Page 14 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #13)

The chapel is bright, full of cream and gold and the hush of old money.

The aisle stretches out before me, long and pristine, a carpet of ivory beneath my trembling feet.

I clutch the bouquet too tightly. My fingers ache around the stems, the satin-wrapped handle damp from my palms. Each step forward feels both too slow and too fast.

I’m weightless and drowning all at once.

My dress is flawless. White silk clings to my curves in ways meant to flatter, to dazzle.

Lace sleeves trace down to my wrists, delicate as frost. It’s traditional, elegant, expensive.

Every inch of it hand stitched and meant to impress.

But it doesn’t feel like a dress—it feels like armor. A cage tailored from silk and secrets.

My heart pounds beneath it all, each beat muffled by layers of satin.

I walk.

The guests blur at the edges of my vision, a haze of sharp suits and polite eyes.

Their smiles are too practiced, too plastic.

I wonder how many of them know this isn’t a celebration.

How many of them care. They watch as I move, slow and careful, toward the man waiting at the altar like a statue carved from ice.

Maxim doesn’t smile.

He stands tall in his black suit, broad shoulders rigid beneath the tailored cut, jaw tight. His hands are clasped behind his back, his face unreadable. No warmth greets me, no affection. Just the cold certainty of inevitability.

This is happening.

I force my feet forward, my breath shallow.

Halfway down the aisle, I catch Tiago’s eye. He nods once, barely perceptible. His face is calm, composed. Victorious. Beside him, Mateo sits still, hands folded in his lap, gaze flickering between me and Maxim with something that might be concern—or pity. I can’t tell anymore.

When I reach the altar, Maxim finally moves. He extends a hand, palm up, steady as steel.

I place mine in his. His fingers are warm.

That single point of contact sears.

The officiant begins to speak, but the words blur at the edges. I hear phrases: unity, honor, vows. Duty. His voice is smooth and practiced, but it feels distant, like someone playing a recording in another room. I stand beside Maxim, nodding when I’m supposed to, answering when cued.

“Kiera Vargas, do you take Maxim Sharov…?”

I glance up. His eyes are on me—sharp, cool, impassive.

“I do,” I say. My voice doesn’t shake, even though it should.

“Maxim Sharov, do you take Kiera Vargas…?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I do.”

There’s no tenderness in it. No pause, no softness. It’s a statement of fact. A sentence being passed.

Our vows are short, stripped of sentiment. No personal promises. No whispered hopes. Just obligation wrapped in ritual, as clinical as a business transaction.

The officiant nods once and closes the book. “You may now kiss the bride.”

Maxim steps forward.

His hands brush my waist, firm but not rough. His lips meet mine—barely. A soft press, measured and dry. They’re gone before I can even draw breath.

That’s it.

Applause erupts behind us. Flashbulbs go off like fireworks. Smiles stretch across painted faces. I blink against the white-hot light, heart hammering, throat dry.

I’m a Sharov now.

The name echoes in my head, heavier than any vow spoken aloud.

He turns to lead me down the aisle. I follow.

Our arms brush as we walk side by side, and the world watches.

Inside, I feel hollow.

There’s no victory in this. No triumph. Only the subtle click of a trap snapping shut. I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He’s unreadable as ever, eyes forward, his posture perfect.

I have a husband now. Though I don’t know what kind of man he’ll be. What kind of monster I’ve married.

We step outside into the sun. The breeze catches my veil and lifts it gently, almost like a whisper.

I wonder what it said. I wonder if it warned me.

Outside, guests spill into the courtyard, laughing and sipping champagne.

The photographers swarm, jostling for angles, calling our names.

Maxim stands straight, his hand on my waist now, guiding me through the chaos with quiet authority.

Everyone wants a piece of us—a photo, a word, a moment.

No one sees the cold distance between our bodies. No one sees the tremble in my hand.

“Smile,” someone says.

I do. It feels like baring my teeth.

We’re escorted to a waiting car, sleek and black with tinted windows that shut out the world. Inside, I fold my hands in my lap. He sits beside me, one leg crossed, calm as ever. The silence grows.

Finally, I speak. “It didn’t feel real.”

He doesn’t look at me. “It is.”

A long pause. “You didn’t smile. Not once.”

His jaw shifts slightly, a flicker of something in his eyes before it vanishes. “I wasn’t expected to.”

I look away, my throat tight.

The car moves, the city blurring past. People wave and cheer, and I wave back through the glass, playing my part. Perfect bride. Perfect pawn.

I feel the ring on my finger like a shackle.

When we arrive at the house, I hesitate before stepping out. He notices.

“You’re safe,” he says.

I nod, but I’m not sure I believe him.

We walk inside. As the doors close behind us, the hush of the estate returns.

I begin the quiet, careful work of becoming someone’s wife.

Staff wait by the door. They bow slightly, murmur greetings I don’t catch. No one meets my eyes. They move around me like I’m already part of the house—already absorbed into the machinery of it. An ornament. A Sharov.

Security men stand in every hallway, dressed in black, eyes blank and forward. They don’t flinch. Don’t nod. Just statues, stationed in silence. I wonder how many of them know what I am now. How many of them were told to keep me inside, should I try to leave.

My room is enormous. High ceilings. Gilded mirrors. A canopy bed big enough to drown in. Everything is pale and marble and far too clean. There’s no softness to it. No history. Just curated beauty and clinical edges.

I try to take it in. To memorize the placement of the windows, the curve of the walls, the layout of the space.

It slips through me. My brain won’t hold on to any of it.

Everything feels loose. Weightless. Like my body’s here but the rest of me is somewhere else, still standing at that altar wondering how I let any of this happen.

No one tells me where he is. No one tells me what comes next.

I shower, letting the hot water scald my skin until I can’t feel the cold anymore. I dress in silence, simple silk pulled tight across skin that doesn’t quite feel like mine.

Then I wait.

I sit on the edge of the bed, hands in my lap, and stare at the ring. It gleams in the low light—heavy, elegant, unmistakable. A symbol of power. Of ownership.

It doesn’t feel like it belongs to me.

It feels like it never will.

Opening the door, Maxim stops in front of me like he’s been there all along—silent, immovable, carved from shadow and heat. I don’t hear the door open, don’t notice the sound of his steps. I only feel him. The weight of his gaze settles over me before he speaks.

“You waited up,” he says, voice low.

I lift my eyes slowly, heart thudding against my ribs. “I didn’t know if you’d come.”

He doesn’t reply right away. Instead, he reaches out, fingers brushing my chin, tilting it up until our eyes meet. His touch is careful, deceptively soft, but there’s tension thrumming beneath it—restrained, coiled. Like he’s holding back something sharp, something dangerous.

His thumb grazes the corner of my mouth.

He murmurs something in Russian—quiet, meant only for me. I don’t understand the words, but the sound curls through me like smoke. It steals the breath from my lungs.

Then he leans in. His lips brush mine: slow, testing, barely there. My pulse stumbles. I don’t pull away.

He kisses me again, deeper this time.

Measured, but hungry. A question and an answer wrapped in the same breath.

The robe slips from my shoulders with a whisper of silk, pooling at my elbows. His gaze drops.

He sees the lingerie beneath: ivory lace stretched across my curves, delicate and deliberate. His jaw tightens, just enough to betray it. The heat in his eyes sharpens.

Maxim doesn’t speak.

His hands find my waist, fingers splaying wide, reverent as they slide down my sides. Slow. Possessive. Like he’s mapping something he intends to remember. My breath catches, and still he goes lower—over the flare of my hips, the softness of my thighs, until I’m trembling beneath his touch.

I feel like a match held too long near flame.

He guides me back against the pillows, and the bed accepts me like it was waiting.

His mouth follows. Lips find the line of my throat, then lower: tracing my collarbone, the tops of my breasts, everywhere but where I ache for him most. I arch under him without meaning to, my body begging before I’ve said a word.

His hands don’t shake, but I feel the strain in them. The pull of his control—tight, razor-thin. He peels away the lace from my body piece by piece, slow enough to make me ache, deliberate enough to make me whimper.

I want to ask him to go faster. I want him to devour me.

When his mouth covers mine again, I stop pretending I ever had restraint to begin with.

He doesn’t speak when he presses into me—just watches. Eyes locked on mine, so steady it makes my stomach flip. His body slides against mine with slow, deliberate control, like he’s warning me that once we begin, there’s no turning back.

The first thrust is deep, and it feels nothing like I imagined. His cock is hard and thick, thicker than I realized, and it feels me so wonderfully that I wonder why I waited so long.

I gasp.

He holds there, not moving. Waiting. Letting me feel every inch of him. “Too much?” he murmurs, his voice a graveled hush. “I’ve never taken a virgin before.”

I shake my head, cheeks flushed. “No. Don’t stop.”