Page 45 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
She doesn’t.
My hand lifts to her hair, brushing it back from her cheek. The strands are soft and warm from sleep. I cup the side of her neck, steadying her, tilting her just enough. Then I lower my mouth to her skin and kiss the spot just beneath her jaw.
She exhales—sharp, startled.
Then I suck, hard enough to leave no doubt. I feel her heartbeat jump under my tongue, feel her body tense. The skin flushes beneath the pressure, blooming red in a matter of seconds. I pull back only when the mark rises, visible and raw.
Mine.
I let my thumb stroke over it once. “I want you to remember who you belong to,” I murmur, voice low against her skin.
Her breath catches. I see the pulse flutter at the base of her throat. For a second, neither of us moves. The room is thick with something heavier than lust. Quieter than power.
I straighten, watching her blink up at me—flushed, breathing fast, silent.
I don’t say goodbye. I don’t offer comfort.
The mark I leave behind feels like the most honest thing I’ve given her.
I walk out, jaw tight, each step more controlled than the last. I force my thoughts elsewhere—schedules, security reports, the meeting I’ve pushed twice already. Logistics. Threats.
I arrive at the office earlier than usual. The sun hasn’t cleared the skyline yet, but the building is already awake—guards stationed at the entrance, aides moving through corridors with purpose. They all straighten when they see me, eyes sharp, nods respectful.
I don’t acknowledge them.
My steps are clipped. Tension coils through my frame with every movement. No wasted energy, no idle gestures. I move like I’m going somewhere with purpose, but the truth is I’m not sure I trust myself to stand still.
Inside, the main room is hushed. I can feel the shift in the air when I enter—my men sense it immediately. They look up from their stations, exchanging quick glances, but no one speaks. Not at first.
I go straight to my desk. The chair groans under my weight as I sit. The leather feels too tight, too warm. I pour myself a coffee from the carafe someone prepared already. Black, no sugar.
My gaze drifts to the window—steel and glass, a view of the city still cloaked in morning haze. My jaw tightens. My fingers tap against the rim of the cup, then still.
Behind me, boots shift against marble. “Something wrong, sir?”
I don’t answer.
There’s too much in my head. Too many threads pulling in opposite directions. I force my mind to focus—to catalogue, to strategize—but the center of it all remains unchanged.
Kiera.
The way she looked this morning, sheet tangled at her waist, lashes fluttering as I left her with nothing but a bruise blooming on her neck.
She’s under my roof now. Under my protection, and someone got too close.
Too fucking close.
Her own blood tried to poison her. Smiled in her face, shared a meal, then tried to kill her. The betrayal wasn’t loud. It wasn’t messy. It was quiet. Surgical. A coward’s move.
We didn’t see it coming.
My fingers curl into a fist against the desk. Wood creaks. I force my hand open again, flexing my palm slowly, methodically. Rage is an old companion. But this—this is different. This is personal in a way I haven’t felt in years.
This isn’t about her.
It’s about control. About power. About leverage. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
She’s valuable. A pawn who chose my side—willingly or not. Protecting her means maintaining the balance. It means leverage against enemies who would rather see us burn. Marrying her secured that leverage. Sleeping with her should’ve been the inevitable conclusion.
