Page 42 of Forced By the Obsessed Bratva

The kind of late where the world thinned out and silence crawled into the walls. And I couldn’t sleep.

Not that I’d tried.

The bed was too warm, my body too agitated, and my mind a tangle of chaotic breath and skin and memories I couldn’t shake off.

Rather than lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling endlessly, I paced the house barefoot, robe belted loosely at waist level, hair still wet from a shower I took earlier.

The marble floors were cold beneath my feet as I padded quietly along the hall, the only illumination the narrow strips of silver moonlight cutting through the darkness like knives.

I walked in a daze. Past the stairs, past the sitting room. Down the corridor beside the east garden, where the old roses still leaned their fragrance against the window.

And all along, I burned with a desire I didn’t dare to name.

Hours went by, and I’d told myself to forget everything. Matvey. His touch, his voice, his kiss. I’d reminded myself to just breathe, yet I couldn’t.

The heat from before still remained inside me, wound up in my stomach like a secret that I couldn’t get rid of. My fingertips still tingled with feelings, and the organ between my thighs still pulsed with need.

And worse, beneath all that ache and longing, Matvey was behind all of it. I’d fantasized about him all day, touched myself to the memory of his touch, yet it wasn’t enough.

I needed more.

I needed him.

God, what kind of woman was I?

What kind of woman would make herself come, lying on her enemy’s couch and imagining he was the one touching her? I was in his shirt, and I came with his name on my lips.

I hated myself for it.

I hated the part of me that still yearned for him despite the fact that I was not supposed to, and even now, as I walked through the empty hallway, I could feel him everywhere.

The ghost of his voice in my head.

The low rasp of it in the car.

The way he looked at me sometimes, like he was already beneath my skin and waiting for me to realize it.

My fingers tightened on the sash of my robe, blanching at the knuckles. I need to stop thinking of him or fantasizing about him. It was wrong. So fucking wrong.

He forced you into this,I reminded myself.He shattered everything.

And yet….

My chest heaved, shuddering and hot, and I braced one shoulder against the wall, pressing my temple against the cold marble, trying to put out the fire inside me.

But it only burned hotter.

I was coming apart, one breath at a time. And I couldn’t bring myself to stop.

I stopped in front of the mirror at the end of the east hall, one of those huge, old-fashioned things fastened in blackened gold, half-forgotten and half-dusted.

The image staring back at me wasn’t one I recognized.

My hair was tangled, my cheeks damp, and my eyes were wide—too wide, too wild. Like I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t have.

And maybe I’d really done something I shouldn’t have.

I pulled at the hem of the large T-shirt that was spread over me. Matvey’s. I should not have put it on again. Not after…previously.