Page 76 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
I flip it open, and there it is. The burner phone.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen it. Weeks ago, I noticed it out of the corner of my eye when she was in the library. Again in the hallway, tucked into her pocket. I waited. Gave her space. Gave myself time. I told myself if I was wrong, it would ruin everything.
I’m not wrong.
I unwrap the cloth and flick the phone open. No passcode. No barrier. It lights up instantly, like it’s been waiting for me. And in the silence, I feel her guilt like a fucking heartbeat.
I turn, slow, holding the phone between us. She’s standing still, but everything in her screams motion—too stiff, too silent, her shoulders tense like she’s holding in a thousand lies.
“You’ve been busy.”
She doesn’t speak. Her silence has never been more dangerous.
I close the distance between us until her back hits the wall. My hand braces beside her head, the other still holding the phone. Her breathing’s shallow. Her gaze flicks between my mouth and my eyes, calculating.
“Don’t lie to me,” I say, voice low, coiled.
Still nothing.
“You’ve been reporting to someone. Passing information. The only question is—who.”
Her lips twitch. I wait for a denial, a protest, anything. It never comes.
My hand drops to her throat—not in violence, but in warning. My fingers find her pulse, and it’s racing. She’s scared, but not of dying. No, she’s scared ofme. Of what this moment means. Her body goes rigid, her chin lifted, eyes locked on mine like she’s daring me to do my worst.
“I could kill you right now,” I whisper, and I mean it. One word and she’s gone. I have the power, the reach, the men. She knows that. What neither of us knows anymore is whether I want to.
Beneath the fury, beneath the betrayal, there’s still that maddening ache. That hunger I haven’t been able to kill.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t beg. God, she never begs.
“I trusted you,” I say. The words taste like rust. “And you’ve been playing me. Using me.”
Her mouth opens, but there’s no apology. No emotion. Just silence.
That hurts more than anything else.
I step back. Toss the phone onto the desk. It lands with a soft thud that feels louder than a gunshot.
“Who is it?” I ask. “Give me a name.”
She stares at me.
“Then don’t expect mercy when I find out myself.”
I don’t squeeze hard—yet. My hand rests at her throat with just enough pressure to remind her what I could do. That I could end her, right here, right now. My chest is pressed to hers, and I feel it—the wild thrum of her pulse. She’s breathing too fast, like prey who knows the kill is coming. I lean closer, my voice low, rough enough to scrape across her skin.
“Don’t test me.”
She flinches—barely—but her eyes don’t leave mine. For a split second, something passes across her face. Not fear. Or at least not only that. It’s something darker. Calculating. Then just like that, she smiles.
It’s quick. Sharp. Cruel. The kind of smile that says she’s already decided how this ends.
Before I can move, she strikes. A flash of silver. The gleam of a blade catching the lamplight.
Pain punches through my upper arm. The dagger slides in with a whisper of steel and flesh, a sharp, hot jolt that steals my breath for half a second. I stagger back a step, not from the pain—it’s nothing, a fucking pinprick—but from the shock. She stabbed me. She fucking stabbed me.
She uses that heartbeat of hesitation.
