Page 51 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
She gasps into me, startled, her breath catching in her throat. Her hands rise fast, pressing to my chest—not to push, but to ground herself. To keep us both steady.
She kisses me back. God, does she kiss me back.
Her lips part, her breath shivers, and then she meets me with equal heat, equal hunger. Her mouth opens beneath mine, and it’s a rush, sharp and sweet and savage. Her hands twist in the fabric of my shirt. She leans into it, into me, like her body’s finally caught up to something her mind tried to deny.
The kiss deepens, turns feral. Teeth. Tongue. A low sound escapes her throat—half protest, half want—and I feel it echo in my bones.
Her thighs shift, brushing mine. I want to drag her into my lap. I want to tear the soft cotton from her body and mark every inch of her. I want her to stop running.
Then she pulls back. Breathless. Glowing. Her lips are swollen, her cheeks flushed.
“I need air,” she says, voice rough.
I let her go. Barely. My fingers loosen slow, reluctant. They drag across her skin like I’m trying to memorize it before it’s out of reach. My breath still hasn’t settled.
She stands, smoothing her dress with shaking hands she tries to make steady. Her spine is straight, shoulders squared, but I see the shiver down her arms. I see the way she won’t meet my eyes.
Then—she turns, and walks away. No glance back. No final word. Her steps are even, but there’s tension in them. A wire pulled tight.
She disappears around the hedge, and I’m left crouched by the pond, the scent of her still clinging to my skin, her taste still on my tongue, and heat clawing down my spine.
***
That evening, I walk the halls later than I usually do.
Not because there’s work left unfinished. Not because the estate demands it. I tell myself I’m checking the locks, surveying the night staff, doing the rounds like I used to before the weight of everything grew too familiar.
That’s a lie. I’m waiting, and I hate that I know it.
I keep my pace steady, measured, each footfall swallowed by the thick rugs and polished stone. The night air has cooled. The house is mostly asleep, quiet but not silent.
Then I hear it: light humming—soft, aimless. Unbothered.
I slow.
It comes from the next corridor, drifting along the edges of the dark like something not meant to be touched. The sound tugs at me, sharp and intimate, like I’m overhearing something meant for someone else. No melody I recognize. Just a hum. Peaceful. Simple.
She turns the corner before I have time to brace for it.
Barefoot. Hair loose down her back. A book in one hand, robe cinched at the waist, sleeves pushed up.
She looks like she belongs here, like she’s always belonged here. Worse—like she knows it.
She doesn’t startle when she sees me. Doesn’t pause, doesn’t break stride. If she’s surprised to find me in the hall, she doesn’t show it.
Her eyes flick up. Meet mine.
Then she passes. The humming stops, and still she doesn’t look back.
The sound of her steps fades down the corridor—barefoot against marble, quiet but not silent. Each one echoes inside my skull like the ticking of a clock I can’t mute.
She’s adapting. She’s not surviving—she’s settling, and that terrifies me in a way I can’t name.
She should be afraid. Off-balance. Uncertain in these halls. Instead, she walks them like they’re hers.
I stay rooted, every nerve on edge, like my body hasn’t caught up to the fact that she’s already gone.
The more she settles, the more I burn.
