Page 71 of Forbidden Bratva Virgin

Him for me, and me for him.

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It was exactly a week since the scare with Alina, and Miron had been resting well these past few days, though he’d never admit it was because I insisted on taking care of him. He didn’t need much; the man was as strong and stubborn as a mule.

But I found comfort in tending to him, making sure he ate, ensuring his bandages were fresh, watching over him even when he teased me for fussing. He didn’t push me away. I knew he enjoyed my presence, even if he only showed it in quiet moments, in the way his fingers lingered on mine when I handed him a cup of tea, in the rare softness in his gaze before he looked away.

A day after he was cleared and discharged from the hospital, Miron asked me to move in with him, to his actual house and not the penthouse. I said yes, and found it oddly comforting sharing the space with him. It felt more intimate than the steamy nights we enjoyed.

Tonight, though, I found myself alone in his empty bedroom, the sheets still warm from where he had been resting. His absence tugged at me like that damn drawstring, even though I knew where he was: in his study, speaking with Damir.

I slipped from the room, moving carefully through the dimly lit hallway. Did I say Miron’s house was an actual mansion? Oh, it was. He made Damir give me a grand tour, and I fell more in love with every décor and design as the days went by. Though cold, it felt like home.

The external structure stood like a fortress of quiet power with a dark stone façade. Tall, arched windows gleamed under the moonlight, framed by sleek black ironwork and tinted glass.

A long, curved driveway led to massive double doors of polished ebony, carved with intricate details.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of leather and aged whiskey. The grand foyer boasted a sweeping staircase with wrought-iron railings. A chandelier of black crystal hung above, releasing fractured light onto the marble floors, dark-veined and cool underfoot.

The master bedroom, the one we shared, was both indulgent and understated. A king-sized bed with dark silk sheets stood against a backdrop of shadowy grays and deep blues, the colors of midnight and his sexy eyes. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city below. Standing close enough and gazing through made me feel like one of those Disney princesses. Only difference was, my Prince Charming was in the Mafia.

Damn. I was living the dream.

About the living room? It was a masterpiece of restrained luxury with deep, tufted sofas in shades of charcoal and espresso, a grand fireplace framed in onyx, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with first editions and relics of a life lived in power. A sleek bar stood in the kitchen, stocked with the finest scotch, cognac, imported cigars, and a bunch of other stuff I didn’t know.

The study was his sanctuary. I’d seen it yesterday and, knowing he was there, drew my feet toward it. I couldn’t help it; I missed him.

The door to the study was slightly ajar, and I hesitated just outside. Dark wood paneling lined the walls while a massive mahogany desk dominated the space. A single gun rested in a glass case behind him. A leather chair, worn from late nights, sat before a wall of monitors displaying security feeds, ensuring that nothing within these walls escaped his gaze.

Miron’s voice was sharp and audible enough for me to hear a large scoop of his conversation with Damir.

“What do we do with her? She’s too dangerous and unstable to simply let go.”

Alina. My stomach twisted.

“Remember Ivanova? She comes from power and a strong Russian background. This could get complicated. I know you have thePakhan’sblessing, but there is no way he will agree to you starting a war,” Damir answered, barely seething like Miron. He played with a rubber ball and busied himself with it while his boss paced the room.

Miron leaned against his desk and drew his lip between his teeth, like he was considering something.

“I don’t care how complicated it is. I want her to suffer.”

My breath caught. Honestly, I could stand there and watch him all night, but the man was drawing up strategies for murder. I had to intervene somehow. I stepped back, my fingers gripping the doorframe to steady myself. This was the side of Miron I knew existed but rarely saw so clearly: the cold, ruthless part of him, the man who carried vengeance in his veins as easily as breath.

But I’d accepted him and the baggage that accompanied living this reality, hadn’t I?

Still, my heart ached for him. I wanted to go to him, to pull him from the dark, to remind him that revenge wouldn’t heal the wounds that still bled beneath his skin. But I knew better than to step inside that room now.

Instead, I turned, retreating quietly.

Tomorrow, perhaps, I would remind him that there was still warmth to be found. That no matter how much the past demanded retribution, he didn’t have to let it consume him whole.

I was almost past earshot when I heard him suggest taking her to some underground prison and leaving her there until her father found her corpse, and my heart couldn’t take it. I rushed back, pushing the door open with urgency.

As I stepped into the room, Miron and Damir turned to me. “Baby, what are you—”

“Before that gunshot, you asked her to leave,” I said softly, holding Miron’s gaze as I walked up to him slowly. “I know you did it because of me, but you did it, nonetheless. So, please, let her go.”

“You’re joking, right? Maybe you don’t understand; Alina wouldn’t have hesitated to blow your brains out if I didn’t show up.”

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