Page 16 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #13)

We sleep together every night, after that. Wrapped around each other in a tangle of limbs.

Sometimes I stay the night, sometimes I’m gone before she wakes.

Today, I wake before the sun. The room is dim, all soft shadows and the lingering weight of heat. My body aches, but not from sleep. It’s the ache of control held too long. Of release taken—finally, and completely.

Beside me, Kiera lies tangled in the sheets.

Her hair is a mess of curls against the pillow, wild and soft, one arm flung overhead, the other resting palm-up on her chest. Her robe is gone.

The silk sheet covers her only halfway, baring the gentle swell of her hip, the curve of her thigh.

The marks on her skin stand out in the pale light—reddened flesh where my mouth had been, where my hands had claimed her.

A bruise at the curve of her breast. Scratches along her ribs.

Mine.

Her breathing is slow, even. She winces faintly, a small sound escaping her throat as she shifts.

My handiwork.

The tightness in my chest creeps in slowly. A mix of satisfaction and something darker—pride, possession. Beneath it, quieter and more dangerous, is longing.

It’s too much.

I watch her longer than I should.

Then I move. Quiet, practiced steps across the room. I pull on my trousers, my shirt. The cuff links go in with muscle memory, my focus tight. Silence has always come easy to me. In this house, it’s second nature.

I’m halfway through buttoning the last cuff when I hear the sheets rustle.

Her breath catches, and I glance over.

Her eyes are open, still heavy with sleep, but aware. Our gazes lock. Her blush rises immediately, blooming across her cheeks like something helpless.

I don’t look away. Her blush deepens the longer I watch, spreading down her neck, vanishing beneath the edge of the sheets.

She tugs the fabric higher, though it does nothing to hide what I’ve already seen—what I’ve already taken.

She’s not embarrassed, not really. It’s something else.

Uncertainty, maybe. Or the echo of last night still humming in her bones.

I move closer, slow and easy, like she’s prey I’m not yet finished with.

“Want to come see my office?” My voice stays low, pitched quiet like a secret.

She huffs a laugh, then winces. Her hand slides down her side instinctively, fingers pressing to her hip. “I can’t even walk properly.”

The corner of my mouth lifts. A sharp, amused grin. I lean down, bracing a hand beside her on the mattress, and bring my mouth to her shoulder. Her skin is warm, still sleep-flushed, still marked with the imprint of my teeth.

“You’ll get used to this.”

She glares at me—weak, halfhearted, cheeks flaming. But there’s no bite in it. Only heat. Only something that settles behind her eyes, quiet and warm.

She shifts under the sheets, trying to sit upright. I watch the way her muscles pull and tense, how carefully she moves. Her body responds to discomfort like she’s used to managing pain in silence, like she doesn’t want me to see how much effort it takes.

She looks smaller like this. Less fire, less resistance. Just skin and blood and breath.

I sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to crowd her, and let the moment settle between us. Her hair is tousled. Her mouth is soft. I want to press my hand to the center of her chest and feel her heartbeat. I want to kiss her again. Not to possess—but to taste.

Instead, I run a knuckle lightly along her knee, then pull my hand away. “Rest,” I say, my voice quiet again. Not tender, but not cold.

She watches me, eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s an order?”

“Yes.”

Her brows knit, faintly.

“Don’t go outside the estate.”

Her expression shifts, mouth tugging down. “Is something wrong?”

I don’t answer. Not because I don’t want to—but because I haven’t decided how much she needs to know.

The uncle was easy. The others might not be. Someone is still pulling strings, still too close for comfort. Until I find them, she stays inside these walls.

I look at her for a long moment, memorizing the shape of her face in morning light. The flush in her cheeks. The new quiet in her eyes.

Then I rise without a word, and turn away.

I reach the door.

My hand’s on the frame, ready to pull it closed behind me, but something tugs at me—harder than instinct, heavier than reason. I pause, letting the silence breathe.

She’s still in bed, propped slightly against the pillows, one hand curled over the sheet at her chest. Her eyes track me as I come back. Wary, uncertain. But she doesn’t flinch.

I stop at the edge of the mattress, let my gaze drag over her face, her throat, the slope of her shoulder where the sheet has slipped again. I lean down slowly, giving her time to move.

She doesn’t.

My hand lifts to her hair, brushing it back from her cheek. The strands are soft and warm from sleep. I cup the side of her neck, steadying her, tilting her just enough. Then I lower my mouth to her skin and kiss the spot just beneath her jaw.

She exhales—sharp, startled.

Then I suck, hard enough to leave no doubt. I feel her heartbeat jump under my tongue, feel her body tense. The skin flushes beneath the pressure, blooming red in a matter of seconds. I pull back only when the mark rises, visible and raw.

Mine.

I let my thumb stroke over it once. “I want you to remember who you belong to,” I murmur, voice low against her skin.

Her breath catches. I see the pulse flutter at the base of her throat. For a second, neither of us moves. The room is thick with something heavier than lust. Quieter than power.

I straighten, watching her blink up at me—flushed, breathing fast, silent.

I don’t say goodbye. I don’t offer comfort.

The mark I leave behind feels like the most honest thing I’ve given her.

I walk out, jaw tight, each step more controlled than the last. I force my thoughts elsewhere—schedules, security reports, the meeting I’ve pushed twice already. Logistics. Threats.

I arrive at the office earlier than usual. The sun hasn’t cleared the skyline yet, but the building is already awake—guards stationed at the entrance, aides moving through corridors with purpose. They all straighten when they see me, eyes sharp, nods respectful.

I don’t acknowledge them.

My steps are clipped. Tension coils through my frame with every movement. No wasted energy, no idle gestures. I move like I’m going somewhere with purpose, but the truth is I’m not sure I trust myself to stand still.

Inside, the main room is hushed. I can feel the shift in the air when I enter—my men sense it immediately. They look up from their stations, exchanging quick glances, but no one speaks. Not at first.

I go straight to my desk. The chair groans under my weight as I sit. The leather feels too tight, too warm. I pour myself a coffee from the carafe someone prepared already. Black, no sugar.

My gaze drifts to the window—steel and glass, a view of the city still cloaked in morning haze. My jaw tightens. My fingers tap against the rim of the cup, then still.

Behind me, boots shift against marble. “Something wrong, sir?”

I don’t answer.

There’s too much in my head. Too many threads pulling in opposite directions. I force my mind to focus—to catalogue, to strategize—but the center of it all remains unchanged.

Kiera.

The way she looked this morning, sheet tangled at her waist, lashes fluttering as I left her with nothing but a bruise blooming on her neck.

She’s under my roof now. Under my protection, and someone got too close.

Too fucking close.

Her own blood tried to poison her. Smiled in her face, shared a meal, then tried to kill her. The betrayal wasn’t loud. It wasn’t messy. It was quiet. Surgical. A coward’s move.

We didn’t see it coming.

My fingers curl into a fist against the desk. Wood creaks. I force my hand open again, flexing my palm slowly, methodically. Rage is an old companion. But this—this is different. This is personal in a way I haven’t felt in years.

This isn’t about her.

It’s about control. About power. About leverage. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

She’s valuable. A pawn who chose my side—willingly or not. Protecting her means maintaining the balance. It means leverage against enemies who would rather see us burn. Marrying her secured that leverage. Sleeping with her should’ve been the inevitable conclusion.

Except that isn’t why my pulse hasn’t settled since I left her bed.

That isn’t why the image of her bruised, marked, and staring after me won’t leave my fucking mind.

I could’ve let her die. Could’ve used her death to justify war. Except, it wasn’t strategy that made me slit her uncle’s throat. It was rage.

Old, quiet, and personal.

The man who hurt her is gone. Blood pooled beneath the chair, his last breath stolen before he could beg for it. I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t make a speech. I didn’t offer him a chance to explain. I read the fear in his eyes and took him apart with the same hands that touched her the night before.

She doesn’t know yet, that he’s dead. She suspects torture, perhaps, but not death.

I saw it in her eyes this morning—the question she didn’t ask, the answer she already suspects.

When she finds out, she’ll hate me for it.

Maybe not forever. But for a while.

It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that she’s alive. That no one else will get close enough to try again. That the price of touching her has been set high enough that no one with a shred of self-preservation will risk it.

My men think I’m calm, controlled, the unshakable center of this empire.

I’m still at the window when Platon knocks once and enters, shutting the door behind him. He doesn’t speak right away—he never does unless he has to. That’s one reason I trust him.

He steps forward, carefully. “We traced the vial,” he says.

I turn, slowly. “And?”

“It was brought in through one of the kitchens, slipped in with the regular shipment from our supplier in Monterrey.” He pauses. “Her uncle didn’t work alone.”

I grind my molars. I already knew that, but hearing it confirmed lights something behind my ribs.

“Names,” I say.

Platon nods. “Two low-level cousins from the Vargas side. We’ve detained them. They’re at the south compound.”

“Do they know she’s alive?”

“No. We kept it quiet.”

Good. The fewer people who know, the fewer I have to kill before this is over.

I take a breath, steadying the pulse in my neck. “Interrogate them. Carefully. I want whoever gave the order.”

Platon hesitates. “And the girl?” My gaze sharpens. “She’s asking questions,” he continues. “One of the maids overheard. Wants to know where you are. If something’s wrong.”

A beat passes.

“She’s not stupid,” Platon adds, almost too quietly.

“No,” I murmur. “She’s not.”

He watches me carefully, then ventures, “Do you want me to tell her anything?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“She’ll figure it out.”

“I know.”

When she does, she’ll either understand—or she’ll walk away from me completely. Neither option sits well.

I turn back to the window. My reflection stares back at me in the glass: sharp suit, sharper eyes. Nothing human left in the lines of my face.

“Start with the cousins,” I say flatly. “Then move up. Leave the bodies where they can be found.”

Platon nods once. “Understood.”

He leaves as quietly as he came, and I stand alone again, with her name burning behind my teeth.