Page 21 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
There’s no shortage of women who know how to play their part. No lack of offers, of names dropped at meetings, of daughters and nieces and cousins draped in silks and sent to dinners with carefully worded proposals.
She didn’t play my game. She sat across from me and refused to.
Something in that sits wrong under my skin. Not because it showed weakness—but because it didn’t.
I take another drag, flick the ash off the tip. The breeze catches it, carrying the embers out into the dark.
Kiera Vargas isn’t built for war. That much is obvious, but war is built around people like her. People thrown into things they never asked for and forced to survive.
I exhale again, watching the smoke drift.
There’s no peace waiting on the other side of this.
Movement catches my eye—quick, fluid, out of place against the steady rhythm of the street. A flicker of laughter, followed by a sweep of dark fabric caught in the breeze.
Then I see her.
Kiera steps from one of my sleek black cars across the road, her friend already at her side. The hem of her dress catches on the curb before she rights it, one hand brushing her thigh. Her hair is pinned loosely at the nape, strands slipping free in soft waves that graze her neck. The dress fits too well to be accidental—black, close-cut, draped low across her back and hugging the curve of her waist like it was sewn in secret.
The light above the club door casts a warm gold over her skin. It glows. Soft. Undisturbed.
She’s laughing—head tilted slightly, mouth open, one hand lifted as if to bat away whatever her friend just said. I don’t hear the words, but I don’t need to. That laugh sinks into my chest like a punch, and I know by her face that this whole thing is an act.
She doesn’t see me, but she knows that I’ve allowed this last night of freedom. That she’s only here, because I said so.
Kiera’s too busy walking into the opposite club with her chin up and shoulders bare. The other woman reaches for herarm, guiding her through the line with ease. Kiera doesn’t glance behind. She doesn’t hesitate.
I don’t move, not at first. My lungs catch against the weight in them. I’ve never seen her laugh like that. I didn’t think she could.
Then something shifts. Not jealousy. That’s too small. Too soft.
Possession. It burns hotter.
She’s mine. Or she will be. That was the deal. The ring said everything that needed saying. I gave her time to adjust, time to process. I didn’t expect gratitude. I didn’t even expect obedience, but I expected caution. Quiet. Respect for the position she’s been handed.
Not this.
Not dresses that show skin I haven’t touched. Not laughter shared with people who don’t know what her silence means. Not being on display where anyone could watch her—anyone could take her in and imagine something that isn’t theirs to want.
My fingers tighten around the cigarette until it snaps between them. Ash spills onto my coat.
She has no idea I’m watching. No idea what she’s walking into. She’s radiant under the lights and unaware of the way it stirs every dark instinct in me.
She doesn’t belong here, not unless she walks in on my arm.
I flick the broken cigarette to the curb and step away from the car. I don’t call out. Don’t cross the street. Don’t send a message to the guards still on payroll, waiting nearby.
Instead, I stand where I am, watching the door she vanished through like it might open again. It doesn’t. She’s gone,swallowed into that club’s warmth, its noise and bodies and hands too loose with attention.
My eyes locked on that entrance, I imagine what’s inside. The music. The bodies moving too close. Men with their collars undone and their hands wandering. Her in the middle of it, laughing again, soft and unguarded. A drink in her hand. A stranger leaning in, close enough to smell her perfume.
My jaw locks. The muscles tense until they ache.
She’s mine.
Not in some poetic, abstract way. Not in the language of longing or romance. In fact. In deed. She was given. Offered like tribute from a crumbling house, her name placed on the table between powerful men who understood exactly what it meant. Her brother handed her over, and I accepted.
Which means she doesn’t get to vanish into clubs without my permission.
