Page 19 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
I look up, and see a man. He grins. “Hello, Kiera,” he drawls, in a thick Russian accent. “I see you escaped your room. Shame you won’t get far.”
My mouth goes dry. “Who are you?”
“Andrei.” His grin widens, and I shiver. “Now, as much as I would like to punish you, you’ve spent half the day sleeping, and Maxim has a request. Go find something nice to wear.”
“What?”
“He’s graciously allowed you one last night of freedom. Do as I say, and I won’t even tell him about your… excursion.”
My pulse roars, but I step back. I’m caught, nowhere to go… I should do as he says.
“Wear something nice for the club,” he says. “Maxim will see you there.”
Chapter Six - Maxim
The club is loud. Bass pulses through the floor before the door even shuts behind me. Low lighting casts long shadows over mirrored walls and velvet booths. I walk in expecting a quiet drink—something slow, forgettable—but the setup slaps me across the face before I’ve taken three steps.
Two waitresses are already clearing the VIP section. One glances up, registers me, then vanishes like she knew I was coming all along.
This wasn’t spontaneous.
Platon leans against the far wall, arms folded. He lifts his glass in a lazy salute, the corner of his mouth twitching with a smirk he doesn’t bother hiding.
He’s in on it.
I don’t need confirmation. The layout, the timing, the sudden shift in tone from private to performance—it’s all obvious.
Somewhere deeper inside the room, laughter erupts.
“To the groom!”
Another voice echoes it, louder, drunker. Applause follows, and I catch the flash of gold teeth and expensive suits in the low light. Familiar faces. Old Bratva friends. Men I haven’t seen in months. Men who’ve killed beside me, bled beside me, toasted death like it was a lover.
Now they’re here, raising glasses like this is something to celebrate.
Kion, of course, is at the center of it all.
He’s stretched out along the booth like it belongs to him, shirt half unbuttoned, drink in one hand. He summons a waitress with two fingers, then grins when he sees me.
“Sharov!” he calls. “Late to your own party!”
He laughs before I can respond, gesturing wide, like this is some grand surprise and not something he’s been planning all week.
Bottles arrive—vodka, champagne—labels older than most of the girls pouring them. Then the women appear. Sleek, poised, all legs and curves and trained smiles. Dresses so short they may as well be decorative. Every one of them knows exactly what kind of party this is supposed to be.
I don’t fight it.
I sit. The leather groans beneath me, cold at my back. I light a cigarette without asking if it’s allowed. No one here will stop me.
Around me, laughter swells. Ice clinks in glasses. One of the girls perches beside me, leans in with a rehearsed pout, but I don’t look at her. I watch the room instead.
Kion’s pouring shots for men already drunk. Platon raises his glass across the table, unreadable. The others toast, shout, pull at their ties.
This isn’t about marriage. This is theatre. A party for the sake of it, because Bratva need no excuse to drink.
I exhale smoke through my nose and let it hang in the air between us.
The women begin their routine with glossy precision. Every movement is practiced, each gesture refined—arms lifting in perfect symmetry, hips swaying in rhythm with the bass that thuds through the floor. Their hands trail across shoulders, skim thighs, lean into laps with mechanical ease. Applause swells.Glasses clink. The air thickens with forced enthusiasm and expensive perfume.
