Page 87 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
Time warps.
The city falls away, block by block, until there’s nothing left but the ghost of a memory and the sharp sting of winter air against my cheeks. I don’t remember the full journey—only fragments. A cab ride. The scrape of my heels on uneven pavement. The distant noise of traffic swallowed by the silence of his street.
Now I stand before his mansion, every light off but one. It glows faintly from the second floor, casting a sliver of gold against stone. Like a beacon. Or a warning.
My hand hesitates on the gate. This is madness, but I’m already here.
The back entrance is where I go—through the garden gate, around the hedge, to the service corridor I discovered weeks ago while wandering the estate at night, pretending I belonged here. Pretending I wasn’t lying to everyone, including myself.
The door gives beneath my fingers. Quiet. Unlocked.
It feels like fate is making room for me.
Inside, everything is familiar in a way that guts me. The cool marble under my feet. The scent of wood polish and whatever cologne he wears that clings to the air like smoke. My hands tremble as I walk, soft steps down corridors I could now navigate blind. Every creak of the floorboards is a ghost. Every shadow holds his shape.
And then—he’s there at the end of the hall, like he’s been waiting. Shirtless. Jaw tight. Eyes locked on mine like a trigger pulled.
I stop breathing.
He walks toward me like a storm in human form. The kind of violence that doesn’t need thunder to be felt. His expression is unreadable, carved from something colder than stone. Those eyes—those damn eyes—they hold fire.
He doesn’t ask why I’m here.
They told me he was a monster; I knew that and came anyway.
My throat tightens as he stops in front of me. We’re a breath apart. I look up at him, my eyes burning. My hands curl into fists at my sides to keep from reaching for him.
“I had a plane waiting,” I whisper. “I could’ve been halfway to Brazil by now.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
“I ran,” I say. “Because I couldn’t do it.”
His brow lifts, fractionally. “Do what?”
“Leave you.”
Silence falls, thick enough to drown in.
“I don’t believe you,” he says. His voice is low, dangerous. “You think you can come back here, after everything—after what you did—and spin some story about love? You’re a liar, Kiera.”
I nod, tears rising. “I know.”
His eyes narrow. “So what is this, some final game? Trying to get close again? You think I won’t kill you?”
“I think you might,” I say, quietly. “I came anyway. I have no plan,” I say. “No one’s waiting in a car outside. No weapons. No leverage. My family left me behind, Maxim. I let them.”
He says nothing.
The tears spill over. I don’t wipe them away. “I’m here because I love you,” I say.
The silence cracks.
He turns, a sharp movement like he’s trying to walk away—but his body betrays him. He stops after two steps, head bowed. A muscle jumps in his jaw.
“I told myself I could hate you,” I continue, voice shaking. “That it would be easier. That it would make sense, but everytime you touched me, every time you looked at me like I was something worth holding on to—I forgot.”
He turns around. The fury on his face is raw, but it’s not the same as before. It’s grief. It’s disbelief.
