Page 48 of Forced By the Obsessed Bratva
I leaned against his chest, limp and dazed. My hands were wrapped around the back of his neck. I didn’t want to release him.
I didn’t want to speak, and I could tell he didn’t want to either.
Because in that moment, whatever existed between us wasn’t war. It wasn’t hate.
It was something deeper.
Something stronger.
Something I would definitely regret in the morning.
Chapter 12 – Matvey
I woke up with the weight of her still bearing on my skin. Every inch of me was covered in memories from last night.
Her nails digging into my shoulders, the way she breathed my name when she lost herself, and the feeling of my dick inside her.
I didn’t dream a lot, but if I did last night…it was of her.
A low, satisfied pain lodged firm in my chest. It was a kind of black victory I hadn’t felt in years.
I threw my arm across the bed, my hand landing where she should have been.
Cold.
She wasn’t there.
I opened one eye to make sure I wasn’t stuck in a dream or something. I wasn’t. The other side of the bed was really empty. The sheets were still tangled, and her scent lingered.
But no Zoella.
A faint smile pulled at the corner of my lips. I wasn’t surprised. She’d run when she felt too much. That’s what she did.
But last night? Last night, she hadn’t run. She reached for me. Clung to me like she needed it as much as I had.
And for a man like me who built his life on control, silence, and brutality, the way she made me let go of all of it….
God.
It wasn’t a loss.
It was the one game I did not want to keep losing.
I slumped up from the bed, the sheets trailing off as I sat on the mattress’s edge, elbows on my knees. The room was quiet and still full of the scent of her.
I didn’t move an inch. Just sat there, letting it surround me. The tension. The memory. The ghost warmth where she’d curled into me hours earlier.
She’d stroked me like she hated me, but kissed me like I was everything she longed for her entire life.
And that was the worst of it because I’d never needed anyone as much.
The smell of coffee hit me first. It was bitter, burned just shy of being too much, reminding me that life downstairs went on even if I didn’t join it.
Footsteps padded quietly down the hallway. The maids, the kitchen crew, the men on guard. Familiar footsteps, trained not to tick me the wrong way.
But it wasn’t the peace of home that made me stop on the stairs. It was her. I could see her through the tall glass doors where she was standing at the back of the building.
Zoella.
