Page 59 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

I knew then—I still know now—I want to keep that fire.

I want tomarryher.

The part of me that built an empire from fear and ash is still asking: what kind of king keeps a queen who might one day slit his throat in the dark?

No more stalling.

It’s been two days, and I’m done pretending I don’t need to see her.

She doesn’t see me coming.

Minutes later, I round the corner on the second floor just in time to catch the tail end of her silhouette gliding past the open archway—bare feet, soft cotton dress, hair pulled into some loose, practical twist that leaves the back of her neck exposed.

My hands curl into fists at my sides.

She’s been allowed limited freedom within the mansion for the past few days. I gave the order myself, even if I pretended it came from someone else. No more locks. No more guards breathing down her neck. Let her roam a little. Let herfeelthe illusion of choice.

She’s not used to the quiet yet. She moves like she’s still waiting to be cornered. Still ready to run.

A little fear keeps her sharp, but it’s the defiance she wears that keeps me coming back for more.

I follow her, silent as a ghost on the plush carpets. She slows as she reaches the end of the hall, trailing her fingers along the edge of a side table like she’s thinking about grabbing something and throwing it at the first person who startles her.

She doesn’t turn when she speaks. “I know you’re there.”

That voice—low, clipped, steady despite the tension that coils visibly in her shoulders. Always ready to strike, even when she’s standing half naked in one of my T-shirts, looking like sin carved into silk.

I close the last few feet between us in two steps.

She turns, and I press her to the wall.

The breath catches in her throat—not fear. Not surprise. Something else. The hitched exhale of a woman who’s been waiting for this.

Her back meets the wallpapered paneling with a soft thud. My hand finds her hip, the other braced beside her head. I box her in completely, and she tilts her chin up with the kind of defiance that only makes me want to ruin her more.

“You shouldn’t be walking the halls alone,” I murmur, leaning in close.

“Why?” she says, eyes narrowed. “Afraid someone might treat me the wayyoudid?”

The jab lands. Sharp. Cutting. But I only smile.

“Afraid someone might try,” I say. “I’d have to kill them for it.”

Her gaze flickers to my mouth for half a second—then back up.

“You’re so dramatic,” she hisses. “Is that your thing? Scare everyone into obedience?”

“No,” I say softly. “Only you.”

I lean in.

She turns her face like she might dodge the kiss—but I catch her jaw in my hand, guiding her back. Her skin is warm beneath my palm, her pulse fluttering at the base of her throat. When our mouths meet, it’s not gentle.

It’s punishment. It’s possession.

She gasps into it, a sound caught between protest and need, and I take the opportunity—sliding my tongue past her lips, deepening the kiss until her nails dig into my arms. She tastes like defiance and desperation, like someone who doesn’t know whether to slap me or wrap her legs around my waist.

I want both.

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