Page 52 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
I remain still long after she’s gone, eyes fixed on the empty space she left behind. My hand curls loosely at my side, thumb twitching—like it remembers the feel of her skin, the weight of her breath against my mouth.
She’s calm. Controlled. No signs of guilt or nerves. No trace of a woman playing spy in a lion’s den.
Yet… something in her lingers. A flicker too still. A look too knowing.
She’s not afraid of me. Not anymore.
I should be pleased. I wanted her strong. Wanted her sharp, watchful. But I didn’t expect this: the slow erosion of boundaries, the ease in her posture, the way she walks my estate like she already owns the ground beneath her.
Kiera thinks I won’t stop her. She’s wrong.
I start moving again, slower now, every step measured and deliberate. The night swells around me—full of shadows, full of her.
There’s something brewing beneath her stillness. I can feel it. She’s plotting something. Laying foundations beneath silk and smiles.
And if she is? Then she’s finally worthy of the game we’re playing.
Except, she won’t win.
Chapter Seventeen - Kiera
The sun warms the rooftop, turning the concrete gold beneath my thighs. I swing my legs over the edge, bare feet scuffed and dusty, and squint out over the stretch of São Paulo. The buildings glow like glass, and the sounds of traffic and distant radios drift up like lullabies. I don’t know why I’m up here. I only know it’s quiet, and I like it better than inside.
Then I hear the creak of the ladder.
I glance back, and there he is—tall, familiar in a way I don’t yet understand, moving carefully so his shoes don’t scuff the roof. Matías. He holds something behind his back, and when he gets close, he kneels in front of me like he’s trying not to scare me. His face looks unsure in the eyes but steady in the mouth. He pulls the paleta from behind him—a mango one, yellow-orange and dripping a little—and offers it out like a peace treaty.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low and warm. “For not being here before.”
I stare at the paleta for a beat before I take it, fingers brushing his. He smiles when I lick the edge, like it means something. Then he reaches forward and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear.
“Estrelinha,” he murmurs. “My little star.”
I don’t understand the weight in his voice, not fully, but I feel it. It settles in my chest like an anchor.
“I promise,” he says, like it’s carved into stone. “From now on, I’ll never miss another birthday.”
I nod slowly, because what else can I do? I believe him. With all my stupid, small-child heart, I believe him.
He turns then, gestures behind him—and another figure climbs up. Tiago. Much older, with dark eyes that see too much.He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, gaze steady.
“This is your brother,” Matías says, resting a hand on my shoulder.
My chest swells with something I can’t name. I’m not sure if it’s happiness or relief or awe, but I know it’s new. It doesn’t feel like I belong to my mother anymore. It feels like I belong to him. This man who smells like smoke and salt and something sharp underneath. He looks down at me like I matter.
“I’ll build you a treehouse,” he adds. “The biggest one in the neighborhood.”
I believe that too. Every word. Every promise. That rooftop becomes a sacred place, and for the first time in my life, I feel claimed. Chosen. Real.
The ache starts small, a twist in my ribs, then sharpens like a knife. My breath catches—and I wake up.
The ceiling above me is unfamiliar. The sheets too soft. My chest still burns with that old feeling, but there’s nothing left of him here. Not even the scent.
My breath catches the second I wake. Chest tight, ribs aching with the echo of a dream that felt too real. Too warm. The taste of mango still clings to my tongue, and for a moment I forget where I am. The silence tells me—this isn’t São Paulo. This isn’t a rooftop bathed in sun. It’s a fortress dressed as a home, and I’m not a child anymore.
I turn my head. The clock reads 2:30.
Perfect.
