Page 78 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

The clock on the mantel ticks louder than it should.

I stare at it while she sits across the room pretending I don’t exist. Her legs are curled beneath her on the chaise, bare skin visible beneath that soft robe she’s so fond of, fingers tucked under her chin as she flips a page in some useless book. She hasn’t read a word in ten minutes. I know because I haven’t looked away from her once.

She knows I’m leaving soon.

That’s part of the performance—cool detachment, like I’m nothing more than a passing shadow. She wants me to believe she’s unaffected. Unmoved.

Unclaimed.

She’s wrong.

The room reeks of her—sweet and sharp, something that lingers even after she’s gone. It clings to my skin more stubbornly than blood ever has. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t glance up, but she knows I’m watching her. Her lips twitch faintly at the corners when I move, when I reach for my keys, when my hand grazes the lapel of my coat like sheexpectsme to say something, to react.

Let her think she’s winning. Let her think silence is safety, that the smirk she hides behind her glass gives her power. Let her think I’m patient.

She’s forgotten that her silence isn’t a shield—it’s an invitation.

That robe she lounges in so carelessly? It’s mine.

The room she dares to ignore me in? Mine.

The fire in her belly, the heat in her glare, the tremble in her breath when I get too close?

All. Mine.

She can tease me all she wants. Play her little rebellion like she isn’t aching to be pinned down and made to remember exactly who she belongs to.

She’s frustrated. I see it. Angry. I feel it.

But underneath all of that—underneath the sharp tongue and cold stares—is a hunger she doesn’t want to name. It’s in the way she breathes when I pass her. In the tension in her shoulders when I lean close enough to speak against her ear.

It’s killing her. Fuck, if it isn’t killing me too.

I button my coat, watching her from the corner of my eye as I move toward the door. Still no glance. Still no words. Just a flick of the page and the curve of her bare thigh peeking out beneath the robe.

My hand hovers over the doorknob.

When I walk back through that door, she’ll remember what it feels like.

To bemine.

Kolya Sharov doesn’t get ignored.

Especially not by the woman who sleeps in his bed and wears his ring.

My voice is low, deliberate as I speak without turning back. “Don’t wait up.”

I catch the slight pause in her movement—the stiffening of her hand, the way her fingers clench around the book just a little tighter before relaxing again.

***

The warehouse smells like oil and old blood—exactly the kind of place where men like me feel at home. Concrete walls soaked in secrets, metal tables that have seen more flesh than paperwork. It’s cold too, but I prefer it that way. Keeps people sharp. Keeps them from pretending the world is anything but cruel.

Boris is already there when I arrive. Leaning against the hood of one of our blacked-out cars, coat collar up, cigarette dangling between his fingers. He doesn’t look at me right away, just flicks ash to the ground and exhales.

“He’s late,” I say.

“He won’t be,” Boris mutters. “Viktor’s too much of a coward to keep you waiting.”

---