Page 6 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #13)

I wake with a gasp, the sound ripping out of me before I’m fully conscious. My body moves before thought catches up—I sit bolt upright, chest heaving, fingers clenched tight around sheets I don’t recognize.

It takes several seconds for my brain to catch up. There’s no pain. No cold. No blood slicking my skin or rushing in my ears.

Nothing is wrong, except the soft press of luxury beneath me.

The mattress swallows my weight. The sheets are silk—real silk, not the slippery imitation from department stores. They cling to my damp skin like water, whispering against my legs when I shift. The pillow still cradles the heat of my body, plush and unfamiliar.

Everything is unfamiliar. The room is silent. Too silent.

I blink into the dimness. Light seeps around the edges of thick curtains, golden and hazy.

The furniture is dark wood, carved with detail too fine to be modern.

A gilded mirror hangs above a dresser, and the floor gleams beneath a massive rug threaded in red and gold. Everything is pristine, expensive.

Alien.

I’m not home. There’s a scent in the air—something musky and sharp, like cologne but heavier. It clings to the room. It clings to me.

Wrong.

Memory lurches back in fragments. A room too loud with music. Cold champagne pressed into my hand. The weight of my dress. My father’s face—then gone. Then Maxim. His eyes, too pale. His voice, too calm.

The ring box.

My stomach turns.

I throw the sheets off and swing my legs to the floor.

My bare feet touch cool stone. My knees feel too loose beneath me, muscles still caught between dream and threat.

I push up anyway. I don’t care that I’m only wearing a slip.

I don’t care that my hair is tangled or my heart’s beating fast enough to choke me.

I need to move. I need to understand.

The silence hums, thick and total. I can’t hear any footsteps, or anything at all. It’s just me and this gilded cage.

I don’t know where I am, but I know whose house this is. Maxim’s.

I move fast, legs shaky beneath me, breath catching with each step. The curtains are thick velvet, too heavy to push aside with one hand. I grab both panels and pull. The fabric resists at first, then gives way with a low hiss, spilling open.

Darkness stares back at me.

No streetlights. No traffic. No skyline. Just open land—flat and endless, maybe forest, maybe fields. It’s hard to tell through the black, but there are no lights out there. No signs of movement. No life.

My breath shortens.

I press my palm to the glass. It’s cold. Thicker than it should be. Reinforced. The kind of window meant to keep things in—or out.

The panic rises so fast it catches me off guard. I step back, eyes scanning the room now with purpose.

This isn’t a bedroom in a house. It’s a display.

Every piece of furniture gleams. The bedding is flawless. The curtains hang without a single wrinkle. There’s nothing human here. Nothing warm. No clutter or books. No personal items. Not even a clock.

Time has been stripped from me.

There’s no escape.

I kneel by the bedside table, fingers trembling slightly as I slide it open.

Inside: a bottle of water, sealed. A glass. Folded pajamas in ivory cotton, pressed and lined with care. A comb. Nothing sharp. Nothing accidental.

Everything in place. Everything deliberate.

There’s a chair by the fireplace. It hasn’t been used, but the wood is stacked, dry and waiting. Even the matches are aligned on the mantel. A fire could be lit in seconds.

I turn a slow circle. Someone prepared this for me.

My chest tightens. I’m not locked in a cell. I’m being dressed in velvet, handed water, and tucked into silk sheets, but it’s still a cage. The softness doesn’t change that.

I stare at the door. The light seeping under is the only break in the perfection. The only unknown.

My pulse thrums in my ears. I take one step forward, then another.

If this is a game, someone’s waiting to see what I do next.

I reach for the handle and twist. It doesn’t budge. No give. No resistance. Just a dull, final thud against the frame, the kind of sound that settles in your chest before your ears catch up.

I try again, slower this time, as if I might’ve missed something the first time. But it’s the same. Solid. Unyielding. The lock is engaged from the outside.

My throat tightens.

This isn’t ceremonial. This isn’t political theatre, some high-stakes drama Tiago staged to bluff the Bratva. This is real. Cold and deliberate.

They’ve locked me in.

I draw in a breath that snags halfway down.

The instinct is to scream, but I won’t give them that.

I won’t stand here shaking and desperate with my fists against the door.

That’s what they want. That’s what they expect from the girl with the soft voice and the shiny dress. The girl no one thought to warn.

I step back. Close my eyes. Let the air expand my lungs. Think, Kiera. You’ve survived worse.

I turn from the door and make my way across the room. The vanity mirror catches my reflection as I pass. I pause.

Pale face. Wide eyes. My hair is flattened on one side, wild on the other. My shoulders are bare. The slip clings to my skin.

I sit carefully, fingers reaching toward my temple. Slowly, I extract a single bobby pin, working it free without tugging. The metal is matte black, thin enough to vanish into my hairline. I hold it up between two fingers.

It’s nothing. Insignificant. Until you need it.

I bend it once, test its give. It’ll bend. It’ll work.

My pulse pounds in my ears again, but this time I don’t let it shake me. I move back to the door, drop to my knees, and press my ear against the wood. Nothing. No footsteps. No voices. I crouch lower, eye level with the lock.

The bobby pin trembles in my hand.

I steady it.

My fingers find the seam of the keyhole. I’ve never done this, but I’ve seen it enough. Quick fingers. Pressure. Listen for the catch.

I turn my wrist slowly, feeling the pin catch, slip, catch again. I twist, then ease off, then twist again.

Seconds pass. My breath comes shallow now, but I don’t stop.

Then there it is. A soft click, the tiniest sound in the world. It might as well be thunder.

The breath leaves me in a shaky rush, shoulders slumping with the sound. That one click—that one tiny shift of metal—means everything.

One step. Just one step between me and whatever waits beyond that door.

I press my ear to the wood again, straining for the faintest sound. A guard shifting his weight. A murmur of voices. The creak of boots on polished floors. Anything.

There’s nothing. Only silence. It wraps around me like fog, too thick to see through. I’d prefer noise—yelling, footsteps, alarms. At least that would mean someone was paying attention. At least then I’d know where they were.

This kind of silence? It’s calculated. The kind that waits for you to move first.

My fingers rest against the knob, hovering. Not twisting. Not turning. Not yet.

My pulse races. Is this a test?

Is someone watching through a hidden camera, waiting to see what I’ll do next? Will the door swing open into a corridor lined with guns and men in black, all of them smiling like they’ve been waiting for the little rabbit to bolt?

Maybe, but fairy tales don’t happen for girls like me.

No one’s coming to save me. No prince. No brother. Not even the man who put a ring in a velvet box and sent it to my doorstep.

If I want out, I have to earn it.

Delicate things survive by being sharp. You were made for this.

My bare feet settle back against the cold stone. The floor bites at my skin, sharp enough to remind me I’m still here, still real. The bobby pin stays tight in my palm, bent and humming with purpose. I could throw it away, but I don’t.

I might need it again.

I take one step back from the door, eyes still locked on the handle. My body coils, breath shallow, every part of me tuned to the next decision.

Without allowing myself time to overthink, I run; and I keep running, lungs aching, until I smack into something tall and hard.

I look up, and see a man. He grins. “Hello, Kiera,” he drawls, in a thick Russian accent. “I see you escaped your room. Shame you won’t get far.”

My mouth goes dry. “Who are you?”

“Andrei.” His grin widens, and I shiver. “Now, as much as I would like to punish you, you’ve spent half the day sleeping, and Maxim has a request. Go find something nice to wear.”

“What?”

“He’s graciously allowed you one last night of freedom. Do as I say, and I won’t even tell him about your… excursion.”

My pulse roars, but I step back. I’m caught, nowhere to go… I should do as he says.

“Wear something nice for the club,” he says. “Maxim will see you there.”