Page 35 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
The kitchen feels too quiet. Too perfect. Like it’s waiting for something. Waiting forhim.
I let out a breath and lean against the counter, rubbing my temples. If I mess this up, will he get annoyed? Will he think I don’t belong here? I swallow hard, trying to shove down the nervous flutter that’s been crawling in my chest since I woke up.
Before I can try again, the room shifts.
Maxim appears like a shadow, smooth and silent. Jacket discarded, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, muscles tautbeneath the crisp fabric. He moves with the confidence of a man who owns not just the house, but every breath that fills it.
Without a word, he steps past me, fingers deft as he adjusts the espresso machine’s settings. There’s no hesitation, no fumbling—only precise, effortless control. The machine whirs to life, and rich, dark coffee begins to pour into a waiting cup.
He sets the steaming cup in front of me with a quiet finality. Our hands nearly touch. The heat of the ceramic presses against my palms, but it’s his proximity that steals my breath. I look up, eyes wide, and manage a quiet “Thank you.”
He doesn’t leave.
Instead, he leans against the counter nearby, arms crossed loosely, watching me as I lift the cup to my lips. His gaze is heavy, unblinking. I try to focus on the bitter warmth sliding down my throat, but my eyes keep drifting to the way his look softens just a fraction, the way his mouth tightens with something unspoken.
His eyes drop slowly to my lips as I sip again, this time swallowing too fast, catching the rush of heat in my chest. The silence between us stretches out, thick and tangible, pulsing in the space around us.
For a moment, I feel like I could reach out and touch that silence, hold it between my fingers. I want to break it. To say something—anything.
My voice sticks in my throat.
He watches me as if reading every unspoken thought, every question and hesitation tangled beneath my skin. There’s something raw in the way he looks at me, like I’m both the storm and the shelter, the danger and the reprieve.
Then, without warning, Maxim straightens, pushes off from the counter, and turns away. The sound of his footstepsfades as he disappears down the hall, leaving me flushed and dizzy, my skin still tingling where our hands almost met.
I sit back against the cold marble, heart hammering, the taste of coffee and something more bitter lingering on my tongue.
Questions swirl in my mind, unasked and unanswered. What does he want from me? What am I supposed to want from him? And why does every breath in this house feel like a battle I didn’t sign up for?
I take another sip, trying to steady myself. This place, this man—it’s all too much, too fast. Somehow, beneath the frustration and fear, a strange pull tightens in my chest. A hunger I don’t understand.
The guard leads me through the gardens, his voice low and polite as he points out the various blooms and trees I might otherwise have missed.
The day hangs warm and still, sun filtering softly through the leaves, dappling the ground with gold and shadow. It’s deceptively calm, like the quiet before a storm—the kind you feel in your bones but can’t quite name.
When the tour ends, I tell the guard I want to be alone and wander. He nods without protest, eyes flicking to the house as if expecting me to bolt back inside any moment, but I don’t.
The garden air is thick with green—the scent of moss and freshly turned earth, faint traces of jasmine from a far corner. I close my eyes and breathe deep, willing myself to feel something other than the suffocating weight of this place. For a moment, I pretend I’m free, that none of this belongs to him.
Even the wind tastes like his presence. It curls around me with a silent, invisible hand. I shiver, though the sun presseswarmly on my shoulders. There’s no escaping him—not here, not anywhere.
The path curves and leads me back toward the house. I climb the stairs to a balcony I hadn’t seen before, one tucked away where the world feels quieter.
From this height, the estate stretches out beneath me, manicured lawns and hedges trimmed like soldiers standing guard. Beyond that, the city fades into the haze of distance, bright lights dimmed by the afternoon haze.
The view should feel expansive. Instead, it feels narrow, a cage gilded with power and silence.
My eyes catch movement below.
Maxim stands near a sleek black car, speaking rapidly in Russian to a man I don’t recognize. His voice is sharp, measured—authority pouring from every word, every gesture. He’s animated, but the kind of composed animation that commands respect, even fear.
I watch him for a moment, heart beating too fast, lungs tightening with a strange mixture of awe and wariness.
Before I can turn away, I feel it—his gaze, like a blade slicing through the distance between us. My breath catches. I glance down.
Our eyes lock.
The world tilts. For one heartbeat, the air thickens with something unspoken—no affection, no fury—just claim. It’s a silent marking, a warning whispered in a language older than words.
