Page 70 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
Now I’m unraveling. One thread at a time.
I shift in my seat, arms crossed tight, nails biting into my skin again.
Maxim exhales through his nose. I can feel the way he wants to say something—how he keeps starting to breathe like words are coming—but then stopping.
By the time we reach the estate, the sky has turned violet and low, and the gates pull open like they’ve been waiting for us. I stare straight ahead as we roll up the drive, pretending I’m not made of brittle glass.
He parks, but neither of us moves. We sit in that silence, shoulder to shoulder, hearts still caged.
Chapter Twenty-Two - Maxim
The ballroom pulses with low laughter and clinking glasses, the scent of money and menace soaked into every corner. Men in tailored suits drift like sharks in still water, all teeth hidden behind polished smiles. Their wives and mistresses hang off their arms like jewelry. Cigar smoke curls through the chandelier light, gilding the air in something sour and expensive.
I know this world. I helped build it.
I shake hands with men I wouldn’t piss on if they were burning. Smile at sons of traitors who would sell their own blood for power. The orchestra plays some lazy jazz number beneath the din, but no one’s really listening. Everyone here’s too busy posturing, measuring, slipping deals into the cracks between words.
I should be doing the same, but my eyes keep finding her.
Kiera.
She’s across the room, haloed in warm light and silk, a dark red dress hugging every inch of her like it was cut from sin and stitched into temptation. Her hair’s up, neck bare, the slope of her shoulders sharp and gleaming. That mouth—painted to match the dress—curves around a champagne flute like it’s a promise.
She’s talking to someone. Laughing, even. That laugh I’ve started to memorize. That smile she wears like armor. Easy. Practiced. Polished to a shine.
I know it’s a performance. I trained her in this, even if she doesn’t realize it.
When the man beside her leans too close, when his eyes linger on her hips for a moment longer than necessary, something sharp coils in my gut.
Possession. Jealousy. I hate both words. I hate that I care.
I shift the weight of my glass in my hand, jaw tightening. My tie feels too tight, my skin too hot beneath the collar. I’ve bled for this life. I’ve killed to keep it clean. But tonight, I feel off-balance, one step behind my own instincts, and all because of her.
She meets my gaze from across the room.
Not by accident. Slow. Measured. A deliberate act of knowing. She knows what she’s doing to me.
Her eyes flick down my body, then back up, unhurried. Like she’s taking stock. Like she owns the right to. When the corner of her mouth lifts—barely—it’s not a smile. It’s a challenge.
My fingers tighten around the glass.
This woman will be my ruin. Worse: I think I’ll let her be.
I’m still mulling it over when Volkov finds me near the far end of the ballroom, where the crowd thins and the music softens. The man always moves like he belongs in every room—shoulders back, coat tailored within an inch of its thread—but tonight there’s a different weight to the way he approaches. Intentional. Measured.
“Maxim,” he says, reaching out to clasp my hand. His grip is firm. Firmer than usual.
I don’t let it show, but I feel it. That quiet shift. A ripple in calm waters.
“Gregory Volkov,” I return, voice low. Controlled. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Thought you were still overseas.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Business brought me back early. Good timing, I think.”
The last word lands too neatly. He steps closer, casually now, glass of something amber swirling between his fingers.
“I’ve been meaning to speak with you,” he says. “Something came across my desk the other day. A shared holding—minor, nothing flashy, but I couldn’t help noticing your name attached to it. Surprised me.”
My brow lifts. “Which holding?”
