Page 24 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
He looks at me.
Then he reaches for my wrist and pulls.
I barely have time to plant my heels before I’m moving. His hand is hot, tight around my skin, and he cuts a path through the crowd without glancing back. The music swells again, swallowing the commotion. I catch Esme’s face out of the corner of my eye—confused, calling my name—but shedisappears behind the blur of moving bodies as he pushes forward.
My voice rises. “What are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Maxim—stop.”
The club doors blast open, and we spill into the night. Cold air sweeps over my skin, sharp after the heat inside. My feet skid against the pavement as he drags me down a narrow alley beside the building, away from streetlights, away from eyes.
“Let go,” I snap, yanking my arm back.
He releases me, but it isn’t retreat. It’s calculation. He watches me like he’s measuring the space between us for something other than distance.
“You can’t break someone’s hand just for speaking to me,” I bite out.
His eyes narrow. “He touched what’s mine.”
My stomach flips. Not from fear. Not entirely. It’s rage. It’s heat. It’s the shock of being claimed like territory.
“I’m not yours,” I say. My voice shakes, but I force it steady. “We’re not married yet.”
He steps toward me. I step back. He keeps moving.
His coat shifts with the motion, his body cutting out the alley’s light. The walls feel narrower. My heart pounds hard enough that I can feel it in my throat.
“You wear my ring,” he says. “You belong to me.”
“You don’t own me.”
“I do.” His voice stays low, but it’s steel beneath the surface.
I back up until my spine meets the brick wall. He follows, not quite touching, but close enough that I feel the press of his control in the air.
He lifts a hand and brushes a strand of hair from my cheek.
“You don’t get to walk into places like that, dressed like this, and pretend you’re still unspoken for.”
My throat tightens. “Watch me,” I whisper.
His jaw clenches. “I am.”
He moves closer.
The space between us disappears inch by inch until my back meets the wall and his arms lift, bracing on either side of me. The alley is silent except for our breathing and the low pulse of bass still thudding from the club. His scent surrounds me—expensive, sharp, foreign. It clings to my skin like heat.
His eyes drop, slow and deliberate, trailing down the front of my body. To the hem of my dress.
The air thickens. “You wore this for attention?” he murmurs, voice quiet but heavy with warning. “Don’t wear it again.”
It’s not a suggestion it’s an order.
My breath catches. My mouth parts, but no sound comes at first. I want to yell at him, to shove him back, to spit something clever and cutting that will strip the calm from his face. I want to reclaim the night, the dress, the pieces of myself I’ve stitched back together.
The heat between us short-circuits everything.
