Page 37 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
I move without sound, muscles coiled and senses sharpened. The scent of cedar and cold air clings to me as I climb the stairs, following the noise like a hunter trailing a shadow. It leads me to one of the smaller sitting rooms—a space I didn’t expect her to find, or want.
She’s there. Curled into the worn couch, a loose robe slipping from one shoulder. The soft glow of a muted television flickers behind her, casting erratic light over her face. Her hair falls in dark waves, messy and wild from restless sleep.
Her eyes snap open at the sound of my approach, wide and startled.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.
I say nothing. The words are unnecessary.
Without hesitation, I step past her, the floorboards silent beneath my boots. My hands find the lighter by the mantel. The flame flickers alive in my grasp, steady and defiant. I strike a match and bring it to the pile of logs, watching as the fire catches, the room warming as shadows twist and stretch.
The cold retreats, but the tension between us remains alive and thick.
I take the armchair across from her, sinking in with a casual grace. My posture is relaxed, but my eyes never leave her. Every movement she makes is catalogued, every breath noted.
Her legs are bare beneath the robe, pale skin catching the firelight. The fabric parts just enough to reveal the curve of her calves, the delicate arch of her ankles. I store the image silently, enduring the ache it brings—a steady hunger tempered by the cold discipline of control.
The silence stretches, a living thing between us. It pulses, heavy and expectant. Neither of us speaks.
She shifts slightly, the robe falling a little lower, and my breath catches.
Time slows.
The fire crackles, filling the room with warmth and the scent of burning wood. Shadows dance on the walls, framing us in a private world, away from the noise and danger outside.
Her eyes flicker to mine for a fraction of a second, then drop away. I see the vulnerability there, the uncertainty buried beneath the defiance. It’s a look I’ve come to know well—one I want to break and protect all at once.
I lean forward, hands resting on the arms of the chair, voice low but steady. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
Her response is a ghost of a smile, tired but genuine. “Neither should you.”
The room holds its breath again.
For a long moment, we just watch each other: two strangers trapped in a house built for power and secrets, trying to find a way to belong.
I want to close the distance, to erase the space between us with a touch. Instead, I settle back, letting the firelight wash over us, and wait for the night to decide what comes next.
She shifts under the weight of my stare, the silence wrapping tight between us. Finally, her voice cuts through the quiet, low and uncertain. “Are you always this quiet?”
I meet her eyes without blinking. “Only when I’m trying to think.”
She scoffs softly, pretending not to understand, but her breath stutters, betraying her calm façade. I can feel it—how much she wants to challenge me, push back, test the limits of what I’ll allow. But also how much she’s holding herself back.
Her eyes flicker, searching mine. “Do you think we could ever get along?”
The question hangs, sharp and raw. I don’t hesitate. My voice drops to a murmur. “You,” I say, “don’t make it easy.”
Her lips part, but she says nothing. The movie plays quietly behind us, images flickering on the screen, but it fades into background noise, irrelevant to the world narrowing between us.
She stretches slowly, the robe slipping farther off her shoulder with a languid grace. The pale skin beneath catches the firelight, soft and vulnerable. I watch, and something inside me frays—the tight control I’ve held begins to unravel.
I stand, muscles coiling as I cross the room in long, measured steps. The air thickens with anticipation.
Kneeling down, I lower myself to the floor before her, eyes never leaving hers. My hand reaches up slowly, deliberate, and lifts the edge of the robe, drawing it back over her shoulder.
My thumb grazes her collarbone—a featherlight touch that carries the weight of everything I’ve held inside.
“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” I whisper, voice rough and raw.
