Page 13 of Forced By the Obsessed Bratva (Yezhov Bratva #8)

The cue ball struck the cluster with a sharp, satisfying crack. Two solids dropped, one into the corner pocket, one into the side, and Eduard whistled low under his breath as he leaned against the side of the table.

“You always swing like a guy who hasn’t gotten laid in weeks,” he said, grinning. “It makes me nervous.”

“Could be he’s just that competitive,” Isaak replied, nimbly juggling a glass in his hand. “Or maybe marriage has him in a tight bind.”

The others laughed. Rurik did not.

He was sitting by the window, quiet as he had been the past few days, a glass of dark alcohol nestled in his palm. He had spoken little since the funeral. Since her.

Isaak had won the previous three games. He barely even tried. Always smirking.

Eduard was as boisterous as ever, his voice rising above the music that poured from the speakers in the corner, cracking jokes that would soon be forgotten by everyone.

It was supposed to be a diversion, or so I told myself. Allow the boys to let off steam, keep morale up, and pretend we were not walking a tightrope between alliance and betrayal every damn day.

It worked for the most part.

For everyone except me.

I stood ten paces back from the table, cue in hand, gazing at the red glow of embers in the ashtray, and marveling at how quiet the east wing had been lately.

Regarding how quiet she had been.

Ten days.

Ten days since the wedding.

For ten days, I watched her slip around the house like a ghost, always dodging my attention, answering with little more than one-word responses, and practicing a politeness that made her iciness appear to be my own shortcoming.

She did not speak loudly.

Hadn’t cried.

But she hadn’t looked at me either. Not once since the night we got back from dinner with the family.

And still, even while I was with the men I trusted with my life, I bore the weight of that silence as if stitched into the cloth of my soul.

Eduard lined up his next shot. “My cousin married a Serbian girl last year,” he said, taking his time to aim. “She wouldn’t stop crying the first week. She locked herself in the bathroom and hardly ate. It took him nearly a month for her to settle.”

Isaak raised an eyebrow. “Sounds romantic.”

“She’s happy now.” Eduard shrugged. “At least she quit throwing things.”

The room laughed again.

I didn’t.

Rurik glanced at me and shook his head.

Eduard rested his elbows on the table, his voice casual. “How’s your girl, Matvey?” he asked, raising his voice just enough to carry across the table. “Is she warming up to you yet?”

Isaak’s eyebrow rose. “Watch out. I believe his hold on that cue is beginning to tighten.”

I remained silent.

Eduard missed the cue. “I mean, ten days, okay? How long does it take to melt a girl like that?

“Depends,” Isaak muttered, looking down. “Some girls melt, and others burn the place down.”

“Or cut your throat while you sleep,” Rurik put in, as dry as the grave his wife was buried in. Dude’s been a wreck since Yulia passed away. I was pretty sure someone needed to commit the guy to a mental hospital or something.

That one silenced the room for just a breath.

Eduard burst out laughing. “Christ, Rurik. You’ve always been the maniac of the family.”

I put the cue back on the rack and fixed my jacket, unwilling to indulge in any conversation about Zoella. She was mine; our life together was nobody’s business. “I’m stepping out.”

“Already?” Isaak rose slightly. “The night’s still young.”

“So are you. Complete your round.” I did not wait to hear their reply before rising to my feet and leaving.

I didn’t have to.

I walked down the hall, my footsteps ringing loudly on the marble floor. The heaviness in my chest had accompanied me from the table. It had been accompanying me for the last ten days.

I would have gone to the study, perhaps the gym, or even the armory—any place that would help me shed this excess energy.

Instead, I pulled my phone from the jacket pocket, swiped, and opened the locked app.

The surveillance feed came on in grayscale.

My jaw tightened before I even looked at her.

She was not in our bedroom.

I scrolled to another feed. The hallway lay empty as if no one lived in the damn house. Then I scrolled to the side corridor, and then the library.

There she was.

Sprawled across the couch like she’d forgotten the world outside existed.

Her hair, damp from the shower, clung to her cheek in wet waves. One of my shirts was draped over her body—too large for her, the sleeves falling off her shoulders, the hem riding dangerously high on her thighs.

She was barefoot.

I thought at first that she was sleeping. Maybe reading again. Maybe trying to find solace in a house she hadn’t yet claimed as her own.

There was a quietness about her that wasn’t peaceful or calm. It was the stillness of someone waiting to explode.

My thumb hovered above the screen, and for a moment, I did not think like a second-in-command. Or a husband.

I felt like a man who missed the sound of her voice.

The weight of her stare.

The way she gazed at me when our lips first met, as if she despised the strength of feeling it provoked in her.

I remained still, watching her, realizing for the first time how much I truly loved being around her. Christ, I really fucking missed her.

And then her hand moved.

It wasn’t restless or bored; it moved with purpose. Her fingers wandered lazily over her belly, tracing slow, sensual lines. And then lower.

Her thighs moved, and her breath caught.

She had no idea that I was watching her.

And I knew I ought to have turned away. Cut it off. Let her have this.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

My pulse kicked hard as her hand lingered on her inner thigh, gentle, questing, and then her hips shifted slightly enough.

She leaned her head back, her eyes gently closing, and a gasp escaped her lips, the softest sound.

It was barely a moan, but it ripped through me like a gunshot. It was a want she hadn’t uttered in ten days.

I gripped the phone tighter.

That sound…it wasn’t for anyone. Not even for me, but now it was mine, anyway.

Because I’d heard it.

Because I couldn’t unhear it.

The vision of her, wrapped in my shirt, one hand tracing a path between her thighs as her head fell back in my living room, seared itself into my brain, and something inside me snapped taut.

It wasn’t anger or lust; it was something passionate and intense. Something fiercer than the sharp edges of a knife and fire.

Something way worse than dark desire.

Possession.

Mine.

She may hate me. She may avoid me. She may spend all her waking moments pretending that she didn’t want me.

But that one moment wasn’t a lie. This moment was her in her realest form. Unfiltered and unguarded.

It drove me fucking insane.

I remained still.

Remained quiet.

Just leaned against the wall, phone grasped firmly in my hand, knuckles white with suspense.

The screen was still radiant in my hand, and on her.

She sat in my shirt on my couch, breathing like sin itself dwelled under her flesh. The line of her hips moved again, and my gaze tracked the cadence. Slow, irregular. She was restless —not merely with desire, but hunger. Each movement cried out hunger.

A desire she hadn’t even dared to name, not even to herself.

But I knew what it was.

I’d put it there.

I had planted it like a fuse.

Every silence that I gave, every touch I didn’t give her, every look that lingered and then left her empty. I’d carved the want into her one breath at a time.

And now she was burning in it. Now, she found herself surrounded by the flames.

She arched her body barely, her hands grasping for the hem of my shirt as if she could cling to it—had to cling to it in some way to feel me. Her thighs tightened, and her mouth opened.

And just before she came, she pressed her face into the fabric.

Into me.

She inhaled my scent, clinging to my shirt as if unaware of what she was doing, and that was it.

In that instant, a subtle change stirred within my chest.

It was neither love nor pain.

She was mine, and I needed to claim her.

My body was hot now—not flushed, not shaken, but wired. Coiled. Tight with heat that vibrated straight through me.

I didn’t smile. Not quite. But the corner of my mouth curled slightly.

I set the phone down slowly, her face burning into the back of my eyes like a branding iron. My thumb rested on the screen for a moment before it blacked out.

I squared my shoulders, cracking my jaw and evening out my breathing. Every inch of me was burning for her like a volcano about to erupt despite my grip on self-control.

And inside, a lethal realization hit me.

The waiting was over.

She was ready.

And this time, I wasn’t going to hold back.