Page 32 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
She’s waiting for something. Anything.
“Am I really staying with you?” she asks finally. Her voice is soft, barely audible under the sound of the rain.
I keep my eyes on the road. My grip on the wheel tightens.
“Yes.”
That one word sits heavy in the air. It’s not up for debate.
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t argue.
I could leave it there, but something in me stirs—sharp and restless. “You won’t share my bed,” I add, voice even. “Not yet. When we marry, you will.”
I see her blink, head turning fractionally toward me, though she doesn’t speak.
Then quieter, more to myself than to her, I say, “It won’t be long.”
Her body tenses. I feel it more than see it—the way her shoulders draw in, the way she shifts subtly toward the window.
She doesn’t yell. Doesn’t protest. That silence does something else entirely.
The engine hums, smooth beneath my hands. My knuckles stay white on the leather wheel. I don’t know why I said that. I meant it, but not like this. Not in this car, not with her still pale from poison, her lips cracked from dehydration. Something in me can’t help it—can’t stop testing where her edges are, can’t stop marking the space between us.
Thunder cracks overhead. A sharp, sudden whip of sound.
The rain thickens, hammering down harder. Visibility drops, headlights barely slicing through the sheet of water now coming in waves. The road curves up ahead, narrowed by tall pine and slick asphalt.
I pull over.
Careful. Precise. The tires cut a clean path into the mud at the shoulder. Headlights cast wide, shuddering arcs across the drenched roadside, catching leaves and puddles, the occasional glint of reflective markers.
The car settles. The wipers keep moving.
She doesn’t speak again. Her gaze is still on the window, but I can feel the way her attention shifts—curious, uncertain,watching me in the reflection of the glass. Her profile is lit by the dash, soft and haunted.
I watch her hands move beneath the blanket, fingers curling slightly at the hem. She’s scared, but she’s not fragile.
That matters more than anything else.
Nothing—not bloodlines, not poison, not even her fear—will change that.
Inside the car, the air feels thick. Not hot, but heavy. Every breath drawn feels measured, deliberate. Outside, the rain pours in sheets, crashing against the windshield and roof so hard it swallows every other sound.
Kiera stares out the window, her eyes distant. Her reflection shimmers faintly in the glass, soft-edged and distorted. The lights from the dash cast a gentle glow across her features—too pale, still. Her lips are slightly parted, her breath fogging the pane as the seconds drag on.
I study her.
The curve of her mouth. The shadow beneath her cheekbone. The bruised, almost fragile edge to her beauty tonight. She looks worn, stripped of every defense she’s ever worn around me. It does something to me—scrapes something raw inside my chest.
She could’ve died.
The thought lands harder now, with her this close.
“You were lucky,” I say.
The words come quiet, unexpected even to my own ears.
She turns her head, finally meeting my gaze. Her eyes are tired, but sharp. The kind of sharp you get from knowing there’s no safe place left to hide.
