Page 12 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #13)

The bed isn’t mine.

That’s the first thing I know when I wake up. The sheets are stiff, too smooth. The air smells like cedar and something sharper underneath—sterile, expensive. There’s no warmth here. No softness. Just silence. Heavy, deliberate silence, like the room’s holding its breath.

I sit up slowly. My pajamas cling to my skin, creased and unfamiliar. Across the room, my suitcase stands against the wall, untouched but definitely moved. Someone brought it in. While I was sleeping. They didn’t wake me.

A shiver crawls down my back.

I stay on the edge of the bed for a long time, hands in my lap, bare feet pressed to the cool floor.

I don’t know what the rules are here. I don’t know if I’m supposed to wait in this room, or if he expects me to wander.

I don’t even know if he’s here. Everything about this house feels like him—quiet, controlled, watching without being seen.

Eventually, my stomach turns on me. Hunger cuts through the haze. I get to my feet.

The hallway outside is dim, lit by soft sconces that cast long shadows over dark wooden panels.

The floor is silent under me, muffled and clean.

Each door I pass is shut, seamless against the walls.

No signs of life, but I know better. I’m being watched.

I can feel it in the way the air presses close to my skin.

I don’t know where I’m going. There’s no map for this place, no guide. Every inch feels like a trap that hasn’t been sprung.

A framed painting hangs at the end of the hall—something abstract, jagged streaks of red and black. In its glass, I catch my reflection.

I barely recognize the girl staring back.

My hair’s a mess. My face looks pale under the hallway light. There’s tension in my mouth, in the tight set of my shoulders. I look like someone who doesn’t belong here. Like someone who wandered too far into a place that doesn’t welcome softness.

I look like prey.

I turn away. The hall goes on. The house is endless—steel and wood and cold, masculine precision. Every part of it feels like a locked door, and I don’t have the keys.

I press my palm to the wall for balance. My fingers are cold. My pulse won’t settle.

I don’t know where he is. I don’t know when I’ll see him.

I know this: I’m not the same girl who walked into that meeting room last week. Whatever this house wants to make of me, whatever he wants to shape me into—I won’t break easy.

When I find it, the study door is heavy, almost too large to push open, but I manage it with a quiet shove.

Inside, the room swallows me whole—dark wood panels rise like walls of a fortress, and the low light flickers from an antique lamp on the desk, casting shadows that stretch like fingers over the floor.

It smells faintly of leather and smoke, something old and solid, like history pressing down on the air.

Bookshelves crowd the walls, heavy with thick law tomes, leather-bound Russian volumes with gilded titles, and stacks of papers so neat they look like tiny, frozen storms. The place feels alive with meaning—controlled chaos curated by a man who demands order, yet allows secrets to pile up like trophies.

I move slowly, fingers brushing the spines of the books, feeling the texture of cracked leather and brittle pages. My eyes catch something at the far corner of the room: a small, framed photo perched on a shelf, half hidden behind a stack of documents.

Curiosity pulls me closer.

It’s a faded picture—Maxim as a boy, no older than eight or nine, standing between a slightly older Andrei and a younger woman with pale skin and soft eyes. Darya. Their smiles are genuine, laughter caught midair, the kind of warmth that seems almost impossible here.

For a heartbeat, I’m startled by how human he looks. How soft. How far this image is from the cold man I’ve come to know. I stare longer, tracing the lines of his face in the photograph, willing myself to believe there’s still some trace of that boy beneath the hard shell.

A voice cuts through the silence behind me.

“Are you snooping?”

I jump, heart hammering. I hadn’t heard him come in. My breath catches as I spin around.

He’s leaning in the doorway, arms folded over a lean chest. His eyes—piercing, unreadable—lock on to mine with an intensity that makes me freeze. There’s no anger in them, no surprise. Just weight. A heavy kind of knowing.

“Just looking,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. I want to shrink away, but something in his gaze pins me in place.

He takes a step forward, the shadows shifting as he moves. “You’re allowed to look. Just not too close.”

The words linger between us, but it’s his eyes that hold meaning: sharp, calculated, and somehow more dangerous than anything he’s said.

I wonder if he means the photo. The boy in the frame who smiles so freely.

Or if he means himself—the man standing here, watching me, trying to measure what I’m worth.

I want to ask, but the words catch in my throat.

Instead, I nod, turning back toward the picture. The warmth in the photo feels like a secret he’s letting me glimpse, a thread of softness woven deep beneath the surface. It’s almost enough to make me believe there’s something salvageable here. Something real.

The silence stretches, thick and fragile.

“I didn’t know you had a family once,” I say quietly.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studies me, his jaw tight, eyes searching. Finally, he speaks, voice low and rough. “We all have things we hide.”

I swallow. “I’m not here to break you.”

His lips twitch—maybe a ghost of a smile, or maybe just the corner of a mouth pulling tight. “No one breaks me.”

That declaration hits hard. The man and the boy in the photo feel like two lives separated by years of blood and silence. I don’t know if I want to reach for either.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “For everything.”

He steps closer, closing the distance between us until I can feel the heat of him, the solid presence pressing in. His hand hovers near the photo, fingers twitching but not touching. Then he looks away, voice softer this time. “It’s in the past.”

“But it’s still here,” I say, gesturing around the room. “In every line of these books, in the way this room breathes.”

He looks back at the photo, long and steady. “Some memories keep you alive. Others threaten to kill you.”

The weight of his words settles over me, heavy and dark.

I want to ask which kind I am. The one who keeps him alive, or the one who will bring him down.

Instead, I turn and walk toward the door, knowing that whatever this house is, whatever he wants, I’m already deeper inside than I planned.

He watches me go, silent and still.

***

The late morning sun filters through the tall windows as I wander into the kitchen, still wrapped in the haze of sleep and uncertainty.

The room is vast, pristine, every surface gleams under the soft light, every tool and gadget carefully placed like weapons or trophies.

It smells faintly of pine and something metallic, like the scent of a clean knife.

I spot the espresso machine immediately—sleek, black, and intimidating. It looks like it belongs in a sci-fi movie, not the kitchen of a house I’m supposed to call home. My fingers hesitate as I reach for the buttons, eyes narrowing to read the tiny symbols.

I press, twist, and poke at every control I can find, but the machine just hums softly and does nothing. Steam doesn’t hiss. Coffee doesn’t pour. I frown, growing more frustrated with every failed attempt.

The kitchen feels too quiet. Too perfect. Like it’s waiting for something. Waiting for him .

I let out a breath and lean against the counter, rubbing my temples. If I mess this up, will he get annoyed? Will he think I don’t belong here? I swallow hard, trying to shove down the nervous flutter that’s been crawling in my chest since I woke up.

Before I can try again, the room shifts.

Maxim appears like a shadow, smooth and silent. Jacket discarded, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, muscles taut beneath the crisp fabric. He moves with the confidence of a man who owns not just the house, but every breath that fills it.

Without a word, he steps past me, fingers deft as he adjusts the espresso machine’s settings. There’s no hesitation, no fumbling—only precise, effortless control. The machine whirs to life, and rich, dark coffee begins to pour into a waiting cup.

He sets the steaming cup in front of me with a quiet finality. Our hands nearly touch. The heat of the ceramic presses against my palms, but it’s his proximity that steals my breath. I look up, eyes wide, and manage a quiet “Thank you.”

He doesn’t leave.

Instead, he leans against the counter nearby, arms crossed loosely, watching me as I lift the cup to my lips.

His gaze is heavy, unblinking. I try to focus on the bitter warmth sliding down my throat, but my eyes keep drifting to the way his look softens just a fraction, the way his mouth tightens with something unspoken.

His eyes drop slowly to my lips as I sip again, this time swallowing too fast, catching the rush of heat in my chest. The silence between us stretches out, thick and tangible, pulsing in the space around us.

For a moment, I feel like I could reach out and touch that silence, hold it between my fingers. I want to break it. To say something—anything.

My voice sticks in my throat.

He watches me as if reading every unspoken thought, every question and hesitation tangled beneath my skin. There’s something raw in the way he looks at me, like I’m both the storm and the shelter, the danger and the reprieve.

Then, without warning, Maxim straightens, pushes off from the counter, and turns away. The sound of his footsteps fades as he disappears down the hall, leaving me flushed and dizzy, my skin still tingling where our hands almost met.

I sit back against the cold marble, heart hammering, the taste of coffee and something more bitter lingering on my tongue.

Questions swirl in my mind, unasked and unanswered. What does he want from me? What am I supposed to want from him? And why does every breath in this house feel like a battle I didn’t sign up for?

I take another sip, trying to steady myself. This place, this man—it’s all too much, too fast. Somehow, beneath the frustration and fear, a strange pull tightens in my chest. A hunger I don’t understand.

The guard leads me through the gardens, his voice low and polite as he points out the various blooms and trees I might otherwise have missed.

The day hangs warm and still, sun filtering softly through the leaves, dappling the ground with gold and shadow. It’s deceptively calm, like the quiet before a storm—the kind you feel in your bones but can’t quite name.

When the tour ends, I tell the guard I want to be alone and wander. He nods without protest, eyes flicking to the house as if expecting me to bolt back inside any moment, but I don’t.

The garden air is thick with green—the scent of moss and freshly turned earth, faint traces of jasmine from a far corner.

I close my eyes and breathe deep, willing myself to feel something other than the suffocating weight of this place.

For a moment, I pretend I’m free, that none of this belongs to him.

Even the wind tastes like his presence. It curls around me with a silent, invisible hand. I shiver, though the sun presses warmly on my shoulders. There’s no escaping him—not here, not anywhere.

The path curves and leads me back toward the house. I climb the stairs to a balcony I hadn’t seen before, one tucked away where the world feels quieter.

From this height, the estate stretches out beneath me, manicured lawns and hedges trimmed like soldiers standing guard. Beyond that, the city fades into the haze of distance, bright lights dimmed by the afternoon haze.

The view should feel expansive. Instead, it feels narrow, a cage gilded with power and silence.

My eyes catch movement below.

Maxim stands near a sleek black car, speaking rapidly in Russian to a man I don’t recognize. His voice is sharp, measured—authority pouring from every word, every gesture. He’s animated, but the kind of composed animation that commands respect, even fear.

I watch him for a moment, heart beating too fast, lungs tightening with a strange mixture of awe and wariness.

Before I can turn away, I feel it—his gaze, like a blade slicing through the distance between us. My breath catches. I glance down.

Our eyes lock.

The world tilts. For one heartbeat, the air thickens with something unspoken—no affection, no fury—just claim. It’s a silent marking, a warning whispered in a language older than words.

I swallow hard, the taste of it bitter on my tongue.

Without breaking the lock, I slowly look away, turning back toward the house. My footsteps are light, but every step echoes in the hollow space inside me.

I walk back inside before I can name what that moment really was.

Before I can face the truth, because whatever it is—this silent claim—belongs to him. In this house, under his watchful eyes, it might be all that ever is mine.