Page 46 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
Except that isn’t why my pulse hasn’t settled since I left her bed.
That isn’t why the image of her bruised, marked, and staring after me won’t leave my fucking mind.
I could’ve let her die. Could’ve used her death to justify war. Except, it wasn’t strategy that made me slit her uncle’s throat. It was rage.
Old, quiet, and personal.
The man who hurt her is gone. Blood pooled beneath the chair, his last breath stolen before he could beg for it. I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t make a speech. I didn’t offer him a chance to explain. I read the fear in his eyes and took him apart with the same hands that touched her the night before.
She doesn’t know yet, that he’s dead. She suspects torture, perhaps, but not death.
I saw it in her eyes this morning—the question she didn’t ask, the answer she already suspects.
When she finds out, she’ll hate me for it.
Maybe not forever. But for a while.
It doesn’t matter.
What matters is that she’s alive. That no one else will get close enough to try again. That the price of touching her has been set high enough that no one with a shred of self-preservation will risk it.
My men think I’m calm, controlled, the unshakable center of this empire.
I’m still at the window when Platon knocks once and enters, shutting the door behind him. He doesn’t speak right away—he never does unless he has to. That’s one reason I trust him.
He steps forward, carefully. “We traced the vial,” he says.
I turn, slowly. “And?”
“It was brought in through one of the kitchens, slipped in with the regular shipment from our supplier in Monterrey.” He pauses. “Her uncle didn’t work alone.”
I grind my molars. I already knew that, but hearing it confirmed lights something behind my ribs.
“Names,” I say.
Platon nods. “Two low-level cousins from the Vargas side. We’ve detained them. They’re at the south compound.”
“Do they know she’s alive?”
“No. We kept it quiet.”
Good. The fewer people who know, the fewer I have to kill before this is over.
I take a breath, steadying the pulse in my neck. “Interrogate them. Carefully. I want whoever gave the order.”
Platon hesitates. “And the girl?” My gaze sharpens. “She’s asking questions,” he continues. “One of the maids overheard. Wants to know where you are. If something’s wrong.”
A beat passes.
“She’s not stupid,” Platon adds, almost too quietly.
“No,” I murmur. “She’s not.”
He watches me carefully, then ventures, “Do you want me to tell her anything?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“She’ll figure it out.”
