Page 18 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
I draw in a breath that snags halfway down. The instinct is to scream, but I won’t give them that. I won’t stand here shaking and desperate with my fists against the door. That’s what they want. That’s what they expect from the girl with the soft voice and the shiny dress. The girl no one thought to warn.
I step back. Close my eyes. Let the air expand my lungs.Think, Kiera. You’ve survived worse.
I turn from the door and make my way across the room. The vanity mirror catches my reflection as I pass. I pause.
Pale face. Wide eyes. My hair is flattened on one side, wild on the other. My shoulders are bare. The slip clings to my skin.
I sit carefully, fingers reaching toward my temple. Slowly, I extract a single bobby pin, working it free without tugging. The metal is matte black, thin enough to vanish into my hairline. I hold it up between two fingers.
It’s nothing. Insignificant. Until you need it.
I bend it once, test its give. It’ll bend. It’ll work.
My pulse pounds in my ears again, but this time I don’t let it shake me. I move back to the door, drop to my knees, and press my ear against the wood. Nothing. No footsteps. No voices. I crouch lower, eye level with the lock.
The bobby pin trembles in my hand.
I steady it.
My fingers find the seam of the keyhole. I’ve never done this, but I’ve seen it enough. Quick fingers. Pressure. Listen for the catch.
I turn my wrist slowly, feeling the pin catch, slip, catch again. I twist, then ease off, then twist again.
Seconds pass. My breath comes shallow now, but I don’t stop.
Then there it is. A soft click, the tiniest sound in the world. It might as well be thunder.
The breath leaves me in a shaky rush, shoulders slumping with the sound. That one click—that one tiny shift of metal—means everything.
One step. Just one step between me and whatever waits beyond that door.
I press my ear to the wood again, straining for the faintest sound. A guard shifting his weight. A murmur of voices. The creak of boots on polished floors. Anything.
There’s nothing. Only silence. It wraps around me like fog, too thick to see through. I’d prefer noise—yelling, footsteps, alarms. At least that would mean someone was paying attention. At least then I’d know where they were.
This kind of silence? It’s calculated. The kind that waits for you to move first.
My fingers rest against the knob, hovering. Not twisting. Not turning. Not yet.
My pulse races. Is this a test?
Is someone watching through a hidden camera, waiting to see what I’ll do next? Will the door swing open into a corridor lined with guns and men in black, all of them smiling like they’ve been waiting for the little rabbit to bolt?
Maybe, but fairy tales don’t happen for girls like me.
No one’s coming to save me. No prince. No brother. Not even the man who put a ring in a velvet box and sent it to my doorstep.
If I want out, I have to earn it.
Delicate things survive by being sharp. You were made for this.
My bare feet settle back against the cold stone. The floor bites at my skin, sharp enough to remind me I’m still here, still real. The bobby pin stays tight in my palm, bent and humming with purpose. I could throw it away, but I don’t.
I might need it again.
I take one step back from the door, eyes still locked on the handle. My body coils, breath shallow, every part of me tuned to the next decision.
Without allowing myself time to overthink, I run; and I keep running, lungs aching, until I smack into something tall and hard.
