Page 13 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
He steps closer, not enough to touch, but enough that I can hear him clearly. “In Bratva terms,” he continues, “this is an answer. A message. There’s no note because there doesn’t need to be one.”
I blink once. “A ring means yes?”
Mateo nods. “It means you’re claimed. That the deal is accepted.”
Claimed. The word settles in my stomach like a stone. I look down at the ring again, still cold in my palm.
The garnet sits heavy in its setting, dark and solid and full of weight. Like it knows what it means. Like it was waiting for a moment like this.
I’d made peace with the silence. I thought Maxim had walked away. That he saw me, measured me, and found me wanting. I thought the lack of word meant I’d been spared. That Tiago’s desperate gamble had failed, and I could go back to living in the quiet corner of the house, invisible again.
This is entirely different to what I expected.
I glance up. Tiago’s still watching me, but his expression gives nothing away. His mouth is pressed flat, unreadable. He’s calculating again—gears turning, already shifting from disappointment to opportunity.
Mateo stays still beside me. He doesn’t intrude, but I feel the weight of his presence.
I look back down at the ring. The cold hasn’t faded, and my fingers curl around the velvet.
Whatever I thought had ended that night—whatever hope I held on to, that this was a chapter I could close before it began—I was wrong.
I close the box slowly, pressing the lid shut with a soft click. It echoes louder than it should in the silence.
The weight of the ring hasn’t left my hand, even with the velvet shut around it. It lingers like frost—something old and unmoving, something that marks you even if you never wear it.
I breathe in, slow. Shaky.
Tiago finally turns, muttering something to one of the guards before walking out. He doesn’t look back.
Mateo stays behind, and he doesn’t bother to ask how I’m doing.
“This changes things,” he says, quiet as ever. “He wouldn’t send the ring if he was unsure. Not a man like Sharov.”
I nod once, but it feels disconnected. My body knows what to do—nod, stand, move—but my thoughts are still back there, staring at the garnet. Still hearing Maxim’s voice, low and even.
I’m not sure if I’m more afraid of being wanted… or of what comes next.
Chapter Four - Maxim
The tailor mutters under his breath as he circles behind me, pins clenched between his teeth. His hands are quick, precise, tugging fabric into place and adjusting seams with practiced irritation.
“Too broad in the shoulders,” he complains in Russian, flicking a bit of chalk against the jacket’s edge. “This is not a mannequin frame. You ruin symmetry.”
I don’t respond. The scent of pressed wool and fresh thread clings to the room—sharp, sterile, exact. The kind of clean that comes with money and preparation, not comfort.
I’m not really listening to him, I’m thinking about her.
Kiera Vargas, seated across that long table in her quiet little dress. Her eyes wide, her voice careful, every word shaped by someone else’s expectations. She looked at me like she was waiting to be judged. Measured and sorted.
Too soft, I thought at first. Too quiet for what this is. She doesn’t belong in this world.
She’s in it now, whether she belongs or not.
The tailor tugs at the sleeve again, steps back to assess, then makes a sound of dissatisfaction and begins the process over.
This isn’t about her. Not about attraction or curiosity. It isn’t about sentiment.
This is a long-game strategy. Influence packaged in silk and sealed by bloodline. Marriage is the most permanent kind of partnership we offer in this world. It binds more than names. It ties debt and loyalty and silence into something that can’t be easily undone.
