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

I stand beside Tiago, the morning light weak against the cold, steel walls of the interrogation room. The air smells sharp, a bitter blend of sweat, fear, and stale tobacco.

Between us, slumped in the heavy leather chair, is the man they call Uncle. Older, with graying hair matted against a bloodied forehead. His wrists are bound tightly, the ropes biting into his skin. His eyes flicker with desperation—sharp, wild, trying to anchor himself.

Tiago’s voice cuts through the silence, low and steady. “This is our uncle. The man we suspect.” He nods toward the figure. “He was seen near the estate the morning Kiera was poisoned. Ate a meal with her.”

The man’s eyes flicker to me, pleading beneath bruised lids.

His voice cracks, thick with a hoarse accent.

“I would never—never harm my own family. Especially not Kiera.” His hands tremble, reaching up as if to touch an invisible shield.

“I came to check on her. She is my brother’s daughter. I love her.”

I take a step closer. The sound is soft, but my presence weighs like a hammer. “Then why was she the only one poisoned?” My voice drops, colder than the steel walls around us.

His eyes dart, searching mine for an answer that won’t come. The silence stretches, suffocating and absolute. No words follow. Only the faint ragged breath of a man who knows he’s caught.

I don’t give him the chance to lie again.

There’s no threat. No warning. No drawn-out game of intimidation. None of that matters anymore. The moment the question hangs unanswered, the choice is made.

I raise my hand, fingers curling like iron clamps, and the blade finds its mark. It’s swift—too swift for the man to react. A silent fracture of bone, a breath cut short, and his head lolls to the side.

Tiago turns away, his face draining of color. His stomach clenches, like he’s swallowed broken glass. I hear the catch in his breath, the moment when everything inside him breaks. I do not flinch.

This is what protection looks like.

It isn’t pretty. It isn’t mercy. It’s brutal. Necessary.

I watch the life bleed from the man’s eyes, staining the floor like spilled ink.

Tiago swallows hard, voice barely a whisper. “He was family….”

I don’t answer. There’s no comfort to offer, and no consolation. Just the cold weight of the truth. The people who threaten her—who threaten us—all get the same fate.

It’s the price of crossing the Sharov name.

I turn, eyes scanning the room. Nothing left but the ghost of a man and the faint scent of blood.

My thoughts drift—not to regret, not to hesitation, but to the girl waiting at the estate. Kiera. She’s poison and fire, a storm I’m meant to cage. If anyone thinks they can hurt her, they’re mistaken.

Tiago steps closer, voice quieter now, trying to steady himself. “We have to be careful. If this uncle is the one… then there are others.”

I nod. “Then we find them, and we finish this.”

He looks at me, eyes full of doubt and something else—fear.

I have no fear left.

***

The house is quiet when I return. Dim light seeps through heavy curtains, pooling faintly on polished floors. The silence feels like a weight, pressing in from every corner. It’s a stillness I’m not used to, one that doesn’t offer comfort—only space for the mind to wander.

A faint noise drifts from upstairs. A soft shuffle, careful steps that shouldn’t be here at this hour. The house should be asleep. Everyone should be asleep.

I move without sound, muscles coiled and senses sharpened. The scent of cedar and cold air clings to me as I climb the stairs, following the noise like a hunter trailing a shadow. It leads me to one of the smaller sitting rooms—a space I didn’t expect her to find, or want.

She’s there. Curled into the worn couch, a loose robe slipping from one shoulder. The soft glow of a muted television flickers behind her, casting erratic light over her face. Her hair falls in dark waves, messy and wild from restless sleep.

Her eyes snap open at the sound of my approach, wide and startled.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

I say nothing. The words are unnecessary.

Without hesitation, I step past her, the floorboards silent beneath my boots.

My hands find the lighter by the mantel.

The flame flickers alive in my grasp, steady and defiant.

I strike a match and bring it to the pile of logs, watching as the fire catches, the room warming as shadows twist and stretch.

The cold retreats, but the tension between us remains alive and thick.

I take the armchair across from her, sinking in with a casual grace. My posture is relaxed, but my eyes never leave her. Every movement she makes is catalogued, every breath noted.

Her legs are bare beneath the robe, pale skin catching the firelight. The fabric parts just enough to reveal the curve of her calves, the delicate arch of her ankles. I store the image silently, enduring the ache it brings—a steady hunger tempered by the cold discipline of control.

The silence stretches, a living thing between us. It pulses, heavy and expectant. Neither of us speaks.

She shifts slightly, the robe falling a little lower, and my breath catches.

Time slows.

The fire crackles, filling the room with warmth and the scent of burning wood. Shadows dance on the walls, framing us in a private world, away from the noise and danger outside.

Her eyes flicker to mine for a fraction of a second, then drop away. I see the vulnerability there, the uncertainty buried beneath the defiance. It’s a look I’ve come to know well—one I want to break and protect all at once.

I lean forward, hands resting on the arms of the chair, voice low but steady. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

Her response is a ghost of a smile, tired but genuine. “Neither should you.”

The room holds its breath again.

For a long moment, we just watch each other: two strangers trapped in a house built for power and secrets, trying to find a way to belong.

I want to close the distance, to erase the space between us with a touch. Instead, I settle back, letting the firelight wash over us, and wait for the night to decide what comes next.

She shifts under the weight of my stare, the silence wrapping tight between us. Finally, her voice cuts through the quiet, low and uncertain. “Are you always this quiet?”

I meet her eyes without blinking. “Only when I’m trying to think.”

She scoffs softly, pretending not to understand, but her breath stutters, betraying her calm facade. I can feel it—how much she wants to challenge me, push back, test the limits of what I’ll allow. But also how much she’s holding herself back.

Her eyes flicker, searching mine. “Do you think we could ever get along?”

The question hangs, sharp and raw. I don’t hesitate. My voice drops to a murmur. “You,” I say, “don’t make it easy.”

Her lips part, but she says nothing. The movie plays quietly behind us, images flickering on the screen, but it fades into background noise, irrelevant to the world narrowing between us.

She stretches slowly, the robe slipping farther off her shoulder with a languid grace. The pale skin beneath catches the firelight, soft and vulnerable. I watch, and something inside me frays—the tight control I’ve held begins to unravel.

I stand, muscles coiling as I cross the room in long, measured steps. The air thickens with anticipation.

Kneeling down, I lower myself to the floor before her, eyes never leaving hers. My hand reaches up slowly, deliberate, and lifts the edge of the robe, drawing it back over her shoulder.

My thumb grazes her collarbone—a featherlight touch that carries the weight of everything I’ve held inside.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” I whisper, voice rough and raw.

Her eyes flutter shut, lashes resting against flushed cheeks. The moment stretches, fragile and suspended. But then she leans back slightly, hesitant, uncertainty flickering in her gaze.

I pause, reading the silent hesitation—the fragile wall she’s built. It feels like a blow, sharp and unexpected.

With a slow, reluctant motion, I pull away.

The space between us grows again, cold and wide, but the fire still burns beneath the surface.

I straighten, muscles tightening as I push myself off the floor. The fragile moment snaps like glass between us, and I gather what’s left of my control. My voice cuts through the quiet, clipped and precise. “You should go to bed.”

There’s no warmth in the words—only a cold edge, a reminder that control always comes with a price. My gaze never leaves her face, watching the flicker of confusion and hesitation that rises in her eyes.

I take a step toward the door, hand already on the handle, but something holds me back. I turn.

My voice drops low, rough but deliberate. “Don’t mistake my restraint for lack of desire, darling.”

The word hangs in the air—soft, dangerous.

After a pause, I add, “You’ll feel all of it when you’re ready.”

The silence returns, heavy and expectant. Then her voice breaks through, quiet and uncertain. “Is that… blood on your shirt?”

I glance down, collar streaked faintly with dark red, drying and crusted.

“Yes,” I say simply. “Your uncle.”

Her breath catches. She recoils, lips parting as tears well up unbidden, glistening in the firelight. The strength she wears so carefully falters, exposed.

“He tried to kill you,” I say, voice low but sharp. “You’re crying for him?”

She doesn’t answer. I see the conflict in her eyes—the tangled emotions she doesn’t know how to unravel.

I turn away, jaw tight, fists clenched at my sides.

The weight of her silence presses heavier than any words could. I breathe it in—the mix of fear, confusion, and something raw beneath it all. It’s infuriating and heartbreaking in equal measure.

I want to say more, to offer comfort, but the walls I’ve built rise higher with every moment I hesitate. This isn’t weakness. This is survival. Yet, standing here with my back turned, I feel the ghost of that boy from the photo—the one who smiled without scars, who trusted without fear.

That boy is long gone, buried beneath years of blood and betrayal.

I don’t turn back.

Instead, I walk away, the weight of what’s unsaid trailing behind me like a shadow.

Her tears echo in my mind, a reminder that beneath the steel and scars, there’s still something human. Something worth protecting.

Maybe, just maybe, something worth fighting for.

Except right now, all I feel is the cold tightening in my chest—the brutal price of desire and duty entwined.