Page 4 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #13)

The eggs are cold.

I haven’t touched anything on the plate, though the housekeeper brought it in half an hour ago, like clockwork. Poached eggs, toast I didn’t ask for, a slice of papaya arranged with surgical precision. The kind of breakfast meant for someone whose day is full of appointments and decisions.

Not someone waiting in silence.

The house feels bigger this morning. The quiet stretches too far, like a sheet pulled too tight over something broken. No footsteps in the hall. No phone calls in the next room. The staff tread light now. I think even they can feel it—the weight of disappointment hanging in the walls.

It’s been a week.

Seven days since that dinner. Since the soft clink of glassware and the low thrum of hidden music and the man across from me who didn’t blink when I said I didn’t want him. Since his voice—rough and unexpected—cut through the evening with words I still hear when I close my eyes.

“Have you ever been with a man?”

Tiago enters the dining room without warning, which he never used to do. He used to wait until I invited him. That, too, has shifted. Another thing I don’t control.

He sits across from me, and doesn’t reach for the food. Doesn’t meet my eyes.

“This was our only chance,” he says.

The words land flat. No anger in them. Not yet. Just something low and tight, threaded with guilt he won’t admit and blame he’s trying to lay at my feet without saying it out loud.

I don’t reply.

I wrap my fingers around the teacup instead, feel the heat leeching slowly into my skin. My jaw tightens, shoulders stiff. He doesn’t need to spell it out. I hear it loud and clear.

You failed.

Like this was a test I knew I was taking.

Like I was supposed to win over a man who asked me about my virginity before he asked about my hobbies.

Like all of this—the dress, the dinner, the nerves I tried to choke down like bad wine—was supposed to end with me smiling pretty and Maxim Sharov saying yes.

Tiago still hasn’t looked at me.

I glance at him once, sharp and short. His fingers tap against the table, impatient. He does that when he wants to yell but knows he shouldn’t.

“Did he say anything?” I ask quietly.

“No.”

That one word hits harder than I expect.

It shouldn’t. I told myself I didn’t want this. That I hoped he’d reject me. That being unwanted by a killer would somehow be a mercy.

I remember his eyes. The way he watched me. Not cruel, not soft, but deliberate. I remember the shape of his mouth when he said good, like my innocence meant something to him. I remember the silence that followed, thick with things I didn’t know how to name.

I also remember the weight of walking back into this house afterward—back into Tiago’s world of suits and strategy—and realizing that whatever passed between me and Maxim wasn’t enough to matter.

Tiago exhales, low and slow, then finally meets my gaze. “You could’ve tried harder.”

There it is, the accusation. The words hit like a slap across the face, though his tone never lifts. He says it like it’s fact. Like it was my job to charm the Bratva, and I failed.

“I wasn’t enough, is that it?” My voice is quieter than his, but it’s steadier.

He doesn’t answer.

I set the teacup down. Carefully. So carefully.

“I won’t apologize,” I say.

He frowns. “No one’s asking you to—”

“Yes, you are. You want me to say I messed it up. That I should’ve smiled more. Should’ve acted like I wanted it.”

Silence.

I stand, the chair scraping gently against the floor. I don’t look at him. “I won’t be sorry for telling the truth.”

Then I turn to leave the room, breakfast untouched, and heart heavier than I’ll admit.

Mateo enters with the same quiet precision he brings to everything. No fanfare, no rushed steps. He moves like someone who never needs to announce himself. He sits beside Tiago without a word, folding his hands on the table. His suit is dark, tailored without flash. Always neat, always calm.

He glances at the untouched breakfast, then at the tension thick between us. His eyes land on Tiago briefly—reading him, assessing—before he exhales through his nose and speaks.

“It was always a long shot,” he says.

The words aren’t dismissive. They’re steady. Almost kind.

Tiago doesn’t answer right away. His shoulders tense, but he keeps his gaze fixed on the center of the table.

Mateo continues, tone even. “Expecting peace from a marriage built on bloodshed… it was a fantasy. One we bought into because we didn’t have better options.”

I look at him. He doesn’t look back.

He never does when he says things meant to help. It’s his way—never singling me out, never offering comfort that feels like pity, but I hear it anyway. The defense tucked beneath his logic. The way he shifts blame from me to the circumstances. He doesn’t say I did well. He doesn’t have to.

He’s one of the few in Tiago’s world who treats me like I’m real. Not a bargaining chip. Not a liability. A person. Not with affection—Mateo doesn’t do warmth—but with fairness. With quiet, constant dignity.

Tiago bristles beside him. I see the twitch in his jaw, the way his hands flex once before going still. He doesn’t argue. Maybe because he knows Mateo’s right. Or maybe because arguing now would make it too obvious who he blames.

I take my seat again and pick up my teacup. The heat is long gone. The liquid inside is bitter now, flat.

I sip anyway.

Across the table, Tiago shifts in his seat. There’s disappointment in the way he moves, in the silence that follows. Not explosive. Not loud. Just tired. Worn.

I feel it pressing at the edge of me, trying to seep in.

Maybe the silence from the Bratva is a gift.

Maybe Maxim saw me and thought: No. Not worth it. Not strong enough. Not bold enough. Not anything enough.

I think that’s mercy.

I won’t be some bird in a cage, forced to share a bed with a stranger who’s killed more men than I’ve spoken to. No living like a shadow in someone else’s empire. Maybe being passed over is the closest thing to freedom I’ll ever get.

I don’t say any of that. I don’t give voice to the mess in my chest. I keep my eyes on the tea. I sit still, and I endure my brother’s disappointment in silence.

Like I’ve done before. Like I’ve learned to do.

The knock that follows comes sharp and sudden—two short raps, clipped and decisive. It cuts straight through the fog of silence that’s settled over the house. I straighten, teacup still half raised. Tiago’s head jerks toward the sound, mouth set in a line.

Footsteps follow. One of the guards steps into the doorway, his stance rigid, voice flat.

“There’s a man at the gate. Russian.”

That’s all he says, but it’s enough.

Tiago is already moving. He pushes back from the table so quickly the chair scrapes hard against the floor. Mateo stands next, calmer but no less alert. I rise last, slower. My knees feel stiff, the rest of me stretched too thin to respond quickly.

We follow Tiago down the hallway. No one speaks. The air feels tight around my ribs, like the house itself is bracing. The silence is heavier now: not passive, but watchful. Waiting.

Outside, the light is low and gray. The front entrance looms ahead, the wide foyer cold beneath my bare feet. The guard opens the door without waiting for permission.

The man on the front steps doesn’t need to be introduced.

He’s tall, easily over six foot. Dressed all in black—coat fitted, boots polished, everything about him severe. His hair is cropped short, beard trimmed to precision. There’s something clinical in the way he stands. Still. Silent.

Not a soldier. Something colder. He steps forward into the house like it belongs to him.

Tiago blocks his path for a breath, then steps aside. It’s not quite submission, but it’s something close.

The man crosses the room without hesitation. His eyes don’t flick around. He doesn’t scan the hallway or acknowledge Mateo. His focus is singular.

Me.

He stops a foot away from where I stand, and I can feel the way Tiago shifts behind me, tense. The man reaches inside his coat.

I don’t flinch. I want to, but I don’t.

His hand emerges holding a small box. It’s velvet, deep red, with no markings.

He places it gently in my hands. Then he turns, and walks out. He disappears down the hallway, the sound of his boots fading until the door clicks shut behind him.

Nobody moves. The quiet settles again, heavier than before.

I stare down at the box. My fingers have gone cold against the velvet. They tremble slightly as I adjust my grip, afraid I might drop it.

Inside my chest, something starts to pulse. Dull and steady.

Whatever this is… it’s from Maxim.

I lift the lid with careful fingers, peeling it back as if the box might bite. It doesn’t creak or snap open, just gives way with silent ease. Inside, nestled in black velvet, is a ring.

Not gold. Not gaudy. Not something chosen to flatter or soften.

The stone is a deep, bloodred garnet—oval cut, set low into a heavy silver band.

Four silver claws hold the gem in place, sharp and deliberate, like talons curled around something alive.

There are etchings along the sides of the band—faint, almost invisible unless the light hits them right. Not decoration. Symbols. Language.

The ring looks old, or meant to look old. Gothic. Striking. Beautiful in a way that makes my breath catch.

My thumb grazes the edge of the velvet as I stare down at it. It doesn’t feel like a gift.

It feels like a threat.

My heart thuds once, hard. I can hear it in my ears, feel it in my fingertips. The world goes a little quieter around the edges.

Behind me, Tiago doesn’t say a word.

I don’t have to look to know his eyes are fixed on the ring. That means he’s worried. His stillness always means more than his movement.

I swallow hard.

Mateo speaks first. “This means yes,” he says, like he expected this. Or hoped for it, maybe, is the better term.

He steps closer, not enough to touch, but enough that I can hear him clearly. “In Bratva terms,” he continues, “this is an answer. A message. There’s no note because there doesn’t need to be one.”

I blink once. “A ring means yes?”

Mateo nods. “It means you’re claimed. That the deal is accepted.”

Claimed. The word settles in my stomach like a stone. I look down at the ring again, still cold in my palm.

The garnet sits heavy in its setting, dark and solid and full of weight. Like it knows what it means. Like it was waiting for a moment like this.

I’d made peace with the silence. I thought Maxim had walked away. That he saw me, measured me, and found me wanting. I thought the lack of word meant I’d been spared. That Tiago’s desperate gamble had failed, and I could go back to living in the quiet corner of the house, invisible again.

This is entirely different to what I expected.

I glance up. Tiago’s still watching me, but his expression gives nothing away. His mouth is pressed flat, unreadable. He’s calculating again—gears turning, already shifting from disappointment to opportunity.

Mateo stays still beside me. He doesn’t intrude, but I feel the weight of his presence.

I look back down at the ring. The cold hasn’t faded, and my fingers curl around the velvet.

Whatever I thought had ended that night—whatever hope I held on to, that this was a chapter I could close before it began—I was wrong.

I close the box slowly, pressing the lid shut with a soft click. It echoes louder than it should in the silence.

The weight of the ring hasn’t left my hand, even with the velvet shut around it. It lingers like frost—something old and unmoving, something that marks you even if you never wear it.

I breathe in, slow. Shaky.

Tiago finally turns, muttering something to one of the guards before walking out. He doesn’t look back.

Mateo stays behind, and he doesn’t bother to ask how I’m doing.

“This changes things,” he says, quiet as ever. “He wouldn’t send the ring if he was unsure. Not a man like Sharov.”

I nod once, but it feels disconnected. My body knows what to do—nod, stand, move—but my thoughts are still back there, staring at the garnet. Still hearing Maxim’s voice, low and even.

I’m not sure if I’m more afraid of being wanted… or of what comes next.