Page 47 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
“I know.”
When she does, she’ll either understand—or she’ll walk away from me completely. Neither option sits well.
I turn back to the window. My reflection stares back at me in the glass: sharp suit, sharper eyes. Nothing human left in the lines of my face.
“Start with the cousins,” I say flatly. “Then move up. Leave the bodies where they can be found.”
Platon nods once. “Understood.”
He leaves as quietly as he came, and I stand alone again, with her name burning behind my teeth.
Chapter Fifteen - Kiera
I sit curled in the corner of one of the lounges, the antique timepiece loud in the silence, its steady rhythm slicing cleanly through the hush. Everything feels suspended—airless. The wind sighs through an old seam in the window frame, gentle but persistent. It’s the only sound besides the clock.
I’ve noticed this before.
At this hour, the house thins. Staff disappear to the back wings, the security presence shifts. The guards are still around, but they’re less visible—rotating posts or catching a breath somewhere out of sight. The hush is different now. Less like quiet, more like a held breath.
I can’t sit still.
My breath is shallow in my chest, my fingers tapping rhythm against the arm of the velvet chair. I don’t plan it. My body just… moves. I rise, barefoot and silent, the long hem of my cotton nightgown brushing against my calves.
The hallway is dark, but I don’t need light. I know the path now. I’ve walked it in daylight, in dreams, in memory. The air is cooler here, a little heavier, like it holds more than dust and silence. I move quietly, careful not to disturb the stillness—but every step feels louder than it should. Each one echoing through me.
I turn the corner.
His study is at the end of this hall. A room I know I’m not supposed to be in, not without supervision. I doubt Maxim even sees a reason for me towantto go inside, after that day I saw the photo.
Now I stand outside it.
For a heartbeat, I hesitate. My fingers rest against the door, cool and smooth beneath my touch. I tell myself I shouldn’t be here. That if he wanted me inside, he would’ve said something. Left the door open. Given permission.
I open it anyway.
The room is dark. The curtains are drawn. Cool air greets me, the kind that settles into your skin rather than brushes across it. The scent hits me instantly—leather, wood polish, and something warmer beneath it. Heat and skin and something I can’t name but know down to my bones.
Him.
I step inside.
The door clicks shut behind me, muffled in the carpeted quiet. My bare feet make no sound as I move farther in. The desk is empty, papers neatly stacked. A jacket lies draped over the back of a chair, sleeves folded in on themselves. There’s a half-finished glass of something amber on the table near the bookshelves.
The shadows cling to the corners of the room, but I don’t turn on the light. I just stand there, breathing in everything that makes this space his.
I wonder why it doesn’t scare me more.
The desk dominates the room, carved from dark wood and polished to a gleam. Everything about it demands attention—authority stamped into the grain, corners sharp, weight undeniable. It’s the kind of desk no one approaches casually.
His laptop sits closed on the blotter, centered like a final word. Sleek. Silent. Waiting.
I cross the room slowly, trailing my fingers along the edge of the desk as I go. The smell is stronger here—leather, cologne,the faint trace of smoke. The seat of power still holds its heat. My skin prickles as I lower myself into his chair.
It’s large. Comfortable. It smells like him.
The silence around me tightens.
I draw in a breath and open the laptop. The screen glows faintly before prompting a password. I type in a name without thinking, fingers moving fast.
