Page 34 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
Curiosity pulls me closer.
It’s a faded picture—Maxim as a boy, no older than eight or nine, standing between a slightly older Andrei and a younger woman with pale skin and soft eyes. Darya. Their smiles are genuine, laughter caught midair, the kind of warmth that seems almost impossible here.
For a heartbeat, I’m startled by how human he looks. How soft. How far this image is from the cold man I’ve come to know. I stare longer, tracing the lines of his face in the photograph, willing myself to believe there’s still some trace of that boy beneath the hard shell.
A voice cuts through the silence behind me.
“Are you snooping?”
I jump, heart hammering. I hadn’t heard him come in. My breath catches as I spin around.
He’s leaning in the doorway, arms folded over a lean chest. His eyes—piercing, unreadable—lock on to mine with an intensity that makes me freeze. There’s no anger in them, no surprise. Just weight. A heavy kind of knowing.
“Just looking,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. I want to shrink away, but something in his gaze pins me in place.
He takes a step forward, the shadows shifting as he moves. “You’re allowed to look. Just not too close.”
The words linger between us, but it’s his eyes that hold meaning: sharp, calculated, and somehow more dangerous than anything he’s said. I wonder if he means the photo. The boy inthe frame who smiles so freely. Or if he means himself—the man standing here, watching me, trying to measure what I’m worth.
I want to ask, but the words catch in my throat.
Instead, I nod, turning back toward the picture. The warmth in the photo feels like a secret he’s letting me glimpse, a thread of softness woven deep beneath the surface. It’s almost enough to make me believe there’s something salvageable here. Something real.
The silence stretches, thick and fragile.
“I didn’t know you had a family once,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studies me, his jaw tight, eyes searching. Finally, he speaks, voice low and rough. “We all have things we hide.”
I swallow. “I’m not here to break you.”
His lips twitch—maybe a ghost of a smile, or maybe just the corner of a mouth pulling tight. “No one breaks me.”
That declaration hits hard. The man and the boy in the photo feel like two lives separated by years of blood and silence. I don’t know if I want to reach for either.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “For everything.”
He steps closer, closing the distance between us until I can feel the heat of him, the solid presence pressing in. His hand hovers near the photo, fingers twitching but not touching. Then he looks away, voice softer this time. “It’s in the past.”
“But it’s still here,” I say, gesturing around the room. “In every line of these books, in the way this room breathes.”
He looks back at the photo, long and steady. “Some memories keep you alive. Others threaten to kill you.”
The weight of his words settles over me, heavy and dark.
I want to ask which kind I am. The one who keeps him alive, or the one who will bring him down.
Instead, I turn and walk toward the door, knowing that whatever this house is, whatever he wants, I’m already deeper inside than I planned.
He watches me go, silent and still.
***
The late morning sun filters through the tall windows as I wander into the kitchen, still wrapped in the haze of sleep and uncertainty. The room is vast, pristine, every surface gleams under the soft light, every tool and gadget carefully placed like weapons or trophies. It smells faintly of pine and something metallic, like the scent of a clean knife.
I spot the espresso machine immediately—sleek, black, and intimidating. It looks like it belongs in a sci-fi movie, not the kitchen of a house I’m supposed to call home. My fingers hesitate as I reach for the buttons, eyes narrowing to read the tiny symbols.
I press, twist, and poke at every control I can find, but the machine just hums softly and does nothing. Steam doesn’t hiss. Coffee doesn’t pour. I frown, growing more frustrated with every failed attempt.
