Page 23 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
The beat thunders through the floor. Lights flash red, blue, then gold. Bodies shift and move and press in, but it all feels distant, muffled, like I’m watching from the other side of glass. Nothing touches me. Not the music. Not the heat. Not even the drink.
I didn’t come here to dance. I didn’t come to drink.
I came to forget.
Except, I can’t. The ring haunts me. It’s not on my finger, but I feel it anyway. A weight tucked into my purse, heavy with expectation. The silence from Maxim hangs just as loud, stretching into something that no longer feels uncertain. It feels intentional. Final.
A future I never asked for is rushing toward me like a train, and I’ve run out of track.
I swirl the glass absently, eyes on the swirl of Esme’s dress as she spins. That’s when I feel someone settle at my side.
“Strange,” a voice says, smooth and low.
I glance over.
He’s in his late thirties, maybe forty. Well-dressed. Suit sharp, tie undone enough to suggest comfort but not sloppiness. His jaw’s strong, smile easy. A man who’s used to being listened to. Used to being the one who buys the drinks.
“You don’t look like the kind of girl who hangs around places like this,” he says, gaze skimming over me. “Too polished.”
I offer a small smile. Not warmth. Not invitation. Just surface politeness.
“Guess I’m in the wrong place, then.”
He laughs, stepping a little closer. “No such thing.”
His voice softens as he leans in. “You’ve got that look: someone trying to outrun a bad week. Want some company while you do it?”
I shake my head, gentle but firm. “I’m here with a friend.”
He nods, but his eyes stay on me. Then his hand brushes my waist.
It’s not harsh. Not insistent, but it’s too familiar. Too assumptive.
I go still. My mouth parts as I prepare to excuse myself, heart picking up in my chest—
Then another hand clamps down on his wrist. Hard. The pressure makes the man hiss, twisting slightly in place. He looks up in surprise, and so do I.
Maxim doesn’t say a word.
He appears beside me like a shadow pulled from the dark, expression unreadable, eyes colder than I’ve ever seen them. His grip clamps around the man’s wrist—firm, exact, a hand forged for violence.
The man stiffens, startled. “Hey—hey, relax, it was a joke,” he says, trying to twist free.
Maxim doesn’t let go.
His hand tightens, fingers locking with such brutal control that it makes my breath catch.
The sound comes sharp and fast.
A crack—distinct, clean. Like dry wood splitting.
The man gasps, stumbling back as Maxim finally releases him. He clutches his hand to his chest, eyes wide, the reality of it sinking in.
A few people nearby turn at the noise. The pulse of the music fades for a moment as space opens around us. The lights flash once over Maxim’s face—cutting across his jaw, his mouth set in a hard line.
He doesn’t look at the man.
He doesn’t look at the small crowd beginning to form, whispers blooming at the edges.
