Page 20 of Forced Prisoner By the Bratva

A soft groan escaped my lips, and my eyes fluttered open. My vision was foggy, taking a minute to clear, but as I blinked slowly, the king-sized bed came into view. My body ached from the awkward position I'd lain on the couch, prompting a faint wince out of me.

I'd fallen asleep on the couch last night, but I couldn't remember using a blanket. Yet, this morning, I was snuggled under one, its thickness keeping me warm.

There was only one explanation: Erik must have draped the blanket over me while I slept. He didn't have to. He could have easily pretended not to see me shivering from the cold. Besides, it was my decision to sleep on the couch. Therefore, the consequences of my actions shouldn't have troubled him.

Clearly, he couldn't let me freeze to death on our wedding night. But why, though? Was his gesture driven by kindness or simply a sense of obligation?

My instincts told me that the latter was most likely the case. Erik was incapable of being kind to me or anyone in general—it just wasn't in his DNA. In fact, I had reasons to believe that the man delighted in my distress.

As my husband, he probably felt obligated to keep me warm, no emotions attached. But whatever the case, he didn't have to, yet he did anyway. Even though his reason was unclear, a part of me still appreciated the gesture.

Erik Tarasov was unpredictable. I hadn’t expected him to pull away from me last night, especially after telling him about my virginity. I'd thought that he'd lose control and take me without my consent. But to my shock, he just withdrew.

I was glad he did because I was scared half to death. I'd never been a man before, and I didn't think that I was ready to lose my virginity just yet. Yes, the idea was to save myselffor marriage; that was the initial plan. But even though I was married now, this wasn't the way I imagined my first time to be.

Erik did fit the physical description of my dream man—tall, strong, and very masculine, not to mention ridiculously attractive. But I wanted more from a man; I wanted an emotional connection, which he lacked, by the way.

I didn't want my first experience to be dull, rough, and devoid of an emotional connection. I didn't want to be fucked; I wanted to be made love to—a slow, passionate sex to remember. With Erik, I was afraid. He didn't strike me as a man who'd take his time and adore a woman's body. He struck me as a man who would take what he wanted with or without my consent.

However, that wasn't the aura he exuded last night. He was calm, calculated, and shockingly understanding. Erik had left me confused; his action—or the lack of it, as in this case—had me second-guessing my thoughts and opinion of him.

What did this mean? Was there a part of him that wasn't as monstrous as I thought?

I'd be silly to believe that he had a soft side, even though this gesture might trick me into thinking so. The man was hard as a rock, and I shouldn't be overanalyzing this little act.

I rubbed the remnants of sleep from my eyes as I rose off the couch, my feet settling on the cool marble floor. My new reality kicked in; I was his wife now—I was a Tarasov—and as such, I was bound to him in every way.

He’d let me off easy last night, but for how long would I keep delaying the inevitable? How long until he lost his patience and demanded I play my role as his wife?

We had a deal, and I'd promised to fulfill my marital obligations. However, I was failing to hold up my end of the bargain, and the weight of that failure hung over me. I'd accused him of lacking honor; I guess the joke was on me now.

His scent was all over me, courtesy of the blanket that kept me warm all night. And despite my reservations, I wasn't repulsed or irritated by it. In fact, it sparked a flutter in my chest, a tiny flicker of attraction that I tried to extinguish.

The feeling was similar to what I felt at the altar when he kissed my forehead, which, by the way, was completely unexpected. Erik was unreadable. Each time I thought I was starting to understand him, he’d do something that would just throw me off.

He was an enigma, a puzzle that I wanted to solve, but I knew his mysteriousness was a double-edged sword. It fascinated me but also made me wary of getting too close, lest I get stabbed in the process.

My stomach growled, snapping me back to reality—a subtle reminder that I had yet to have breakfast. With a fluid, practiced motion, I neatly folded the blanket and strolled over to the bed, where I set it on the mattress.

Erik's signature scent lingered everywhere, invading my senses even in his absence. He wasn't here when I woke up, and I had no idea where he was. Maybe he had left for work already, and it would be nice if he had because then I'd have some time to myself.

I needed to think, get a hold of my new reality, and figure out the best ways to navigate through this path I'd been set on.

But first, I had to attend to my stomach. I strolled over to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and took a warm bath. Once I was done, I stepped out, dried my body, and changed into clean clothes—a casual dress that draped over my slender form.

I chose a short-sleeved gown instead of the spaghetti-strapped dress I initially considered. I didn't want to risk tempting him with a provocative outfit, knowing that I wasn't ready for intimacy.

The look in his eyes last night, when the strap of my nightgown had slipped off my shoulder, was a clear indication that he found me attractive. So, why tease him when I wasn't ready yet?

I caught my reflection in the full-length mirror, a glint of sadness flickering in my eyes. My shoulders were unconsciously slumped in dismay, a testament to my unhappiness.

“You've got this,” I whispered to myself, forcing out a sly smile as I straightened and smoothed my palms down my gown.

I went downstairs, and as I neared the dining table, the aroma of various dishes wafted up, tantalizing my senses. My mouth watered at the thought, and my stomach rumbled with hunger.

I rounded a corner, and the table came into view: a long, elegant expanse of polished wood, its gleaming surface refracting the chandelier lights. Fine china, crystal glasses, and a sprinkling of silverware that looked like they belonged in a museum adorned the table.

However, those weren't the only things at the table. One figure stood out, seated in a chair at the head with a delicate cup of coffee in his hand. He exuded an air of confidence and relaxed nonchalance, legs crossed, with a faint smirk of self-satisfaction on his lips.

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