Page 44 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
It’s too much.
I watch her longer than I should.
Then I move. Quiet, practiced steps across the room. I pull on my trousers, my shirt. The cuff links go in with musclememory, my focus tight. Silence has always come easy to me. In this house, it’s second nature.
I’m halfway through buttoning the last cuff when I hear the sheets rustle.
Her breath catches, and I glance over.
Her eyes are open, still heavy with sleep, but aware. Our gazes lock. Her blush rises immediately, blooming across her cheeks like something helpless.
I don’t look away. Her blush deepens the longer I watch, spreading down her neck, vanishing beneath the edge of the sheets. She tugs the fabric higher, though it does nothing to hide what I’ve already seen—what I’ve already taken. She’s not embarrassed, not really. It’s something else. Uncertainty, maybe. Or the echo of last night still humming in her bones.
I move closer, slow and easy, like she’s prey I’m not yet finished with.
“Want to come see my office?” My voice stays low, pitched quiet like a secret.
She huffs a laugh, then winces. Her hand slides down her side instinctively, fingers pressing to her hip. “I can’t even walk properly.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. A sharp, amused grin. I lean down, bracing a hand beside her on the mattress, and bring my mouth to her shoulder. Her skin is warm, still sleep-flushed, still marked with the imprint of my teeth.
“You’ll get used to this.”
She glares at me—weak, halfhearted, cheeks flaming. But there’s no bite in it. Only heat. Only something that settles behind her eyes, quiet and warm.
She shifts under the sheets, trying to sit upright. I watch the way her muscles pull and tense, how carefully she moves.Her body responds to discomfort like she’s used to managing pain in silence, like she doesn’t want me to see how much effort it takes.
She looks smaller like this. Less fire, less resistance. Just skin and blood and breath.
I sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to crowd her, and let the moment settle between us. Her hair is tousled. Her mouth is soft. I want to press my hand to the center of her chest and feel her heartbeat. I want to kiss her again. Not to possess—but to taste.
Instead, I run a knuckle lightly along her knee, then pull my hand away. “Rest,” I say, my voice quiet again. Not tender, but not cold.
She watches me, eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s an order?”
“Yes.”
Her brows knit, faintly.
“Don’t go outside the estate.”
Her expression shifts, mouth tugging down. “Is something wrong?”
I don’t answer. Not because I don’t want to—but because I haven’t decided how much she needs to know.
The uncle was easy. The others might not be. Someone is still pulling strings, still too close for comfort. Until I find them, she stays inside these walls.
I look at her for a long moment, memorizing the shape of her face in morning light. The flush in her cheeks. The new quiet in her eyes.
Then I rise without a word, and turn away.
I reach the door.
My hand’s on the frame, ready to pull it closed behind me, but something tugs at me—harder than instinct, heavier than reason. I pause, letting the silence breathe.
She’s still in bed, propped slightly against the pillows, one hand curled over the sheet at her chest. Her eyes track me as I come back. Wary, uncertain. But she doesn’t flinch.
I stop at the edge of the mattress, let my gaze drag over her face, her throat, the slope of her shoulder where the sheet has slipped again. I lean down slowly, giving her time to move.
