Page 61 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
He watches me for a moment, then adds, “You know what I think? You’re scared.”
I snort, soft but sharp. “Of what? Her? You?”
He shakes his head. “No. Him.”
The words land like a slap. Not hard—but precise. Too close.
“You think I’m scared of Maxim?” I laugh, but it’s hollow. “I’m the one who walked into this with open eyes. I knew exactly who he was.”
“That’s the problem,” Mateo says, quietly. “You still do.”
I turn away from him then, because I can’t afford to be seen too clearly. Not now.
I repeat the plan in my head again, slow and steady, like counting beads on a rosary.
Obelisk-12. Initiate contact. Find the weak link. Crack the chain.
The twelve files are still burned into my memory—names, photos, crimes. Power wrapped in secrets, one keystroke away from imploding. If we can turn just one… the rest will crumble. Tiago’s already made a list. The vulnerable ones. The greedy ones. The ones who have something to lose.
He’ll handle the first reach. Me—I’ll be the eyes. The ears. The one who reports what no one else can see. I’m already embedded. Already trusted.
I am good at this.
I know how to read a room before anyone speaks. I know how to smile without showing my teeth. I know how to say yes and mean war.
So long as I remember what’s real.
“Don’t get attached,” Tiago told me once. “Not to the place. Not to the man. He is not a person, Kiera. He’s a target.”
I believed him. Still do.
That doesn’t explain why my heart jumps every time I hear Maxim’s boots in the hall. Or why his voice lingers in my chest longer than it should.
Mateo speaks again. “You know, you don’t have to do this.”
I stiffen. “Yes, I do.”
He turns fully toward me. “You’re in deeper than anyone, Kiera, and you’re not the only one in danger. If you lose focus—”
“I won’t.” My voice cracks sharper than I intend.
He holds my gaze a second longer, then nods once. “You’re not supposed to feel anything,” he says.
I nod too. “I know.”
I feel it in my chest at night, when the house goes quiet and I remember how his hand felt against my cheek. How his voice dropped when he said he only liked my tears in his bed. How he touched me like I was something already his, and how my body—traitorous thing—responded like it believed him.
Still, the memory of it won’t leave me alone. Not even now. Especially not now.
I take a breath, slow and shallow. Maxim Sharov is the endgame. I want him last. I want him to watch everything fall apart around him. I want him to know it was me.
Yet, when I think of his face—his silence, his restraint—I wonder if I’ve already lost something I never meant to give.
Mateo steps back, the moment shifting, retreating.
“I’ll be around,” he says.
I nod again. I don’t watch him leave.
