Page 37 of Forced By the Obsessed Bratva

I sat tense and bristling beside Matvey, arms crossed hard over my stomach as though I could hold all the churning things inside. I was reciting Isaak’s words in my mind over and over, reading every meaning I could into what he said and how he said them. The half-smile when he mentioned Yulia deserving better, and the way he’d simply turned his back on me when I demanded explanations. As though it meant nothing.

But it meant everything.

I watched the side of Matvey’s face in the low amber glow from the dashboard. He looked carved from something ancient—all shadow and steel, the flick of passing headlights catching the stubble along his jaw.

I kept searching for something in his posture. Guilt, maybe. Or lies. Or some flicker of truth. I did not notice any of those.

All I found was coldness, followed by heat.

It started as a tightness low in my belly, winding inside me like an unpleasant thought I couldn’t shake. Every time I looked at him, it clenched tighter from the sound of his voice from before, the darkening of his eyes when he broke glass without flinching, and how his hand had bled steadily afterward.

And then—

“Keep looking at me like that, little bride,” he said, staring ahead, his voice a gravelly growl. “And I’ll make this car pull over.”

My breath caught mid-thought.

And heat rushed up my neck, burning my ears, my throat, my everything.

I swiftly turned my head, my eyes darting to the window, and my heart pounding as if I had been caught doing something I shouldn’t.

My cheeks burned with embarrassment, and I despised it. I despised him. But most of all, I despised myself. Because I couldn’t determine if the tension building within me was fear or something far more sinister. Something dangerous.

By the time we arrived at the estate, I couldn’t help but evade his eyes. And naturally, he didn’t even look at me.

He was the first to leave the car, saying nothing.

We stepped inside the mansion together, enveloped by total silence.

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

Every step I took echoed off the marble floors. I followed him up the stairs, my heart still thudding for reasons I couldn’t even begin to tell myself.

By the time we got to the bedroom, he had peeled off his jacket and undone his tie. He looked unruffled and calm, as if nothing had ever moved him and nothing would ever dare to.

Not Yakov.

And definitely not me.

I stood against the wall of the room, holding onto the hem of my dress as if it were a shield. I told myself I was fine. That I was stronger than this, and he wouldn’t touch me without my permission.

I knew he wouldn’t.

Yet I couldn’t help wishing he would come close enough for me to inhale the smell of cedarwood and whiskey that was his signature scent.

I couldn’t help but think of the way his rough hands grabbed my wrist yesterday and the huskiness in his voice when he whispered to me.

A pool of wetness formed between my legs just remembering the way his lips had grazed my ear last night, and how my body had betrayed me.

He excused himself to the restroom, and I remained there, cold and exposed, as I attempted to get away from myself once again.

When he returned, wearing sweatpants and a towel slung over his shoulder, he did not say a word. He just walked over to the bed, pulled back the covers, and got in, ignoring my presence, like he hadn’t just kissed me stupid last night and then left me burning.

Like I wasn’t important.

And somehow…it hurt more than anything.

I stood there for another minute, maybe more, just waiting. For what, exactly? A glance? A threat? A command?