Page 54 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
I dive to the floor, every movement stripped of grace. My knees hit first, jarring through bone. I slide beneath the desk just as the door creaks open.
My breath seizes in my throat.
A silhouette enters the room—long, elegant, draped in silk and menace. The heels strike softly now against the carpet, but I hear each one like a hammer to my ribs. Through the gap between the desk’s panel and the floor, I glimpse the hem of a skirt and the curve of perfectly polished shoes.
Darya.
She hums under her breath: low, casual, something in Russian I don’t understand. My stomach knots. Her steps carry her deeper into the study. I press myself flatter against the wall, hands curled tight. Dust stings my throat, but I don’t dare cough. She speaks again, softer now, muttering to herself. I catch my name once. Maxim’s too.
Then silence.
She’s stopped walking, right beside the desk.
I stare at the floor beneath her feet and pray she doesn’t crouch. Doesn’t bend. Doesn’t so much as glance down.
The seconds stretch like torture. I don’t blink. I don’t move.
I think, for the first time since this game began, that I might actually die.
I press myself flat beneath the desk, arms tight at my sides, face turned toward the wall. The wood is cold. The carpet rough against my skin. My ribs ache from how hard I’m trying not to breathe. Every inhale feels like a sin. Every exhale, a risk.
She moves through the room like a ghost, all grace and silence and something sharp beneath it. I can’t see much—just the hem of a long, tailored skirt brushing against her calves. Each step is too elegant to be accidental. She isn’t wandering. She’s searching.
Then, her voice.
Low. Even. Thick with the cold lilt of Russian. The kind of voice that sounds like it’s never been rushed a day in its life.
“Foolish girl,” she murmurs. “He sees the hips, not the eyes. She’s not what she seems.”
My chest tightens. She doesn’t say my name, but I know. She means me.
Another step. Then another. They slow. Stop. Directly in front of the desk again.
My fingers curl into the carpet, nails digging hard enough to sting. I don’t move. Don’t blink. I can’t. My back is damp with sweat despite the chill in the air. My whole body feels like it’s humming with panic.
She speaks again, softer this time, but still audible. “Maxim always was a romantic under the violence. It’ll ruin him. Again.”
I swallow hard, the sound of it deafening in my ears.
She doesn’t move.
I count to five. Ten. Twenty. Still, nothing.
I can see the toes of her heels now, perfectly pointed, still and deliberate. My mind spirals. I picture her crouching. Kneeling. Bending down to retrieve something and meeting my eyes through the dark.
Don’t crouch. Don’t look. Don’t kneel.
The mantra screams in my head, over and over, louder than her silence.
Please. Please don’t.
Then—movement.
Her shoes shift slightly. A step back. Another. A soft hum rises from her throat, melodic and faint, like a lullaby sung to no one. She turns, slow as dusk, and walks away.
The study door clicks shut behind her.
My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. My pulse beats in my throat, wild and furious. I stay curled on the floor for a full minute, maybe longer, before I finally exhale.
