Page 18 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #13)

I step into the foyer, the weight of the day trailing behind me like smoke. My tie hangs loose in one hand, my jacket already slung over my shoulder. I expect quiet—dim lights, low voices, the soft hush of a house preparing for sleep.

Something feels off the moment I cross the threshold.

Not noise. Not chaos. Her absence. It settles into my chest with more force than I expect.

I nod to one of the guards and head down the main corridor. The staff clear the halls instinctively—trained, respectful. I find Maria, the head housekeeper, near the side stairs, clipboard in hand, already ticking off the nightly rundown.

She looks up as I approach. Doesn’t flinch. She’s been with the family long enough to know I don’t need ceremony.

“How is she adjusting?” I ask.

Maria doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. She tucks the clipboard under one arm and answers calmly, evenly.

“She’s polite. Quiet. Keeps to herself.”

That part doesn’t surprise me, but then Maria adds, “Always watching.”

My brow lifts. “Watching?”

She nods once. “Not in a way that causes concern. She’s observant. Takes in everything. Staff rotations. Window locks. Routes through the gardens. That kind of thing.”

I’m quiet for a moment.

“She asked about the surveillance system in the east wing last week,” Maria adds, like it’s an afterthought. “Said she couldn’t sleep. Wanted to know which corridors were monitored after dark.”

“And you told her?”

“The basics,” she replies. “Nothing sensitive.”

I nod. “Thank you.”

Maria inclines her head, then turns away, disappearing down the hall.

I remain where I am, her words circling like a slow current.

Kiera is attentive. Careful. Quiet in a way that isn’t quite passive.

I don’t know if that should worry me, but it lingers.

I turn and head toward the back of the estate, my steps slower now. Measured. The way I move when I feel something shifting beneath the surface—when the rules are the same, but the stakes are changing.

I find her near the koi pond.

The path winds through trimmed hedges and smooth stones, half lit by lanterns glowing low along the edges. The estate is quiet here—shielded from the house, from the weight of walls and surveillance. It’s a place for reflection, or solitude.

She’s seated at the edge, feet bare and dangling into the water. The cotton dress she wears is modest—soft, light, but the breeze teases it close to her skin, outlining the shape of her hips, the curve of her waist. Her hair moves with the wind, strands catching the last of the evening light.

She doesn’t stand when she senses me. Just turns her head.

That smirk.

It’s not wide. It’s not mocking. But it’s there—alive in her eyes, settled in her mouth like she knows something I don’t. Like she’s already made peace with things I’m still calculating.

She looks too at home, too calm.

I approach without a word, slow and measured. The sound of the water, the flicker of fish just below the surface, the rustle of leaves—it all seems to pull tighter as I stop a few steps behind her.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shift. Her posture stays relaxed, legs swinging lazily, fingers brushing the edge of the stone. The angle of her body, the quiet in her expression—there’s no fear.

Not even caution, and that unsettles me more than rage ever could.

“I told you not to come out here alone,” I say finally. My voice is low, not harsh, but the words carry. “You always pick the worst places to sit.”

She tilts her head. “You always act like I need guarding.”

I crouch beside her, the gravel shifting under my shoes. My hand reaches out, brushes lightly against her knee—just enough to test her.

She stiffens, only for a second. Then it’s gone, buried beneath the steel of her voice.

“You’re always watching,” she says, sharp. “Always hovering.”

My jaw tightens. Her mouth—God, her mouth—is a weapon. Beautiful. Reckless. She doesn’t know the damage she does, or maybe she does and does it anyway. She aims her words with more precision than most men aim their guns.

“You don’t know what I want to do,” I murmur, voice gone to gravel and heat.

Her lips part, not in fear—but something else. Anticipation, maybe. Defiance.

Then I act.

My hand lifts to her chin, thumb brushing the soft line of her jaw. My fingers are firm, tilting her face toward mine. There’s resistance there, the barest edge of tension—but she doesn’t pull away.

I don’t wait. Don’t ask.

I kiss her.

Hard. Demanding. Weeks of silence, of near-misses, of sidelong glances and half-meant words collapse into that single moment. It’s not clean. It’s not gentle. It’s months of tension and fire, poured into one brutal press of mouths.

She gasps into me, startled, her breath catching in her throat. Her hands rise fast, pressing to my chest—not to push, but to ground herself. To keep us both steady.

She kisses me back. God, does she kiss me back.

Her lips part, her breath shivers, and then she meets me with equal heat, equal hunger.

Her mouth opens beneath mine, and it’s a rush, sharp and sweet and savage.

Her hands twist in the fabric of my shirt.

She leans into it, into me, like her body’s finally caught up to something her mind tried to deny.

The kiss deepens, turns feral. Teeth. Tongue. A low sound escapes her throat—half protest, half want—and I feel it echo in my bones.

Her thighs shift, brushing mine. I want to drag her into my lap. I want to tear the soft cotton from her body and mark every inch of her. I want her to stop running.

Then she pulls back. Breathless. Glowing. Her lips are swollen, her cheeks flushed.

“I need air,” she says, voice rough.

I let her go. Barely. My fingers loosen slow, reluctant. They drag across her skin like I’m trying to memorize it before it’s out of reach. My breath still hasn’t settled.

She stands, smoothing her dress with shaking hands she tries to make steady. Her spine is straight, shoulders squared, but I see the shiver down her arms. I see the way she won’t meet my eyes.

Then—she turns, and walks away. No glance back. No final word. Her steps are even, but there’s tension in them. A wire pulled tight.

She disappears around the hedge, and I’m left crouched by the pond, the scent of her still clinging to my skin, her taste still on my tongue, and heat clawing down my spine.

***

That evening, I walk the halls later than I usually do.

Not because there’s work left unfinished. Not because the estate demands it. I tell myself I’m checking the locks, surveying the night staff, doing the rounds like I used to before the weight of everything grew too familiar.

That’s a lie. I’m waiting, and I hate that I know it.

I keep my pace steady, measured, each footfall swallowed by the thick rugs and polished stone. The night air has cooled. The house is mostly asleep, quiet but not silent.

Then I hear it: light humming—soft, aimless. Unbothered.

I slow.

It comes from the next corridor, drifting along the edges of the dark like something not meant to be touched. The sound tugs at me, sharp and intimate, like I’m overhearing something meant for someone else. No melody I recognize. Just a hum. Peaceful. Simple.

She turns the corner before I have time to brace for it.

Barefoot. Hair loose down her back. A book in one hand, robe cinched at the waist, sleeves pushed up.

She looks like she belongs here, like she’s always belonged here. Worse—like she knows it.

She doesn’t startle when she sees me. Doesn’t pause, doesn’t break stride. If she’s surprised to find me in the hall, she doesn’t show it.

Her eyes flick up. Meet mine.

Then she passes. The humming stops, and still she doesn’t look back.

The sound of her steps fades down the corridor—barefoot against marble, quiet but not silent. Each one echoes inside my skull like the ticking of a clock I can’t mute.

She’s adapting. She’s not surviving—she’s settling, and that terrifies me in a way I can’t name.

She should be afraid. Off-balance. Uncertain in these halls. Instead, she walks them like they’re hers.

I stay rooted, every nerve on edge, like my body hasn’t caught up to the fact that she’s already gone.

The more she settles, the more I burn.

I remain still long after she’s gone, eyes fixed on the empty space she left behind. My hand curls loosely at my side, thumb twitching—like it remembers the feel of her skin, the weight of her breath against my mouth.

She’s calm. Controlled. No signs of guilt or nerves. No trace of a woman playing spy in a lion’s den.

Yet… something in her lingers. A flicker too still. A look too knowing.

She’s not afraid of me. Not anymore.

I should be pleased. I wanted her strong. Wanted her sharp, watchful. But I didn’t expect this: the slow erosion of boundaries, the ease in her posture, the way she walks my estate like she already owns the ground beneath her.

Kiera thinks I won’t stop her. She’s wrong.

I start moving again, slower now, every step measured and deliberate. The night swells around me—full of shadows, full of her.

There’s something brewing beneath her stillness. I can feel it. She’s plotting something. Laying foundations beneath silk and smiles.

And if she is? Then she’s finally worthy of the game we’re playing.

Except, she won’t win.