Page 10 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
If I reach across the table—if I touched her now—she’d shake. Not from fear. From anticipation.
She doesn’t realize it yet, but I do. She was raised to obey. Taught to be beautiful and silent and useful, but she wants to be wanted.
God help me, I want her too.
Chapter Three - Kiera
The eggs are cold.
I haven’t touched anything on the plate, though the housekeeper brought it in half an hour ago, like clockwork. Poached eggs, toast I didn’t ask for, a slice of papaya arranged with surgical precision. The kind of breakfast meant for someone whose day is full of appointments and decisions.
Not someone waiting in silence.
The house feels bigger this morning. The quiet stretches too far, like a sheet pulled too tight over something broken. No footsteps in the hall. No phone calls in the next room. The staff tread light now. I think even they can feel it—the weight of disappointment hanging in the walls.
It’s been a week.
Seven days since that dinner. Since the soft clink of glassware and the low thrum of hidden music and the man across from me who didn’t blink when I said I didn’t want him. Since his voice—rough and unexpected—cut through the evening with words I still hear when I close my eyes.
“Have you ever been with a man?”
Tiago enters the dining room without warning, which he never used to do. He used to wait until I invited him. That, too, has shifted. Another thing I don’t control.
He sits across from me, and doesn’t reach for the food. Doesn’t meet my eyes.
“This was our only chance,” he says.
The words land flat. No anger in them. Not yet. Just something low and tight, threaded with guilt he won’t admit and blame he’s trying to lay at my feet without saying it out loud.
I don’t reply.
I wrap my fingers around the teacup instead, feel the heat leeching slowly into my skin. My jaw tightens, shoulders stiff. He doesn’t need to spell it out. I hear it loud and clear.
You failed.
Like this was a test I knew I was taking. Like I was supposed to win over a man who asked me about my virginity before he asked about my hobbies. Like all of this—the dress, the dinner, the nerves I tried to choke down like bad wine—was supposed to end with me smiling pretty and Maxim Sharov saying yes.
Tiago still hasn’t looked at me.
I glance at him once, sharp and short. His fingers tap against the table, impatient. He does that when he wants to yell but knows he shouldn’t.
“Did he say anything?” I ask quietly.
“No.”
That one word hits harder than I expect.
It shouldn’t. I told myself I didn’t want this. That I hoped he’d reject me. That being unwanted by a killer would somehow be a mercy.
I remember his eyes. The way he watched me. Not cruel, not soft, but deliberate. I remember the shape of his mouth when he said good, like my innocence meant something to him. I remember the silence that followed, thick with things I didn’t know how to name.
I also remember the weight of walking back into this house afterward—back into Tiago’s world of suits and strategy—and realizing that whatever passed between me and Maxim wasn’t enough to matter.
Tiago exhales, low and slow, then finally meets my gaze. “You could’ve tried harder.”
There it is, the accusation. The words hit like a slap across the face, though his tone never lifts. He says it like it’s fact. Like it was my job to charm the Bratva, and I failed.
“I wasn’t enough, is that it?” My voice is quieter than his, but it’s steadier.
