Page 82 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
I want her to know I saw it. I want her to know I came.
Platon finds me in the kitchen, eyes sharp beneath his shaved head. “They moved fast,” he says. “Left in a hurry, but clean. No bodies. No tech. No messages. They scrubbed it.”
I grunt in response, jaw tightening. “They had help.”
He nods, like that was already obvious. “What now?”
I step around him, heading toward the back patio, the sliding glass door left cracked open as if in invitation. The view outside is nothing but dark jungle, moonlight catching on leaves slick with humidity. Somewhere out there, she’s running.
I picture her: blood dried on her face, body bruised, heart racing with adrenaline and fury and fear. I want to see it. I want to see her eyes when she realizes I’m not a step behind her anymore.
I’m already ahead. “She won’t get far,” I say quietly. “None of them will.”
Platon doesn’t press. He never does when my voice gets like this—too calm, too certain. He’s seen what comes next.
Still, there’s a pause. Then: “You’re not thinking clearly, Maxim. You’ve been chasing her for weeks. This isn’t about strategy anymore. It’s personal.”
I look at him. He doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t hold my gaze either.
“You’re right,” I tell him. “It’s personal, but don’t mistake that for weakness. I know what I’m doing.”
Platon nods, once. No questions. No arguments. That’s why he’s still alive.
I turn back to the jungle, to the vast black expanse that swallowed her. The breeze carries the scent of something faint—maybe perfume, maybe imagination. Either way, it coils around my throat.
Kiera.
She’s clever. Faster than I gave her credit for. She fights like someone who has nothing left to lose, and runs like someone who still has something she wants to protect.
That’s her mistake, because it means she’ll slow down. She’ll hesitate when the stakes climb high enough. When Tiago starts looking expendable. When the lines between survival and vengeance blur in her pretty little head.
I’ll be waiting.
“She was here,” I murmur, more to myself than to anyone else. “I can feel it.”
Platon steps back inside, leaving me alone with the night. I close my eyes for a beat and see her in that crimson dress again—spinning at the gala, mouth painted, eyes glittering as she looked at me like she owned the world. Back then, I thought I was the one seducing her.
The joke’s on me, but I’m not laughing.
“You don’t get to disappear,” I say aloud, voice low and steel-edged. “Not from me. Not after everything.”
She left my house, my bed, my hands. She tore herself out of my world like ripping a vein from flesh. I can still feel her pulsing in me, under my skin. Her name is a bruise on my mouth. Her betrayal, a blade still warm in my side.
There is no place she can run that I won’t find.
No country she can hide in that won’t open its doors for me. She started this, and I will end it but not with a bullet. Not yet.
She’ll come back to me, maybe in chains. Maybe on her knees, but she will come back.
Hate like this—it’s not a fire that dies. It’s a fucking star. And I’ve been burning since the day she smiled and said “I do.”
So I wait in that doorway a moment longer, watching the darkness. Listening. Breathing.
Then I turn back inside, already planning where we strike next.
It’s only the beginning.
The estate feels gutted when I return.
