Page 77 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
She slips free from my grip like smoke, legs moving before I can react, her boots silent against the floor as she spins out of my reach. Her eyes are wild, mouth set in a tight line. Her chest rises and falls fast, but her hands don’t shake. She’s not breaking.
“Not bad,” I mutter through gritted teeth, flexing my injured arm as I stare at the blood dripping down to my wrist. The dagger wound stings, but it’s shallow. A warning more than anything. She could’ve done worse. Could’ve aimed for my throat or buried it deeper. She didn’t.
She’s holding back, and that makes me angrier than the pain.
She thinks this is still a game. Still believes she can outmaneuver me and live long enough to gloat about it. But I see it now—clear as glass. She’s not helpless. She never has been. She’s quick, ruthless, clever. I’ve been sleeping beside a snake, and I only felt the fangs now.
Her breath hitches. Her eyes shift. Her grip tightens, then slackens again. And in that split-second of restraint, I see something deeper. Something messier than strategy. She doesn’t want to end this. Not yet.
Before I can close the distance between us, she darts out of reach. One second she’s in front of me, the next she’s behind the desk, slamming through the office door. I lunge forward, but she moves like she’s memorized the layout of the room—every piece of furniture, every escape. The door swings shut, and I hear the lock snap into place.
I press my hand to the handle and twist. Locked. Of course.
I could break it. Kick it in. Tear the whole frame down with my bare hands.
I step back instead, chest heaving, the adrenaline still pumping through me like fire. My arm throbs where she cut me, and I curl my fingers into a fist, blood seeping between my knuckles.
There’s a grin creeping across my face that I can’t stop, teeth bared in something too close to amusement. She thinks she’s clever. Thinks she’s got distance on her side.
Let her run. Let her think she’s free, because this isn’t the end. It’s the beginning.
This is the part I enjoy. The chase.
She doesn’t know what she’s started—what she’s awoken in me. That smirk she gave before slipping the blade in? That was a mistake. Because now it’s personal.
Now it’s real.
She’s not getting away from me.
I stride back into the hall, ignoring the blood trail I leave behind. I don’t call for help. Don’t shout for guards. If I wantedher caught, she’d be on her knees by now. No, I want her to feel that victory for a little longer. Let it settle into her bones.
My steps echo down the marble hallway, and for the first time in weeks, the silence in this house feels right. A different kind of clarity settles in—cold, clean. She’s drawn blood. Betrayed me. Lied to my face, but she also looked at me like she couldn’t finish it. Like she didn’t want to.
That’s the part I can’t stop thinking about.
That flicker in her gaze. The heat behind her anger. The way her body trembled against mine—not just with fear. There was something else.
It’s still there, under her skin. I’ve seen it.
She didn’t run from me because she was afraid I’d kill her. She ran because she was afraid of what happens if she stays.
Staying means facing the part of her that wanted to hesitate. That wanted to keep me alive.
She thinks she’s a weapon. She thinks she’s immune, but I’ve broken stronger people with less.
So go, Kiera. Hide. Watch your back. Sleep with a knife under your pillow.
The silence is deeper now. The kind that settles in after a storm. I stand in the empty hallway, the taste of blood sharp on the back of my tongue, my arm still bleeding steadily beneath the sleeve. The pain grounds me. Reminds me this isn’t a dream. She really did it—stabbed me. Fought me. Locked the door and ran like a ghost into the dark.
I could’ve had her pinned again in seconds. Could’ve knocked her out, dragged her back, broken her piece by piece until she gave me every truth she’s been hiding. But I didn’t. I stepped back. Let her vanish into the night. Not because I’m merciful. Not because I’m weak.
Because I’m calculating. Because now I know what she is, and she knows I know.
The next time we meet, the mask will be gone. No more sweet smiles, no more feigned obedience. She’ll come armed with everything she’s got. But so will I. This little dance we’ve been doing—it’s over. What comes next isn’t seduction or slow corruption.
It’s war.
I start moving again, pace steady, my mind already turning over next steps. She’ll run to Tiago—where else would she go? He’s the only one who fits. I should’ve seen it sooner. The hesitations. The way she’d go quiet when certain names came up. I was so focused on her mouth, her body, the way she moaned in my bed—I forgot to watch her hands.
