Page 16 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
“There’s a place upstate,” he says, hands moving as he speaks. “Walled, gated, private as hell. No cameras. Plenty of space. Real clean. Real quiet.”
He grins, and it lands crooked. “You’ll like it. Bring whoever you want. Stretch your legs a little.”
Platon exhales through his nose, a soft sound of quiet disdain. He doesn’t interrupt. He’s letting the game play out. Kion likes to circle before he pounces. He never comes out and says what he means—not unless he’s bored or bleeding.
I don’t ask questions yet. I let him talk.
The street’s busy enough, but I’m not really watching the traffic. My eyes scan the windows, the shadows behind storefront glass, the reflection off the car hood across the street. Every movement maps itself in my periphery. That’s the habit. The instinct. Let Kion fill the air; I’ll cover the rest.
Chaos in silk. That’s what he’s always been.
Too fast, too clever, too amused by everything. He changes faces like shirts, wears confidence like armor, and can kill in a designer jacket without ever losing a step. You never see the violence coming until it’s done, but he’s useful. Loyal, in his own way. At least when it counts.
Mostly.
I take another drag. The smoke curls in my chest, warmer now. More settled.
Kion’s still talking, something about music, about “real food,” about how it’s not a party, but it could be. His voice dips with suggestion, then rises again in amusement.
I tune half of it out. Not because it doesn’t matter. Because I’m already thinking ahead.
If this trip means anything—and it always does with Kion—then it’s better to be prepared. He never invites us somewhere without a reason.
Platon’s watching him the same way I am. Careful. Patient. Neither of us trust him completely. You’d be an idiot to try.
Still.
There’s opportunity in chaos. There’s leverage in unpredictability. You learn more about people when they’re out of their element. Which makes me wonder…
I glance down the street. Somewhere across the city, Kiera is waiting. Probably still holding the box I sent. Probably wondering what it means, whether silence is safety or sentence.
I wonder how she’ll fare among the others. Away from her brother. Away from the room where she was handed to me like a peace offering.
I finish the cigarette, exhale the smoke, and let the thought settle.
Let her see the wolves up close.
Chapter Five - Kiera
I wake with a gasp, the sound ripping out of me before I’m fully conscious. My body moves before thought catches up—I sit bolt upright, chest heaving, fingers clenched tight around sheets I don’t recognize.
It takes several seconds for my brain to catch up. There’s no pain. No cold. No blood slicking my skin or rushing in my ears.
Nothing is wrong, except the soft press of luxury beneath me.
The mattress swallows my weight. The sheets are silk—real silk, not the slippery imitation from department stores. They cling to my damp skin like water, whispering against my legs when I shift. The pillow still cradles the heat of my body, plush and unfamiliar.
Everything is unfamiliar. The room is silent. Too silent.
I blink into the dimness. Light seeps around the edges of thick curtains, golden and hazy. The furniture is dark wood, carved with detail too fine to be modern. A gilded mirror hangs above a dresser, and the floor gleams beneath a massive rug threaded in red and gold. Everything is pristine, expensive.
Alien.
I’m not home. There’s a scent in the air—something musky and sharp, like cologne but heavier. It clings to the room. It clings to me.
Wrong.
Memory lurches back in fragments. A room too loud with music. Cold champagne pressed into my hand. The weight of my dress. My father’s face—then gone. Then Maxim. His eyes, too pale. His voice, too calm.
