Page 55 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
She didn’t see me. I think.
My hands still tremble when I press them to the floor and push myself upright, and I know—Darya isn’t just suspicious. She’s watching.
Even after I’m long in bed, I don’t sleep easily, even with the data tucked in the pocket of my silk pajamas.
Chapter Eighteen - Maxim
On Friday morning, I go downstairs to hear raised voices echo down the hall—sharp, jarring, urgent. One of them is my mother’s.
I move fast, boots heavy on the tile. There’s a current in the air, an undercurrent I recognize from years of bloodied floors and silenced rooms. This isn’t the usual tension that haunts the estate. This is something worse.
A staff member nearly collides with me as I round the corner. She startles, bows her head, and mumbles something I don’t catch. I ignore her, pushing forward. The voices grow louder. The static of chaos crackling beneath the surface.
Then I see it.
In the main hall, under the golden spill of chandelier light, Darya has Kiera by the arm, knuckles white with force. Her face is flushed, lips trembling, eyes wide and wild. The staff around them stand frozen, unsure, some retreating into doorways, others watching like deer in headlights.
“She said she’d kill me,” Darya shouts, voice slicing the air. “She was holding a knife—I saw it. She was waiting for me to turn my back!”
Her spine is straight, chin lifted. Her arm remains caught in my mother’s grip, but her hand holds nothing more than a kitchen towel, streaked faintly with yellow-orange. She speaks softly, almost clinically.
“It was a mango,” she says. “I was going to slice a mango.”
It’s not the explanation that makes me pause. It’s her voice.
Too calm, too even.
Like this isn’t the first time she’s been accused of something she didn’t do—or maybe it is, and she’s already decided it won’t touch her. That’s what unsettles me. Not the accusation. Not Darya’s hysteria. Kiera’s stillness.
“Enough.” My voice cuts through the chaos.
Darya looks at me, eyes glossy with panic and fury. “You don’t believe me?” she snaps. “You think I’d lie about this?”
“I think you need to let go of her,” I say, walking forward.
She doesn’t. So I do it for her.
I take Darya’s wrist and pry her fingers off Kiera’s arm, firm but controlled. Her grip is tighter than I expected. For a moment, she resists.
“I’m not crazy,” she hisses. “This girl—she’s a snake. You’ll see.”
“I’m sure.” My tone doesn’t change.
I nod at one of the maids. “Take her upstairs. Make sure she takes her medication. She needs rest.”
Darya tries to protest, but I turn away before she can spit another word. Her footsteps recede behind me, muffled sobs trailing off as the maid guides her from the room.
I look at Kiera. She doesn’t cry. Her eyes shine, but she doesn’t drop them. Doesn’t tremble.
I don’t know whether to be impressed… or concerned.
She doesn’t run. Doesn’t bolt down the hallway, doesn’t retreat behind a wall of staff or duck behind me. She simply stands, arm cradled to her chest, eyes wide but not broken. That registers. That matters.
The blow lands. I hear it in her breath, the way it catches, sharp and wounded. The maid steps in gently, guiding her up thestairs with soft words and careful hands. I keep my back to them until the footsteps fade.
The staff scatter like dry leaves. None of them want to be in this moment. None of them want to be the one caught between a Bratva son and his half-shattered mother. They vanish, quiet as ghosts, slipping behind doors and down corridors. In less than thirty seconds, the hallway empties.
Now it’s only us.
