”

Trifon’s eyes never leave mine, intense and searching.