Page 9 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
Neither of us do.
The difference is, I’ve already learned how to turn that fact into something sharp. She’s still holding the blade by the wrong end.
She fidgets when my gaze lingers too long.
It’s subtle, not the kind of twitch or shift most men would notice, but I’m not most men. I’ve spent too long reading people, watching their tells in boardrooms, back alleys, and interrogation rooms. I see how her fingers tighten against the silk of her dress, then smooth it as though the fabric’s to blame. I see the way she draws a breath, shallow and quick, every time the conversation edges closer to something sharp.
When she looks at me, it’s direct. Controlled. When I push—when my tone deepens, when I ask something she hasn’t rehearsed for—her gaze falters. She glances toward the far wall. Studies the glassware. Fixates on the lines of her napkin, turning the edge between her thumb and forefinger.
She’s scared, but not of me. She’s scared of what this means.
I wait for her to settle. Then speak, calm but deliberate. “Have you ever been with a man?”
The words drop between us like a match into dry grass. Her spine stiffens, just slightly. She startles, and I don’t miss the flash of heat that rises in her cheeks. That moment of wide-eyed silence, the quick dart of her eyes to mine, then away again.
She gives a breathy laugh. The kind meant to disarm. “I’m not sure that’s relevant.”
“It is,” I say. “To me.”
She stops laughing. Her lips press together in a thin line. She’s weighing her answer. Thinking through what I want to hear, what she’s allowed to say, what won’t cost her.
I don’t speak again. I let the silence stretch long enough that it can’t be ignored.
“You’re young,” I add after a moment, quieter now. “Too young to be thrown to wolves.”
The silence breaks. “I haven’t,” she says.
Her voice is barely above a whisper. Still, it doesn’t waver. She looks at me then. Really looks. Chin tipped up, eyes sharp beneath the surface.
“I’m a virgin,” she says again. Then, almost to herself, “Of course I am.”
I watch her brace for something. An insult. A joke. Some confirmation of what she’s probably been told her whole life—that innocence is weakness. That men like me don’t want women like her.
She expects disappointment. Or worse—disdain.
Instead, I lean in. “Good,” I murmur.
Her breath catches. She doesn’t try to hide it. Kiera studies me like she’s unsure what she’s hearing. Her mouth parts, but no words come. I sit back slightly, but my eyes stay locked on hers.
It’s not cruelty that stirs in me. It’s not hunger, not exactly. It’s want. Not despite her innocence—but because of it.
I don’t want to hurt her, I don’t need to prove anything, but I want to be the first. I want it because it would mean something. Something real, in a world where nothing is.
Her first kiss given with care. Her first touch, her first ache, her first surrender—mine.
She’d remember it. I’d leave something behind that no one could take.
The idea coils low in my chest, thick and unwelcome. I shouldn’t want this. Shouldn’t be thinking about her mouth or her breath or the way her legs are pressed tightly together beneath that silk dress.
She’s watching me now, still waiting for the blow that doesn’t come. Her discomfort hasn’t faded, but her guard is shifting. Not down—tilted. She’s trying to understand what I am. What I want.
I don’t lie. “I don’t want a liar at my table,” I say. “Or a doll someone dressed up to placate me. I want to know who you are.”
She doesn’t answer. Not aloud anyway, but her hand goes still on her lap, and her gaze doesn’t move from mine.
There’s no pretending now.
Only the truth between us, sharp and bare.
