Page 30 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
Everything tilts.
Walls too close. Ceiling too high. My pulse erratic, too fast to be normal.
I make it halfway down the corridor before my hand slams against the wall for balance. I gasp in air. It’s like breathing through wool. The hallway swims in front of me.
I press a hand to my stomach. Sweat beads at the back of my neck, sliding beneath the line of my hair.
This isn’t just heat. Or nerves. I don’t feel right.
The marble wall is cool beneath my palm, but it does nothing to steady the spin in my head. My legs buckle, knees hitting the polished floor with a muted thud. My hand scrapes against the stone as I lean forward, jaw clenched, throat tight.
Then my stomach heaves.
Nothing comes at first: only bile, thin and bitter. The taste burns the back of my tongue, and I gasp, body wracked with tremors. My vision blurs with the effort, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, but another wave hits harder.
I lurch again, and this time it’s not bile.
It’s red.
Bright. Vivid. Streaked through with something dark and wet. I choke on a sob, spit, then gag again as more follows. It splashes against the tile, warm and unmistakable.
The metallic tang coats my tongue. My mouth fills with it, thick and sharp and wrong.
Panic claws at my chest. My hands tremble as I reach out blindly, trying to anchor myself to the wall again, but the strength in my limbs is slipping. My body curls in, instinctive and useless, trying to protect something that’s already unraveling.
My heart pounds too fast. It’s erratic, a drumbeat gone wild. My lungs can’t keep up. I drag in short, stuttering breaths, but nothing sticks. The air slips through my throat without oxygen. My head is too light. My body too heavy.
I wipe at my face, fingers streaked now with a mix of tears and blood and sweat. The cold of the marble floor is seeping into my skin, and still I can’t move.
This isn’t normal. This isn’t heatstroke or nerves or exhaustion.
My thoughts spiral—slipping, fragmented. I try to hold on to a clear one, but everything scatters before I can grasp it. My fingers scrabble against the wall again, missing their mark. My palm hits the floor instead, skidding uselessly.
Then I fall.
My cheek hits the tile, and the cold rushes in all at once. It spreads across my skin, sinking deep into my bones. I try to push up, to lift myself even an inch, but my arms give out beneath me.
The floor tilts. The light dims. The edges of my vision blacken, and the sounds around me—distant music, the faint murmur of voices behind closed doors—fade into a low hum.
The world slips sideways, and still, the only word left in my mouth is his.
“Maxim….”
Barely a whisper, then nothing.
Chapter Ten - Maxim
I stand outside the hospital room, arms crossed tight over my chest, jaw clenched until the muscle aches. The corridor hums with a low, sterile buzz—overhead lights too bright, linoleum too clean, the air reeking of antiseptic and quiet desperation.
My body is still, but every nerve feels stretched thin. Coiled. Waiting.
The doctor steps forward, face grim behind her mask. Her voice is professional, clipped, but not detached.
“There were traces of tetrachlorine in her system,” she says. “A rare compound. Not easy to get. Slipped into food or drink, most likely during breakfast. It builds slowly, then overwhelms the body. We caught it early, but…” She trails off, eyes flicking toward the door. “She’s stable, for now.”
My blood turns cold. She ate and drank under my protection. In a home meant to be safe.
Rage simmers beneath the surface. I keep it buried.
