Page 17 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
The ring box.
My stomach turns.
I throw the sheets off and swing my legs to the floor. My bare feet touch cool stone. My knees feel too loose beneath me, muscles still caught between dream and threat. I push up anyway. I don’t care that I’m only wearing a slip. I don’t care that my hair is tangled or my heart’s beating fast enough to choke me.
I need to move. I need to understand.
The silence hums, thick and total. I can’t hear any footsteps, or anything at all. It’s just me and this gilded cage.
I don’t know where I am, but I know whose house this is. Maxim’s.
I move fast, legs shaky beneath me, breath catching with each step. The curtains are thick velvet, too heavy to push aside with one hand. I grab both panels and pull. The fabric resists at first, then gives way with a low hiss, spilling open.
Darkness stares back at me.
No streetlights. No traffic. No skyline. Just open land—flat and endless, maybe forest, maybe fields. It’s hard to tell through the black, but there are no lights out there. No signs of movement. No life.
My breath shortens.
I press my palm to the glass. It’s cold. Thicker than it should be. Reinforced. The kind of window meant to keep things in—or out.
The panic rises so fast it catches me off guard. I step back, eyes scanning the room now with purpose.
This isn’t a bedroom in a house. It’s a display.
Every piece of furniture gleams. The bedding is flawless. The curtains hang without a single wrinkle. There’s nothinghuman here. Nothing warm. No clutter or books. No personal items. Not even a clock.
Time has been stripped from me.
There’s no escape.
I kneel by the bedside table, fingers trembling slightly as I slide it open.
Inside: a bottle of water, sealed. A glass. Folded pajamas in ivory cotton, pressed and lined with care. A comb. Nothing sharp. Nothing accidental.
Everything in place. Everything deliberate.
There’s a chair by the fireplace. It hasn’t been used, but the wood is stacked, dry and waiting. Even the matches are aligned on the mantel. A fire could be lit in seconds.
I turn a slow circle. Someone prepared this for me.
My chest tightens. I’m not locked in a cell. I’m being dressed in velvet, handed water, and tucked into silk sheets, but it’s still a cage. The softness doesn’t change that.
I stare at the door. The light seeping under is the only break in the perfection. The only unknown.
My pulse thrums in my ears. I take one step forward, then another.
If this is a game, someone’s waiting to see what I do next.
I reach for the handle and twist. It doesn’t budge. No give. No resistance. Just a dull, final thud against the frame, the kind of sound that settles in your chest before your ears catch up.
I try again, slower this time, as if I might’ve missed something the first time. But it’s the same. Solid. Unyielding. The lock is engaged from the outside.
My throat tightens.
This isn’t ceremonial. This isn’t political theatre, some high-stakes drama Tiago staged to bluff the Bratva. This is real. Cold and deliberate.
They’ve locked me in.
