Page 50 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
“The basics,” she replies. “Nothing sensitive.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
Maria inclines her head, then turns away, disappearing down the hall.
I remain where I am, her words circling like a slow current.
Kiera is attentive. Careful. Quiet in a way that isn’t quite passive.
I don’t know if that should worry me, but it lingers.
I turn and head toward the back of the estate, my steps slower now. Measured. The way I move when I feel something shifting beneath the surface—when the rules are the same, but the stakes are changing.
I find her near the koi pond.
The path winds through trimmed hedges and smooth stones, half lit by lanterns glowing low along the edges. The estate is quiet here—shielded from the house, from the weight of walls and surveillance. It’s a place for reflection, or solitude.
She’s seated at the edge, feet bare and dangling into the water. The cotton dress she wears is modest—soft, light, but the breeze teases it close to her skin, outlining the shape of her hips, the curve of her waist. Her hair moves with the wind, strands catching the last of the evening light.
She doesn’t stand when she senses me. Just turns her head.
That smirk.
It’s not wide. It’s not mocking. But it’s there—alive in her eyes, settled in her mouth like she knows something I don’t. Like she’s already made peace with things I’m still calculating.
She looks too at home, too calm.
I approach without a word, slow and measured. The sound of the water, the flicker of fish just below the surface, the rustle of leaves—it all seems to pull tighter as I stop a few steps behind her.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shift. Her posture stays relaxed, legs swinging lazily, fingers brushing the edge of the stone. The angle of her body, the quiet in her expression—there’s no fear.
Not even caution, and that unsettles me more than rage ever could.
“I told you not to come out here alone,” I say finally. My voice is low, not harsh, but the words carry. “You always pick the worst places to sit.”
She tilts her head. “You always act like I need guarding.”
I crouch beside her, the gravel shifting under my shoes. My hand reaches out, brushes lightly against her knee—just enough to test her.
She stiffens, only for a second. Then it’s gone, buried beneath the steel of her voice.
“You’re always watching,” she says, sharp. “Always hovering.”
My jaw tightens. Her mouth—God, her mouth—is a weapon. Beautiful. Reckless. She doesn’t know the damage she does, or maybe she does and does it anyway. She aims her words with more precision than most men aim their guns.
“You don’t know what I want to do,” I murmur, voice gone to gravel and heat.
Her lips part, not in fear—but something else. Anticipation, maybe. Defiance.
Then I act.
My hand lifts to her chin, thumb brushing the soft line of her jaw. My fingers are firm, tilting her face toward mine. There’s resistance there, the barest edge of tension—but she doesn’t pull away.
I don’t wait. Don’t ask.
I kiss her.
Hard. Demanding. Weeks of silence, of near-misses, of sidelong glances and half-meant words collapse into that single moment. It’s not clean. It’s not gentle. It’s months of tension and fire, poured into one brutal press of mouths.
