Page 67 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

The bedroom is cast in soft morning light, gold and pale across the floorboards, across the edge of the bed she’s just slipped out of. Her back is to me. Her silhouette moves through the shafts of sun like something from a dream I haven’t been able to shake since last night. One strap of the black silk night dress slides off her shoulder as she reaches for her dress, still draped over the chair from the gala. I let my gaze follow the curve of her spine. The small movements of her hands. The way she lifts her hair without thinking, exposing the pale line of her throat.

The same throat I kissed only hours ago.

The same body I held, touched, claimed—fast and desperate in that hallway, her lips swollen and her breath caught in my name.

I should feel satisfied.

I have her now. Her body. Her time. Her silence. The ring on her finger glints in the light like proof of possession. I took everything that mattered. She let me.

Satisfaction doesn’t come. Instead, I feel restless.

She isn’t mine yet. Not completely. I see it in the way she still pulls herself from my bed like she’s retreating, like every night she gives in is followed by a morning of regret she doesn’t speak out loud. She wears defiance like perfume—light, lingering, and impossible to ignore.

Yet… she doesn’t run. Not this morning. Not after last night.

That small concession alone curls heat low in my chest.

She disappears into the dressing room, and I step back from the cracked door, retreating before she knows I was there. I could walk in. I could demand her attention. She’s mine now, by word and ring and consequence.

I want her to come tome. I want her to crave my gaze, not just tolerate it. I want her loyalty unspoken, burning beneath her skin the way it’s already begun to burn beneath mine.

It’s midafternoon when we make an appearance together.

I bring her to a private luncheon at one of the Bratva’s affiliate properties. Small gathering. Controlled setting. Men with power. Women with secrets. A place where every glance is a test, and every smile a threat.

Elise walks beside me, chin high, gaze sharp. She doesn’t wear the robe now—she wears something new. A navy dress I had sent up this morning. It fits like it was sewn for her, hugging her hips, her waist, high at the collar but slit nearly to her thigh. Conservative in the places that matter. Designed to tease where it counts.

She knows what it does to me.

She doesn’t flinch when I rest a hand on her back. Doesn’t hesitate when I introduce her—once again—as my fiancée.

Her eyes tell me everything.

They flicker when I say the word. A breath caught in her ribs, a muscle twitching at the corner of her jaw.

She doesn’t contradict it, but she doesn’townit either.

I watch her through the meal. The way she listens without speaking too much. The way she meets other men’s eyes—brief, polite, never lingering. Still, I notice. Every single time. The split second she hesitates before answering a question. The subtle way she shifts away from me when I press my hand to her thigh beneath the table.

It’s all a game. One I’m going to win.

She slips once—laughing too easily at a comment from one of the men seated beside her. He’s nothing. A cousin of a cousin. Small-time. Her head tips back, and I catch the curve of her neck, the way her lips part around the sound.

I snap.

My hand closes around her knee beneath the table. Not hard. Not painful. But firm.

Mine.

Her laughter stops. She glances at me, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes.

Then she lowers her voice. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” she murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear.

“I’m not jealous,” I reply smoothly, voice low against her ear. “I’m possessive. Know the difference.”

She says nothing, but she doesn’t pull away.

Later, when the gathering ends and we walk back through the mansion toward the car, I catch her watching me. Not with fear. Not with loathing. But with that same war I’ve come to recognize—the one that plays out behind her green eyes every time I touch her.

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