Page 25 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
The pressure. The silence. The way his eyes linger without shame, as if the fabric itself offends him.
“You don’t get to control me,” I say.
My voice wavers—but I say it anyway.
He leans in, mouth brushing the curve of my ear, his breath warm. “I already do.”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
He doesn’t touch me. Not really. His hands stay where they are, caging me without pressure. His mouth doesn’t claim mine, but the promise is there, humming in the space between us, thick enough to drown in.
I brace for a kiss.
I wait for it—lips twitching, breath caught, heart pounding against the wall of my chest. Every part of me locks up.
The moment stretches. I hate him. I hate the way his presence makes everything blur at the edges. I hate the way he speaks to me, the way he looks at me like I’m already his. I hate the nerve, the violence, the silence that follows all of it.
Something in me stirs anyway. It coils in my stomach, tight and shameful. Not just desire—something deeper. Something more dangerous.
He leans back slightly, eyes heavy lidded, gaze dropping again to the line of my throat. He says nothing else.
My hand twitches at my side, fingers curling.
His mouth hovers close, and still, he does nothing. That restraint? That infuriating, inflexible control? That’s what breaks me.
No matter how much I want to scream at him, and kiss him, and shove him away, and collapse into the heat of this thing between us, I can’t.
I don’t know which impulse will win.
He steps back without a word, pulling his phone from the inside of his coat. The moment breaks, but the heat of it lingers, clinging to my skin like smoke.
He speaks in Russian—sharp, fast, clipped like a blade. I don’t understand the words, but the tone is unmistakable. A car. Instructions. Movement already in place before I even know we’re leaving.
My knees are still weak.
I breathe through my nose, force my spine straight. I won’t let him see the way my fingers tremble. Not from fear. Not entirely. Something heavier pulses in my chest. Adrenaline, yes. Tangled with it—something more dangerous. Something that twists lower, hot and shameful.
We wait in silence.
The alley is quiet now, the music inside muffled, distant. I can feel him watching me. I don’t look to check, but I know it. The weight of his gaze is precise. Measured. The kind of attention that doesn’t wander. It roots itself in your skin and stays.
The car pulls up, tires crunching softly over the asphalt. Sleek, black, windows tinted deep. Maxim walks forward and opens the door without looking back.
A choice. I could walk away. Esme’s still inside. My phone’s in my purse. I could call a car, disappear, find somewhere else to sleep, even if it’s only for one night.
I watch him, his face unreadable in the streetlight. Then I step forward and slide into the car.
The door closes behind me with a solid thud.
Inside, the temperature is cool, the interior dim. Leather seats, silent engine, everything wrapped in muted luxury. Hefollows a second later, the car shifting beneath his weight. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t reach for me.
Still, the space between us feels thick.
His thigh settles near mine, close enough to feel the heat of his body, the pressure of his presence. The scent of him—wood, spice, the faintest trace of tobacco—wraps around me until it’s impossible to ignore.
I want to be strong. I want to hold on to that defiance, that fire I carried out of the club. But my limbs feel heavy. My skin hums with the aftershocks of too much: too much sensation, too much pressure.
I hate the quiet part of me that wants to lean into the warmth. I hate that I keep replaying the way he looked at me back there, gaze locked on mine like he already knew the outcome.
