Page 2 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #13)

The pins don’t hurt, but they feel sharp anyway—cold little pricks against my scalp as the housekeeper secures the final strand. She hums something under her breath, soft and tuneless, while I watch myself in the mirror.

The dress is beautiful. I can admit that, at least. Soft navy silk that clings just enough to suggest a shape, then falls away like it’s too well-mannered to be bold. The sleeves graze my wrists. The neckline is modest. The fabric shimmers faintly in the light, expensive without being loud.

Tiago picked it. I didn’t get a say.

I press my palms flat against my thighs, trying not to think about how damp they are. My skin feels too hot. My breath is steady, but my stomach churns slow and steady like it’s waiting to be sick. I stare at my reflection, wondering if I look how I’m supposed to. Calm. Controlled. Valuable.

The dress doesn’t feel like mine. It feels like a costume. Like something meant to make me disappear into someone else’s story.

I remember being seven, sitting on the edge of a twin bed while my mother tugged at the hem of a white dress. Her fingers always smelled like lavender and bleach. “Stand up straight,” she said. “Smile. Good girls represent the family.”

That was the first time I realized clothes could be weapons. This dress isn’t any different.

“You look beautiful, miss,” the housekeeper says gently, stepping back.

I offer her a small smile. “Thank you.”

Still, I don’t believe it. The woman in the mirror looks like she was built for display. Not for touch, or care.

When I’m alone again, I try out a few expressions. A warm smile. A hesitant one. Eyes up, chin soft. One brow slightly lifted. No, too defiant. I settle on something quiet. Meek, but not pitiful. Careful. Like I’m trying to be polite while the room burns behind me.

This isn’t a dinner. It’s a performance. A test?

They’re sending me in like I’m a gift wrapped in silk and good posture. I don’t know if that’s what I am—but I know how to play the part.

I square my shoulders. My hands tremble once, then still. Then I turn toward the door.

Every step I take from here will be watched. Judged. I don’t have the luxury of nerves anymore.

I don’t get to be just Kiera, not tonight.

The hall stretches longer than it should. Every step I take feels heavier than the last, the soft sweep of silk against my thighs doing nothing to ease the pressure curling at the base of my spine. The marble floors gleam under the chandeliers, polished and cold, like everything else in this house.

Tiago waits at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in black-on-black—shirt crisp, jacket sharp, no tie. His expression gives nothing away. He doesn’t offer a compliment. Doesn’t even really look at me.

He doesn’t need to. I’m not here to be admired; I’m here to be handed over.

He steps forward and places a hand on my shoulder. The weight of it lands deep, pressing through bone.

His voice is low, barely louder than a breath. “This is for the empire our father built.”

The words linger in the air between us, sour and too familiar. I nod, slow and obedient, but something inside me twists.

Our father. Matías Ortega.

He never liked being called father. Said it made him sound old. I think about what he’d say if he saw me now. Would he recognize me like this? Dressed up and silent, stepping into a role shaped by his legacy?

Maybe, and maybe that’s the worst part.

Outside, the air is cool and damp. The driver opens the door without a word. I slide into the backseat. Tiago follows. The door closes, sealing us inside.

The silence is immediate. Thick. It pushes into my chest, curls around my throat.

The driver doesn’t speak. Tiago doesn’t speak. Neither do I.

I focus on my breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The rhythm doesn’t help. My hands remain clenched in my lap, knuckles pale beneath the weight of my grip.

The city flickers past the window. Lights blur. Rain streaks across the glass in long, crooked lines. People move in hurried clusters, heads down, umbrellas snapping open.

They look free.

I wonder what it would feel like to be one of them. To step out into the street, walk fast and far until I disappeared into the noise. No name. No dress. No bloodline binding me to this car, this night, this man waiting for me behind a polished door.

A quiet, selfish thought drifts into my mind like smoke.

Maybe he’ll reject me. Maybe that’ll be enough to end this.

The car slows to a stop outside a restaurant that doesn’t announce itself.

No sign above the entrance, no host lingering outside to welcome guests.

There’s a sleek black awning and dark-paneled windows that give nothing away.

It’s discreet. Upscale. Silent in the way that expensive things always are.

My eyes scan the scene before the door opens. One guard stands near the entrance, earpiece in, posture rigid. Another lingers by a side exit that leads toward the kitchen, casually pretending to check his phone. The driver doesn’t move from the car once Tiago and I step out.

Even the shadows feel rehearsed.

Inside, the air changes. The lighting is soft, almost warm, but every corner feels watched. A man in a tailored vest greets us, not quite a host, not quite a bodyguard. He doesn’t ask for our name. Doesn’t need to. His eyes flick from Tiago to me, pausing just long enough to weigh us.

The man gestures toward a side corridor, murmurs something polite. Tiago takes a step, his hand brushing the small of my back—but it’s me who reaches for the door first. The handle is cool under my palm. I push it open.

My stomach flips.

Inside, the restaurant is hushed and dim, polished wood and velvet-lined booths. It smells like citrus and something more expensive—burnt sugar, maybe. I don’t really register the scent. I’m too aware of my own heartbeat.

I have to seem quiet. Obedient. Meek, but not stupid. Innocent without being naive.

I breathe through my nose, keep my eyes low.

The corridor we’re led down is narrow, lined with half-closed doors and gold sconces. The carpet muffles our footsteps, but each step feels louder than the last. Like I’m echoing in my own ears.

The man at the front says something—“Private room at the end, Mr. Ortega”—and Tiago nods once. Still, he doesn’t speak to me. Not a word since we left the house.

It’s encouragement. It’s warning.

He’s already passed me off in his mind. Already stripped me of my name and replaced it with potential.

The air grows colder the further we walk.

I pass the bar, where a bartender rinses empty glasses with clinical precision. His gaze doesn’t lift.

Somewhere behind one of the closed doors, someone laughs. Low and male. The sound dies quickly.

I walk slower.

Each step takes me further from who I was. From the house with the locked windows. From the mother who said nothing when Tiago made his plans. From the version of myself who still thought silence would be enough.

The hallway bends, and at the very end, a door waits—closed, heavy-looking, backlit by a warm yellow glow.

I already know he’s on the other side.

Waiting. Watching the clock.

I smooth my palms down the sides of my dress, take one final breath, and step forward.

The hostess opens the door without a word, her face a polished mask of discretion. She steps aside and gestures for me to enter. The moment feels practiced, like they’ve done this before, countless times, for men whose names are never written down.

Tiago stops behind me, hand falling away from my back. He doesn’t cross the threshold. I feel it before I turn to look. His silence isn’t indifference. It’s a signal. This part is mine. My responsibility. My consequence.

He nods once, curt. Then he’s gone.

The door eases shut behind me, the latch catching with a soft click that sounds far too final.

The quiet of the private room is deeper than the hallway.

Not the absence of sound, exactly—there’s soft music curling through hidden speakers, something instrumental and expensive—but it feels insulated. Sealed off from the rest of the world.

My spine is straight, shoulders back, every inch of me arranged like armor. But the nerves fray beneath the surface, jittering low in my stomach and higher still, pressing against the hollow of my throat. I can feel my pulse there, fast and anxious.

The room is beautiful. Of course it is.

The lighting is low and warm, casting soft shadows that hug the edges of the walls.

There’s velvet on the chairs, deep red and understated.

The table is set for two—linen napkins, crystal glasses, silver flatware that glints in the glow from overhead.

A bottle of something dark waits in an ice bucket beside the table, unopened.

There’s no one else here. Or if they are, they haven’t made themselves known.

My fingers twitch at my sides.

The carpet mutes my steps as I move further into the room. My shoes make only the faintest sound against it, but even that feels too loud. Too sharp. I slow my pace, letting each footfall sink in without rushing, without hesitating.

Breathe in through your nose. Out through your mouth.

I reach the table and pause, one hand brushing the back of the nearest chair. I don’t sit.

I keep my posture calm. Chin slightly lowered. Eyes soft.

I am the girl they expect—unsure, quiet, deferential. I wear it like perfume.

I don’t know what this man looks like. I haven’t been shown photos, haven’t been told what to expect. I only know his name: Maxim Sharov. That he has the power to end this deal with a single word. Maybe with a glance.

Maybe I should want him to.

The room feels colder by degrees. I glance toward the door again, half expecting Tiago to return and call it off. But the handle doesn’t turn. There’s no sound outside. Only the music and the whisper of my own breath, barely audible over the blood rushing in my ears.

I wonder what kind of man walks into a room knowing a woman has been offered to him like property.

I wonder what he’ll see when he looks at me.

If he’ll care about the way my hands keep clenching and unclenching behind the folds of my dress.

If he’ll notice the way my mouth won’t stop pressing into a line, no matter how hard I try to look pliant.

I glance at the chair again. Finally, slowly, I sit.

My back doesn’t touch the cushion. I keep myself upright, knees together, hands folded in my lap. Proper. Pretty.

Time passes slowly in places like this. There are no clocks, no outside noise to measure it. I have no idea how long I’ve been here. Five minutes. Ten. Long enough for my nerves to shift into something else. Not calm. Not exactly. But… hollow.

Still, I wait, because everything changes after this. One way or another.