Page 33 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
“Doesn’t feel like it,” she murmurs.
The corners of my mouth twitch, but the smile never forms. Her voice isn’t angry. Just honest. That honesty cuts deeper than any accusation might have.
I don’t move, but something in me coils, something tense and aching. My presence must press against her in waves, even if I stay perfectly still.
She must feel it, because the space between us tightens.
The silence pulses.
It grows heavier with every breath she takes, thick with everything we’re not saying. With everything she doesn’t understand yet—and everything I already do.
I watch her chest rise, then fall. Slower now. Her gaze flicks to my mouth, then away.
The weight of wanting surges up, ugly and hot and all-consuming. It moves through me with precision, tightening every muscle, locking me in place. My fingers curl against my thigh. My jaw clenches.
I could reach for her. Could drag her into the heat already simmering between us and watch her unravel all over again.
Instead I sit still, eyes locked on her face, heart a slow, heavy thud behind my ribs.
Chapter Eleven - Kiera
The bed isn’t mine.
That’s the first thing I know when I wake up. The sheets are stiff, too smooth. The air smells like cedar and something sharper underneath—sterile, expensive. There’s no warmth here. No softness. Just silence. Heavy, deliberate silence, like the room’s holding its breath.
I sit up slowly. My pajamas cling to my skin, creased and unfamiliar. Across the room, my suitcase stands against the wall, untouched but definitely moved. Someone brought it in. While I was sleeping. They didn’t wake me.
A shiver crawls down my back.
I stay on the edge of the bed for a long time, hands in my lap, bare feet pressed to the cool floor. I don’t know what the rules are here. I don’t know if I’m supposed to wait in this room, or if he expects me to wander. I don’t even know if he’s here. Everything about this house feels like him—quiet, controlled, watching without being seen.
Eventually, my stomach turns on me. Hunger cuts through the haze. I get to my feet.
The hallway outside is dim, lit by soft sconces that cast long shadows over dark wooden panels. The floor is silent under me, muffled and clean. Each door I pass is shut, seamless against the walls. No signs of life, but I know better. I’m being watched. I can feel it in the way the air presses close to my skin.
I don’t know where I’m going. There’s no map for this place, no guide. Every inch feels like a trap that hasn’t been sprung.
A framed painting hangs at the end of the hall—something abstract, jagged streaks of red and black. In its glass, I catch my reflection.
I barely recognize the girl staring back.
My hair’s a mess. My face looks pale under the hallway light. There’s tension in my mouth, in the tight set of my shoulders. I look like someone who doesn’t belong here. Like someone who wandered too far into a place that doesn’t welcome softness.
I look like prey.
I turn away. The hall goes on. The house is endless—steel and wood and cold, masculine precision. Every part of it feels like a locked door, and I don’t have the keys.
I press my palm to the wall for balance. My fingers are cold. My pulse won’t settle.
I don’t know where he is. I don’t know when I’ll see him.
I know this: I’m not the same girl who walked into that meeting room last week. Whatever this house wants to make of me, whatever he wants to shape me into—I won’t break easy.
When I find it, the study door is heavy, almost too large to push open, but I manage it with a quiet shove. Inside, the room swallows me whole—dark wood panels rise like walls of a fortress, and the low light flickers from an antique lamp on the desk, casting shadows that stretch like fingers over the floor. It smells faintly of leather and smoke, something old and solid, like history pressing down on the air.
Bookshelves crowd the walls, heavy with thick law tomes, leather-bound Russian volumes with gilded titles, and stacks of papers so neat they look like tiny, frozen storms. The place feels alive with meaning—controlled chaos curated by a man who demands order, yet allows secrets to pile up like trophies.
I move slowly, fingers brushing the spines of the books, feeling the texture of cracked leather and brittle pages. My eyes catch something at the far corner of the room: a small, framed photo perched on a shelf, half hidden behind a stack of documents.
