Page 29 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
“To legacy,” the man says, his accent thick. “To bloodlines that hold, to alliances that last longer than memory.”
The room lifts their glasses. I follow, fingers wrapped around the stem of mine. The wine inside catches the candlelight: deep red, almost black in the glass.
I raise it to my lips, ready to sip, when Maxim leans in.
His breath brushes the shell of my ear. “The slit’s too high.”
I freeze. The words are low, casual in tone, but the heat they spark is immediate. My pulse jumps. I lower my glass before it touches my mouth and force a small smile, one that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” I murmur.
He doesn’t respond. Instead, I feel his hand slide beneath the tablecloth. Slow. Intentional.
His fingers graze the skin of my thigh—bare where the dress parts at the slit. He doesn’t grope, but his hands slide across my plush thighs.
One firm, measured pull at the fabric, dragging the hem lower inch by inch, until it covers what he’s decided it shouldn’t reveal. The movement is careful. Unhurried. Possessive.
Heat flares along my spine, blooming across my chest and down to where his fingertips linger. I grip my napkin tighter, jaw clenched, heart hammering. My instinct is to slap his hand away, to glare, to make a scene.
My body betrays me. A shiver travels through me, subtle but real.
His face remains composed, the mask of civility never slipping. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t acknowledge what he’s done.
To anyone watching, he’s the perfect fiancé—composed, dignified, unbothered.
I set my glass down carefully, afraid my fingers might betray the tremble building in them. The wine remains untouched. My appetite vanishes under the weight of his hand and the slow, creeping truth of what this dinner really is.
A performance. A lesson in belonging.
A reminder, too, that nothing about me—my skin, my voice, my dress—belongs to me alone anymore.
I try to focus. I nod when someone addresses me, even if I barely catch the thread of their words. A polite smile forms on instinct, and I let out a soft laugh at what I assume is the end of a joke. I’ve done this before—sat through dinners with strangers, played the well-mannered daughter of someone important. I know how to perform.
Except, something’s wrong.
A ripple of unease coils low in my stomach. Not nerves. Not embarrassment from Maxim’s hand under the table, though that still lingers on my skin like a brand. This is different. Thicker. Heavier.
I reach for my water, sip it slowly, trying to breathe through the discomfort. It doesn’t help. My mouth is dry. My tongue sticks slightly to the roof of my mouth. My fingers, curled around the glass, feel clammy.
Maybe it’s the lights: too warm, too golden. Or the air: thick with perfume and cigar smoke. Maybe it’s the weight of Darya’s stare, still burning across the table like a silent accusation.
My vision tips slightly. Not much., but just enough to make the edge of the chandelier blur.
I blink. Tighten my grip on the table’s edge.
Maxim moves the barest amount. A shift in posture, his head angled the slightest degree. I know he sees it—sees me—but he doesn’t say anything.
The nausea swells, violent and sudden.
I stand too fast. The chair scrapes behind me with a loud screech that splits the lull in conversation. Conversations stutter and taper off. Several heads turn.
“Excuse me,” I murmur, forcing the words past the dryness in my throat. I keep my eyes down, away from the weight of their stares. “I need a moment.”
No one stops me.
I walk—too fast, not fast enough. The room stretches around me, voices resuming behind me in a hushed ripple. I catch the sound of my own heartbeat thudding in my ears.
Down the corridor, my heels hit the polished floor harder than I intend, echoing in the otherwise silent hall. I turn the corner, my steps staggering now.
