Page 12 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
“There’s a man at the gate. Russian.”
That’s all he says, but it’s enough.
Tiago is already moving. He pushes back from the table so quickly the chair scrapes hard against the floor. Mateo stands next, calmer but no less alert. I rise last, slower. My knees feel stiff, the rest of me stretched too thin to respond quickly.
We follow Tiago down the hallway. No one speaks. The air feels tight around my ribs, like the house itself is bracing. The silence is heavier now: not passive, but watchful. Waiting.
Outside, the light is low and gray. The front entrance looms ahead, the wide foyer cold beneath my bare feet. The guard opens the door without waiting for permission.
The man on the front steps doesn’t need to be introduced.
He’s tall, easily over six foot. Dressed all in black—coat fitted, boots polished, everything about him severe. His hair iscropped short, beard trimmed to precision. There’s something clinical in the way he stands. Still. Silent.
Not a soldier. Something colder. He steps forward into the house like it belongs to him.
Tiago blocks his path for a breath, then steps aside. It’s not quite submission, but it’s something close.
The man crosses the room without hesitation. His eyes don’t flick around. He doesn’t scan the hallway or acknowledge Mateo. His focus is singular.
Me.
He stops a foot away from where I stand, and I can feel the way Tiago shifts behind me, tense. The man reaches inside his coat.
I don’t flinch. I want to, but I don’t.
His hand emerges holding a small box. It’s velvet, deep red, with no markings.
He places it gently in my hands. Then he turns, and walks out. He disappears down the hallway, the sound of his boots fading until the door clicks shut behind him.
Nobody moves. The quiet settles again, heavier than before.
I stare down at the box. My fingers have gone cold against the velvet. They tremble slightly as I adjust my grip, afraid I might drop it.
Inside my chest, something starts to pulse. Dull and steady.
Whatever this is… it’s from Maxim.
I lift the lid with careful fingers, peeling it back as if the box might bite. It doesn’t creak or snap open, just gives way with silent ease. Inside, nestled in black velvet, is a ring.
Not gold. Not gaudy. Not something chosen to flatter or soften.
The stone is a deep, bloodred garnet—oval cut, set low into a heavy silver band. Four silver claws hold the gem in place, sharp and deliberate, like talons curled around something alive. There are etchings along the sides of the band—faint, almost invisible unless the light hits them right. Not decoration. Symbols. Language.
The ring looks old, or meant to look old. Gothic. Striking. Beautiful in a way that makes my breath catch.
My thumb grazes the edge of the velvet as I stare down at it. It doesn’t feel like a gift.
It feels like a threat.
My heart thuds once, hard. I can hear it in my ears, feel it in my fingertips. The world goes a little quieter around the edges.
Behind me, Tiago doesn’t say a word.
I don’t have to look to know his eyes are fixed on the ring. That means he’s worried. His stillness always means more than his movement.
I swallow hard.
Mateo speaks first. “This means yes,” he says, like he expected this. Or hoped for it, maybe, is the better term.
