Page 60 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
That’s where I do the damage now. Not with blades. With glances. With silence held too long, questions timed just right.
My job is patience. Observation. Quiet, hungry patience.
I’m good at it, better than anyone so long as I remember what’s real.
I grip the railing tighter. My knuckles ache with it. The steel cuts cold into my palms, grounding me where my mind threatens to float.
Maxim isn’t real.
His house. His warmth. The careful, almost reverent way he touched my lip last night—it isn’t real.
None of it is.
I whisper it to myself under my breath.“He is not real. His gentleness is not real.”
His mouth on mine? Not real. His eyes in the hallway, full of something I still can’t name? Not real.
Then I remember the way his thumb moved against my skin, how he said he only liked it when I cried in his bed—his bed—and my heart jumps like it hasn’t learned better.
That’s the danger. Not the plan. Not the game. Him.
If I forget what this is, even for a second, I’ll lose everything. I’ll let my guard slip. I’ll let the ache take root, and then I’m nothing.
I’m not the girl who buried poison in her own blood to trigger chaos. I’m not the sister of a man who watches empires burn for sport. I’m not the strategist who tore into Maxim’s files while wearing his name like a silk shroud.
I’m just a girl.
Mateo is the one who finally breaks the silence.
“You’re somewhere else tonight.”
His voice is quiet, more observation than accusation, and I don’t look at him right away. I keep my eyes on the skyline, watching the way the lights flicker like little lies. The city always looks better from a distance.
“I’m where I need to be,” I say.
It’s not a lie. Not exactly.
He exhales through his nose, folding his arms across his chest. “That’s not what I asked.”
I finally glance over at him. He’s not looking at me. He’s watching the horizon too, his posture relaxed, but I can see the tension in his jaw.
Mateo has always been careful. Always still. Like someone who learned long ago that movement gets you killed.
“You worry too much,” I murmur.
“That’s my job.”
We stand there a minute longer, breathing the same chilled air, letting dusk crawl over the sky like smoke. It’s almost beautiful… if you forget what it’s covering.
“She doesn’t know what to make of you,” he says suddenly. “She doesn’t trust you.”
It takes me a second to realize he means Darya.
“She doesn’t trust anyone,” I reply.
He shrugs. “You’d be surprised. She said something, earlier. About women who lie with still hands and quiet mouths.” He tilts his head toward me. “You think she meant you?”
I don’t answer. The railing bites into my palms again.
