Page 38 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
Her eyes flutter shut, lashes resting against flushed cheeks. The moment stretches, fragile and suspended. But then she leans back slightly, hesitant, uncertainty flickering in her gaze.
I pause, reading the silent hesitation—the fragile wall she’s built. It feels like a blow, sharp and unexpected.
With a slow, reluctant motion, I pull away.
The space between us grows again, cold and wide, but the fire still burns beneath the surface.
I straighten, muscles tightening as I push myself off the floor. The fragile moment snaps like glass between us, and I gather what’s left of my control. My voice cuts through the quiet, clipped and precise. “You should go to bed.”
There’s no warmth in the words—only a cold edge, a reminder that control always comes with a price. My gaze never leaves her face, watching the flicker of confusion and hesitation that rises in her eyes.
I take a step toward the door, hand already on the handle, but something holds me back. I turn.
My voice drops low, rough but deliberate. “Don’t mistake my restraint for lack of desire, darling.”
The word hangs in the air—soft, dangerous.
After a pause, I add, “You’ll feel all of it when you’re ready.”
The silence returns, heavy and expectant. Then her voice breaks through, quiet and uncertain. “Is that… blood on your shirt?”
I glance down, collar streaked faintly with dark red, drying and crusted.
“Yes,” I say simply. “Your uncle.”
Her breath catches. She recoils, lips parting as tears well up unbidden, glistening in the firelight. The strength she wears so carefully falters, exposed.
“He tried to kill you,” I say, voice low but sharp. “You’re crying for him?”
She doesn’t answer. I see the conflict in her eyes—the tangled emotions she doesn’t know how to unravel.
I turn away, jaw tight, fists clenched at my sides.
The weight of her silence presses heavier than any words could. I breathe it in—the mix of fear, confusion, and something raw beneath it all. It’s infuriating and heartbreaking in equal measure.
I want to say more, to offer comfort, but the walls I’ve built rise higher with every moment I hesitate. This isn’t weakness. This is survival. Yet, standing here with my back turned, I feel the ghost of that boy from the photo—the one who smiled without scars, who trusted without fear.
That boy is long gone, buried beneath years of blood and betrayal.
I don’t turn back.
Instead, I walk away, the weight of what’s unsaid trailing behind me like a shadow.
Her tears echo in my mind, a reminder that beneath the steel and scars, there’s still something human. Something worth protecting.
Maybe, just maybe, something worth fighting for.
Except right now, all I feel is the cold tightening in my chest—the brutal price of desire and duty entwined.
Chapter Thirteen - Kiera
The chapel is bright, full of cream and gold and the hush of old money. The aisle stretches out before me, long and pristine, a carpet of ivory beneath my trembling feet. I clutch the bouquet too tightly. My fingers ache around the stems, the satin-wrapped handle damp from my palms. Each step forward feels both too slow and too fast.
I’m weightless and drowning all at once.
My dress is flawless. White silk clings to my curves in ways meant to flatter, to dazzle. Lace sleeves trace down to my wrists, delicate as frost. It’s traditional, elegant, expensive. Every inch of it hand stitched and meant to impress. But it doesn’t feel like a dress—it feels like armor. A cage tailored from silk and secrets.
My heart pounds beneath it all, each beat muffled by layers of satin.
