Page 11 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #13)
I stand outside the hospital room, arms crossed tight over my chest, jaw clenched until the muscle aches. The corridor hums with a low, sterile buzz—overhead lights too bright, linoleum too clean, the air reeking of antiseptic and quiet desperation.
My body is still, but every nerve feels stretched thin. Coiled. Waiting.
The doctor steps forward, face grim behind her mask. Her voice is professional, clipped, but not detached.
“There were traces of tetrachlorine in her system,” she says. “A rare compound. Not easy to get. Slipped into food or drink, most likely during breakfast. It builds slowly, then overwhelms the body. We caught it early, but…” She trails off, eyes flicking toward the door. “She’s stable, for now.”
My blood turns cold. She ate and drank under my protection. In a home meant to be safe.
Rage simmers beneath the surface. I keep it buried.
I turn my head slowly. Tiago stands near the far wall, stiff in his suit, knuckles pale around the phone he hasn’t checked in ten minutes. When my eyes land on him, he straightens.
“She was poisoned,” I say, voice like ice cracking. “Under my watch.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Then: “I didn’t know.” Shame flickers across his face—quick, raw. “There are people in the family,” he adds, lower now, “who were never in favor of this union. They tolerated the idea, but loyalty has… cracks.”
A bitter truth. Someone from within the Ortega name tried to kill her.
It sends a message. An attack on her. On me. On the alliance we never asked for.
“Then give me a name,” I say, each word carefully drawn. “Or I’ll find one myself.”
Tiago’s jaw shifts. “I’ll handle it.”
I stare at him, unmoving. I don’t trust him, not anymore.
When I turn to the hospital room, through the glass, I see her.
She’s curled into the crisp white of the hospital bed, skin nearly the same shade as the sheets. Shadows bloom under her eyes, bruises that weren’t there yesterday. The IV taped to her arm feeds her slowly, steadily, like she’s being rebuilt molecule by molecule.
She looks small. Too still.
Beside her, Mateo sits in a low chair, leaning close, speaking softly. His expression is calm, brows drawn in quiet concern. She smiles at something he says—faint, fleeting, but real.
Something twists in my chest. I push the door open, gaze locked on her.
The doctor looks up, startled. She begins to speak, but I don’t break stride.
“When can she leave?” I ask, voice even.
The doctor hesitates. “She’s stable. Weak, but recovering. If there’s someone to monitor her—today is possible.”
I nod once, then shift my focus to Kiera.
She watches me, lids heavy, mouth parted as if halfway to a question. Her gaze is glassy but alert. She’s still pale. Still trembling faintly under the covers.
“You’re coming with me,” I say.
The words leave no space for argument.
Tiago steps forward. “Maxim, wait. We’ve upgraded estate security. I’ve tripled the guards—”
“She’s not safe there.” I don’t look at him. “So she’s coming home.”
Silence folds in, and no one pushes back.
Kiera doesn’t resist. She blinks once, then shifts the covers back, her hands slow and unsteady. Mateo helps her sit up, his touch gentle. I move to her side before he can do more.
I reach for her hand. My grip is firm. Final.
She lets me take it.
***
Silence fills the car, thick and unbroken.
Rain pelts the windows in a constant hiss, soft but relentless. It blurs the outside world into streaks of gray and green, the trees bending and bleeding into one another with every flash of water across the glass. The sky is a low, churning sheet of charcoal, thunder rolling far off and steady.
Kiera sits beside me, legs drawn slightly toward the door, wrapped in the blanket the nurse had pressed into her hands before we left. She hasn’t spoken since we walked out of the hospital. Her breathing is quiet, even—but the tension rolls off her in waves.
She’s waiting for something. Anything.
“Am I really staying with you?” she asks finally. Her voice is soft, barely audible under the sound of the rain.
I keep my eyes on the road. My grip on the wheel tightens.
“Yes.”
That one word sits heavy in the air. It’s not up for debate.
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t argue.
I could leave it there, but something in me stirs—sharp and restless. “You won’t share my bed,” I add, voice even. “Not yet. When we marry, you will.”
I see her blink, head turning fractionally toward me, though she doesn’t speak.
Then quieter, more to myself than to her, I say, “It won’t be long.”
Her body tenses. I feel it more than see it—the way her shoulders draw in, the way she shifts subtly toward the window.
She doesn’t yell. Doesn’t protest. That silence does something else entirely.
The engine hums, smooth beneath my hands.
My knuckles stay white on the leather wheel.
I don’t know why I said that. I meant it, but not like this.
Not in this car, not with her still pale from poison, her lips cracked from dehydration.
Something in me can’t help it—can’t stop testing where her edges are, can’t stop marking the space between us.
Thunder cracks overhead. A sharp, sudden whip of sound.
The rain thickens, hammering down harder. Visibility drops, headlights barely slicing through the sheet of water now coming in waves. The road curves up ahead, narrowed by tall pine and slick asphalt.
I pull over.
Careful. Precise. The tires cut a clean path into the mud at the shoulder. Headlights cast wide, shuddering arcs across the drenched roadside, catching leaves and puddles, the occasional glint of reflective markers.
The car settles. The wipers keep moving.
She doesn’t speak again. Her gaze is still on the window, but I can feel the way her attention shifts—curious, uncertain, watching me in the reflection of the glass. Her profile is lit by the dash, soft and haunted.
I watch her hands move beneath the blanket, fingers curling slightly at the hem. She’s scared, but she’s not fragile.
That matters more than anything else.
Nothing—not bloodlines, not poison, not even her fear—will change that.
Inside the car, the air feels thick. Not hot, but heavy. Every breath drawn feels measured, deliberate. Outside, the rain pours in sheets, crashing against the windshield and roof so hard it swallows every other sound.
Kiera stares out the window, her eyes distant. Her reflection shimmers faintly in the glass, soft-edged and distorted. The lights from the dash cast a gentle glow across her features—too pale, still. Her lips are slightly parted, her breath fogging the pane as the seconds drag on.
I study her.
The curve of her mouth. The shadow beneath her cheekbone. The bruised, almost fragile edge to her beauty tonight. She looks worn, stripped of every defense she’s ever worn around me. It does something to me—scrapes something raw inside my chest.
She could’ve died.
The thought lands harder now, with her this close.
“You were lucky,” I say.
The words come quiet, unexpected even to my own ears.
She turns her head, finally meeting my gaze. Her eyes are tired, but sharp. The kind of sharp you get from knowing there’s no safe place left to hide.
“Doesn’t feel like it,” she murmurs.
The corners of my mouth twitch, but the smile never forms. Her voice isn’t angry. Just honest. That honesty cuts deeper than any accusation might have.
I don’t move, but something in me coils, something tense and aching. My presence must press against her in waves, even if I stay perfectly still.
She must feel it, because the space between us tightens.
The silence pulses.
It grows heavier with every breath she takes, thick with everything we’re not saying. With everything she doesn’t understand yet—and everything I already do.
I watch her chest rise, then fall. Slower now. Her gaze flicks to my mouth, then away.
The weight of wanting surges up, ugly and hot and all-consuming. It moves through me with precision, tightening every muscle, locking me in place. My fingers curl against my thigh. My jaw clenches.
I could reach for her. Could drag her into the heat already simmering between us and watch her unravel all over again.
Instead I sit still, eyes locked on her face, heart a slow, heavy thud behind my ribs.