Page 26 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #13)

Chapter Twenty-Four - Maxim

I see it before she even steps into the west wing.

There’s a shift in her gait, too focused to be casual, too careful to be coincidence.

Kiera walks like someone who has something to hide—shoulders set, eyes forward, steps light.

She doesn’t linger by the windows or glance at the artwork like she usually does when she’s pretending to wander.

Not today. Today, she walks like someone with a destination. And I already know where she’s headed.

I don’t follow right away. I let her think she’s alone, let her slip into that false sense of security she’s grown so good at wrapping around herself, but I’ve been watching her too long not to notice when the mask shifts. She disappears through the library doors, and that’s when I move.

Quiet. Deliberate. Every step soaked in the kind of tension that makes men pray.

The door creaks as I push it open—unlocked, of course. I disabled the security weeks ago. Her head whips around.

She freezes.

There’s a beat of silence so thick it could choke us both. Her hand’s half raised, hovering near the bookshelf. Her eyes go wide—not in surprise, but recognition. Like a thief caught mid-step. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t try to explain. That says more than any excuse ever could.

I close the door behind me.

“What are you doing?”

My voice is calm, but it carries weight. The kind of weight that silences a room before the bullet ever leaves the chamber. Her mouth parts, like she’s about to answer, but then she doesn’t. Her fingers twitch. She won’t look at me.

That’s all I need.

I cross the room slowly. Her breath hitches when I reach the shelf, the one with the tattered books I haven’t touched in months. My fingers slide along the spines, deliberate, pausing over one that looks just slightly out of place. I pull it free.

Dune.

I flip it open, and there it is. The burner phone.

It’s not the first time I’ve seen it. Weeks ago, I noticed it out of the corner of my eye when she was in the library. Again in the hallway, tucked into her pocket. I waited. Gave her space. Gave myself time. I told myself if I was wrong, it would ruin everything.

I’m not wrong.

I unwrap the cloth and flick the phone open. No passcode. No barrier. It lights up instantly, like it’s been waiting for me. And in the silence, I feel her guilt like a fucking heartbeat.

I turn, slow, holding the phone between us. She’s standing still, but everything in her screams motion—too stiff, too silent, her shoulders tense like she’s holding in a thousand lies.

“You’ve been busy.”

She doesn’t speak. Her silence has never been more dangerous.

I close the distance between us until her back hits the wall. My hand braces beside her head, the other still holding the phone. Her breathing’s shallow. Her gaze flicks between my mouth and my eyes, calculating.

“Don’t lie to me,” I say, voice low, coiled.

Still nothing.

“You’ve been reporting to someone. Passing information. The only question is—who.”

Her lips twitch. I wait for a denial, a protest, anything. It never comes.

My hand drops to her throat—not in violence, but in warning. My fingers find her pulse, and it’s racing. She’s scared, but not of dying. No, she’s scared of me . Of what this moment means. Her body goes rigid, her chin lifted, eyes locked on mine like she’s daring me to do my worst.

“I could kill you right now,” I whisper, and I mean it. One word and she’s gone. I have the power, the reach, the men. She knows that. What neither of us knows anymore is whether I want to.

Beneath the fury, beneath the betrayal, there’s still that maddening ache. That hunger I haven’t been able to kill.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t beg. God, she never begs.

“I trusted you,” I say. The words taste like rust. “And you’ve been playing me. Using me.”

Her mouth opens, but there’s no apology. No emotion. Just silence.

That hurts more than anything else.

I step back. Toss the phone onto the desk. It lands with a soft thud that feels louder than a gunshot.

“Who is it?” I ask. “Give me a name.”

She stares at me.

“Then don’t expect mercy when I find out myself.”

I don’t squeeze hard—yet. My hand rests at her throat with just enough pressure to remind her what I could do.

That I could end her, right here, right now.

My chest is pressed to hers, and I feel it—the wild thrum of her pulse.

She’s breathing too fast, like prey who knows the kill is coming.

I lean closer, my voice low, rough enough to scrape across her skin.

“Don’t test me.”

She flinches—barely—but her eyes don’t leave mine. For a split second, something passes across her face. Not fear. Or at least not only that. It’s something darker. Calculating. Then just like that, she smiles.

It’s quick. Sharp. Cruel. The kind of smile that says she’s already decided how this ends.

Before I can move, she strikes. A flash of silver. The gleam of a blade catching the lamplight.

Pain punches through my upper arm. The dagger slides in with a whisper of steel and flesh, a sharp, hot jolt that steals my breath for half a second. I stagger back a step, not from the pain—it’s nothing, a fucking pinprick—but from the shock. She stabbed me. She fucking stabbed me.

She uses that heartbeat of hesitation.

She slips free from my grip like smoke, legs moving before I can react, her boots silent against the floor as she spins out of my reach. Her eyes are wild, mouth set in a tight line. Her chest rises and falls fast, but her hands don’t shake. She’s not breaking.

“Not bad,” I mutter through gritted teeth, flexing my injured arm as I stare at the blood dripping down to my wrist. The dagger wound stings, but it’s shallow. A warning more than anything. She could’ve done worse. Could’ve aimed for my throat or buried it deeper. She didn’t.

She’s holding back, and that makes me angrier than the pain.

She thinks this is still a game. Still believes she can outmaneuver me and live long enough to gloat about it. But I see it now—clear as glass. She’s not helpless. She never has been. She’s quick, ruthless, clever. I’ve been sleeping beside a snake, and I only felt the fangs now.

Her breath hitches. Her eyes shift. Her grip tightens, then slackens again. And in that split-second of restraint, I see something deeper. Something messier than strategy. She doesn’t want to end this. Not yet.

Before I can close the distance between us, she darts out of reach.

One second she’s in front of me, the next she’s behind the desk, slamming through the office door.

I lunge forward, but she moves like she’s memorized the layout of the room—every piece of furniture, every escape.

The door swings shut, and I hear the lock snap into place.

I press my hand to the handle and twist. Locked. Of course.

I could break it. Kick it in. Tear the whole frame down with my bare hands.

I step back instead, chest heaving, the adrenaline still pumping through me like fire. My arm throbs where she cut me, and I curl my fingers into a fist, blood seeping between my knuckles.

There’s a grin creeping across my face that I can’t stop, teeth bared in something too close to amusement. She thinks she’s clever. Thinks she’s got distance on her side.

Let her run. Let her think she’s free, because this isn’t the end. It’s the beginning.

This is the part I enjoy. The chase.

She doesn’t know what she’s started—what she’s awoken in me. That smirk she gave before slipping the blade in? That was a mistake. Because now it’s personal.

Now it’s real.

She’s not getting away from me.

I stride back into the hall, ignoring the blood trail I leave behind. I don’t call for help. Don’t shout for guards. If I wanted her caught, she’d be on her knees by now. No, I want her to feel that victory for a little longer. Let it settle into her bones.

My steps echo down the marble hallway, and for the first time in weeks, the silence in this house feels right. A different kind of clarity settles in—cold, clean. She’s drawn blood. Betrayed me. Lied to my face, but she also looked at me like she couldn’t finish it. Like she didn’t want to.

That’s the part I can’t stop thinking about.

That flicker in her gaze. The heat behind her anger. The way her body trembled against mine—not just with fear. There was something else.

It’s still there, under her skin. I’ve seen it.

She didn’t run from me because she was afraid I’d kill her. She ran because she was afraid of what happens if she stays.

Staying means facing the part of her that wanted to hesitate. That wanted to keep me alive.

She thinks she’s a weapon. She thinks she’s immune, but I’ve broken stronger people with less.

So go, Kiera. Hide. Watch your back. Sleep with a knife under your pillow.

The silence is deeper now. The kind that settles in after a storm.

I stand in the empty hallway, the taste of blood sharp on the back of my tongue, my arm still bleeding steadily beneath the sleeve.

The pain grounds me. Reminds me this isn’t a dream.

She really did it—stabbed me. Fought me.

Locked the door and ran like a ghost into the dark.

I could’ve had her pinned again in seconds. Could’ve knocked her out, dragged her back, broken her piece by piece until she gave me every truth she’s been hiding. But I didn’t. I stepped back. Let her vanish into the night. Not because I’m merciful. Not because I’m weak.

Because I’m calculating. Because now I know what she is, and she knows I know.

The next time we meet, the mask will be gone. No more sweet smiles, no more feigned obedience. She’ll come armed with everything she’s got. But so will I. This little dance we’ve been doing—it’s over. What comes next isn’t seduction or slow corruption.

It’s war.

I start moving again, pace steady, my mind already turning over next steps.

She’ll run to Tiago—where else would she go?

He’s the only one who fits. I should’ve seen it sooner.

The hesitations. The way she’d go quiet when certain names came up.

I was so focused on her mouth, her body, the way she moaned in my bed—I forgot to watch her hands.

Stupid, but I’m not stupid anymore.

Except, neither is she.

I pass the main hallway and head for the small medical room we keep behind the south wing. I patch the wound myself, sterilize the blade before sewing it shut. Four stitches. Clean, efficient. I don’t wince. Pain is nothing new. It’s the betrayal that digs deeper.

Once the bleeding stops, I change shirts and pour a drink I don’t taste. The liquor burns on the way down, but it doesn’t help. My head’s too loud. My chest too tight.

I stare out the window, toward the city glittering like nothing’s wrong. Somewhere out there, she’s hiding. Lying low. Trying to breathe through the fire she started.