Page 74 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
It’s the other stuff.
The way he looks at me when I walk into a room—like he’s been waiting. Like I belong to him.
The way his touch lingers after it should end, like he doesn’t want to let go. The way his voice shifts when he says my name—quiet, claiming. Not a threat. Not a warning. A vow.
It makes something inside me ache, deep and low and furious, because I’m not supposed to feel safe. Not here. Not with him.
I’m not supposed to feel… anything.
Yet when he wraps his hand around my waist like it fits there, when he kisses the back of my neck with no one watching, when he glances at me from across a crowded room like I’m the only thing tethering him to the earth—something stirs in my chest.
Regret. It curls through me, impossible to hold or escape. I whisper a curse under my breath, annoyed with myself and the slow pulse still thudding in my core.
The bedside clock reads 2:30 p.m. My nap hasn’t helped. Nothing ever does. The dreams still cling to me like smoke, my father’s eyes wide and glassy behind my lids. I close my own for a second and will the image away. Then I stand.
The house is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of hush that makes me think of stage sets and hidden curtains—nothing on the surface, but everything watching behind.
I move through the hallway barefoot, steps light on the cool tile. No guards. No staff. Good.
I slip into the library and shut the door with a soft click. The scent of paper and old wood wraps around me. Familiar. I cross to the corner shelf—four rows down, third book from the left. A battered hardback copy ofDune. No one reads it here.
I pull it free. The hollowed-out center cradles the burner phone perfectly, wrapped in a cleaning cloth. I flip it open and hold my breath.
One ring. Two.
Tiago picks up on the third.
“Kiera,” he says, voice low and sharp.
“He’s onto Gregory,” I say, no preamble.
A pause. “Shit.”
“You moved too fast.”
“He wasn’t meant to do anything. He was leverage. Just there to rattle the cage.”
“Well, the cage is rattling back. Maxim’s already got Platon digging.”
“I’ll handle it,” Tiago says. “I’ll make sure Gregory stays quiet. Or disappears.”
I flinch—internally.
“Stay low. Don’t give Maxim any more names.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“I’m the one inside. I know more than you right now.”
He pauses. “Is it getting harder?”
“What?”
“Being there. Playing his wife. Sleeping in his bed.”
I grip the phone tighter. “I didn’t call to talk about that.”
“I’m just asking.”
