Page 17 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #13)

I sit curled in the corner of one of the lounges, the antique timepiece loud in the silence, its steady rhythm slicing cleanly through the hush. Everything feels suspended—airless. The wind sighs through an old seam in the window frame, gentle but persistent. It’s the only sound besides the clock.

I’ve noticed this before.

At this hour, the house thins. Staff disappear to the back wings, the security presence shifts. The guards are still around, but they’re less visible—rotating posts or catching a breath somewhere out of sight. The hush is different now. Less like quiet, more like a held breath.

I can’t sit still.

My breath is shallow in my chest, my fingers tapping rhythm against the arm of the velvet chair. I don’t plan it. My body just… moves. I rise, barefoot and silent, the long hem of my cotton nightgown brushing against my calves.

The hallway is dark, but I don’t need light.

I know the path now. I’ve walked it in daylight, in dreams, in memory.

The air is cooler here, a little heavier, like it holds more than dust and silence.

I move quietly, careful not to disturb the stillness—but every step feels louder than it should. Each one echoing through me.

I turn the corner.

His study is at the end of this hall. A room I know I’m not supposed to be in, not without supervision. I doubt Maxim even sees a reason for me to want to go inside, after that day I saw the photo.

Now I stand outside it.

For a heartbeat, I hesitate. My fingers rest against the door, cool and smooth beneath my touch. I tell myself I shouldn’t be here. That if he wanted me inside, he would’ve said something. Left the door open. Given permission.

I open it anyway.

The room is dark. The curtains are drawn. Cool air greets me, the kind that settles into your skin rather than brushes across it. The scent hits me instantly—leather, wood polish, and something warmer beneath it. Heat and skin and something I can’t name but know down to my bones.

Him.

I step inside.

The door clicks shut behind me, muffled in the carpeted quiet.

My bare feet make no sound as I move farther in.

The desk is empty, papers neatly stacked.

A jacket lies draped over the back of a chair, sleeves folded in on themselves.

There’s a half-finished glass of something amber on the table near the bookshelves.

The shadows cling to the corners of the room, but I don’t turn on the light. I just stand there, breathing in everything that makes this space his.

I wonder why it doesn’t scare me more.

The desk dominates the room, carved from dark wood and polished to a gleam. Everything about it demands attention—authority stamped into the grain, corners sharp, weight undeniable. It’s the kind of desk no one approaches casually.

His laptop sits closed on the blotter, centered like a final word. Sleek. Silent. Waiting.

I cross the room slowly, trailing my fingers along the edge of the desk as I go. The smell is stronger here—leather, cologne, the faint trace of smoke. The seat of power still holds its heat. My skin prickles as I lower myself into his chair.

It’s large. Comfortable. It smells like him.

The silence around me tightens.

I draw in a breath and open the laptop. The screen glows faintly before prompting a password. I type in a name without thinking, fingers moving fast.

His mother’s name. Capitalized, of course.

It works.

My lips twitch, more habit than amusement. One arrogant mistake, Maxim.

The desktop loads, background dark, folders aligned with clinical precision. No clutter. No chaos. Only intention. I scroll fast, skimming file names. The categories are stark: Shipments. Holdings. Contacts. Ledgers. Vault. Each folder is a door, and I don’t have keys for all of them.

I don’t need them. I reach for the landline sitting beside the screen. I dial fast. Two rings.

“I’m in,” I whisper, eyes already scanning the folder marked Accounts. “I’m on his computer.”

My brother’s voice crackles through the line—quiet, sharp-edged, too fast. “Be careful. If there’s a camera in that room—”

“I don’t see one,” I say. “I’m being careful.”

“Kiera—”

I’ve already tuned him out.

My fingers move over the trackpad, opening files in rapid succession.

Most of them aren’t encrypted. They don’t need to be—not when no one is supposed to sit where I’m sitting.

Shipment logs. Cash flows. Security rotations.

Things people kill to hide. Things that could bring down half his operation if I got them into the right hands.

Some folders refuse to open. A few demand a second password.

I take screenshots anyway. File after file. Click . Click . Click .

Every image is saved, duplicated to a small drive I’d tucked beneath my waistband hours earlier. I’ve done this before. I’ll do it again.

My fingers don’t shake. They haven’t in years.

I lean closer, scanning lines of encrypted numbers, dates paired with unfamiliar initials. My brain begins to build the shape of it—routes, transactions, offshore accounts woven into something massive and precise.

He’s more organized than we thought.

More dangerous.

Except every system has a flaw, and I’ve already found one. I could download everything, send it to Tiago right now… but that’s too risky.

I know now that he has the information we need, and tomorrow, it will all be mine.

I walk with steady steps, each one deliberate, measured. I don’t rush. That would draw attention. That would betray something. My robe flows around my ankles, soft and silent, like everything is normal—like I’m just returning from a glass of water or a sleepless stroll.

Halfway down the corridor, a housekeeper rounds the corner ahead.

I lift my chin, nod politely. She dips her head in return, keeps walking. Doesn’t pause. Doesn’t look back.

I keep going. I don’t let myself breathe—not fully—until I’m out of sight. The moment I round the next corner, my lungs unlock, and a breath tumbles from my chest like a stone falling from height.

I don’t stop. Can’t stop.

My pulse thunders against my ribs, not from exertion but from the sharp edge of adrenaline—part thrill, part fear. I count the seconds between each footfall, forcing calm I don’t feel.

The door to my room waits ahead. I enter without hesitation. Close it quietly behind me. Turn the lock. The silence on the other side is vast.

I lean back against the door, heart still racing, robe clutched in one hand. My body is warm from the inside out—flushed, buzzing, the tension not yet drained from my limbs.

I cross the room to the vanity.

In the low light, my reflection stares back—cheeks pink, eyes bright, pupils blown wide. I look… alive. Too alive. Like someone who’s tasted something sharp and can’t forget the flavor.

I got in. I got out.

The success hums in my bloodstream. It should be enough. It should feel like victory.

Now, about that file… Obelisk-12.

Even now, the name sticks in my mind. Stark. Ominous. It felt different than the others. Protected differently. Buried deeper. I hadn’t even opened it, but my gut clenched the moment I saw it—like my body recognized a threat before my mind could catch up.

Whatever it is, it matters. More than numbers, more than ledgers. More than shipments and offshore accounts.

I turn from the mirror, move to the small chair beside the bed, curling into myself with the still-burning aftershocks of adrenaline still thrumming through my bones. The quiet is thick now. Too thick.

The file presses at the edge of my thoughts with a weight heavier than guilt, heavier than fear. I don’t know what’s inside it, not yet—but I know what it felt like to look at that name. Like standing on the edge of a drop I can’t see the bottom of.

And I know myself; I’ll go back.

Not tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow, but soon. Because now there’s a new question burning beneath my skin. A new piece of the game laid bare.

The game is only beginning—and this time, I’m not playing defense.

I should feel satisfied. I should be proud of what I’ve already taken—hundreds of files, trails of data, names, passwords, accounts. It’s enough to keep my brother’s people busy for weeks.

I press my palms to my thighs, grounding myself. My legs still feel taut, every muscle holding tension like I’ve sprinted a marathon. I can’t stop thinking about the way the cursor hovered above it, how one more click would’ve been too much. Would’ve triggered the system. Would’ve ended everything.

It also would’ve given me the answer.

I should leave it. Be smart. I got away clean. I shouldn’t risk a second breach, especially not when the first one could still catch up with me.

My instincts aren’t wrong. That file wasn’t some locked financial record. It wasn’t old surveillance or an outdated kill list. It was something deeper.