Page 8 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #13)

I lean against the bar, fingers curled around the rim of a glass I’ve barely touched. The drink’s some pale pink thing Esme ordered for me—vodka, citrus, something fizzy. I’ve taken maybe three sips. The condensation beads along the side, trailing slowly over my hand, but I don’t wipe it away.

Esme dances a few feet away, her arms raised, hips swaying in time with the music. She’s flushed and radiant beneath the pulsing lights, her laughter bright even in the roar of sound. There’s no stiffness in her movements, no hesitation. She lets herself belong here, lets herself take up space.

I envy that ease.

I watch her with a small smile, my chest tugging tight. Not from jealousy—never that—but from the dull ache of knowing I used to feel like that. Light. Unafraid. Before everything changed. Before words like bride and deal and belonging wrapped themselves around my throat.

The beat thunders through the floor. Lights flash red, blue, then gold. Bodies shift and move and press in, but it all feels distant, muffled, like I’m watching from the other side of glass. Nothing touches me. Not the music. Not the heat. Not even the drink.

I didn’t come here to dance. I didn’t come to drink.

I came to forget.

Except, I can’t. The ring haunts me. It’s not on my finger, but I feel it anyway. A weight tucked into my purse, heavy with expectation. The silence from Maxim hangs just as loud, stretching into something that no longer feels uncertain. It feels intentional. Final.

A future I never asked for is rushing toward me like a train, and I’ve run out of track.

I swirl the glass absently, eyes on the swirl of Esme’s dress as she spins. That’s when I feel someone settle at my side.

“Strange,” a voice says, smooth and low.

I glance over.

He’s in his late thirties, maybe forty. Well-dressed. Suit sharp, tie undone enough to suggest comfort but not sloppiness. His jaw’s strong, smile easy. A man who’s used to being listened to. Used to being the one who buys the drinks.

“You don’t look like the kind of girl who hangs around places like this,” he says, gaze skimming over me. “Too polished.”

I offer a small smile. Not warmth. Not invitation. Just surface politeness.

“Guess I’m in the wrong place, then.”

He laughs, stepping a little closer. “No such thing.”

His voice softens as he leans in. “You’ve got that look: someone trying to outrun a bad week. Want some company while you do it?”

I shake my head, gentle but firm. “I’m here with a friend.”

He nods, but his eyes stay on me. Then his hand brushes my waist.

It’s not harsh. Not insistent, but it’s too familiar. Too assumptive.

I go still. My mouth parts as I prepare to excuse myself, heart picking up in my chest—

Then another hand clamps down on his wrist. Hard. The pressure makes the man hiss, twisting slightly in place. He looks up in surprise, and so do I.

Maxim doesn’t say a word.

He appears beside me like a shadow pulled from the dark, expression unreadable, eyes colder than I’ve ever seen them. His grip clamps around the man’s wrist—firm, exact, a hand forged for violence.

The man stiffens, startled. “Hey—hey, relax, it was a joke,” he says, trying to twist free.

Maxim doesn’t let go.

His hand tightens, fingers locking with such brutal control that it makes my breath catch.

The sound comes sharp and fast.

A crack—distinct, clean. Like dry wood splitting.

The man gasps, stumbling back as Maxim finally releases him. He clutches his hand to his chest, eyes wide, the reality of it sinking in.

A few people nearby turn at the noise. The pulse of the music fades for a moment as space opens around us. The lights flash once over Maxim’s face—cutting across his jaw, his mouth set in a hard line.

He doesn’t look at the man.

He doesn’t look at the small crowd beginning to form, whispers blooming at the edges.

He looks at me.

Then he reaches for my wrist and pulls.

I barely have time to plant my heels before I’m moving.

His hand is hot, tight around my skin, and he cuts a path through the crowd without glancing back.

The music swells again, swallowing the commotion.

I catch Esme’s face out of the corner of my eye—confused, calling my name—but she disappears behind the blur of moving bodies as he pushes forward.

My voice rises. “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Maxim—stop.”

The club doors blast open, and we spill into the night. Cold air sweeps over my skin, sharp after the heat inside. My feet skid against the pavement as he drags me down a narrow alley beside the building, away from streetlights, away from eyes.

“Let go,” I snap, yanking my arm back.

He releases me, but it isn’t retreat. It’s calculation. He watches me like he’s measuring the space between us for something other than distance.

“You can’t break someone’s hand just for speaking to me,” I bite out.

His eyes narrow. “He touched what’s mine.”

My stomach flips. Not from fear. Not entirely. It’s rage. It’s heat. It’s the shock of being claimed like territory.

“I’m not yours,” I say. My voice shakes, but I force it steady. “We’re not married yet.”

He steps toward me. I step back. He keeps moving.

His coat shifts with the motion, his body cutting out the alley’s light. The walls feel narrower. My heart pounds hard enough that I can feel it in my throat.

“You wear my ring,” he says. “You belong to me.”

“You don’t own me.”

“I do.” His voice stays low, but it’s steel beneath the surface.

I back up until my spine meets the brick wall. He follows, not quite touching, but close enough that I feel the press of his control in the air.

He lifts a hand and brushes a strand of hair from my cheek.

“You don’t get to walk into places like that, dressed like this, and pretend you’re still unspoken for.”

My throat tightens. “Watch me,” I whisper.

His jaw clenches. “I am.”

He moves closer.

The space between us disappears inch by inch until my back meets the wall and his arms lift, bracing on either side of me.

The alley is silent except for our breathing and the low pulse of bass still thudding from the club.

His scent surrounds me—expensive, sharp, foreign. It clings to my skin like heat.

His eyes drop, slow and deliberate, trailing down the front of my body. To the hem of my dress.

The air thickens. “You wore this for attention?” he murmurs, voice quiet but heavy with warning. “Don’t wear it again.”

It’s not a suggestion it’s an order.

My breath catches. My mouth parts, but no sound comes at first. I want to yell at him, to shove him back, to spit something clever and cutting that will strip the calm from his face. I want to reclaim the night, the dress, the pieces of myself I’ve stitched back together.

The heat between us short-circuits everything.

The pressure. The silence. The way his eyes linger without shame, as if the fabric itself offends him.

“You don’t get to control me,” I say.

My voice wavers—but I say it anyway.

He leans in, mouth brushing the curve of my ear, his breath warm. “I already do.”

I squeeze my eyes shut.

He doesn’t touch me. Not really. His hands stay where they are, caging me without pressure. His mouth doesn’t claim mine, but the promise is there, humming in the space between us, thick enough to drown in.

I brace for a kiss.

I wait for it—lips twitching, breath caught, heart pounding against the wall of my chest. Every part of me locks up.

The moment stretches. I hate him. I hate the way his presence makes everything blur at the edges. I hate the way he speaks to me, the way he looks at me like I’m already his. I hate the nerve, the violence, the silence that follows all of it.

Something in me stirs anyway. It coils in my stomach, tight and shameful. Not just desire—something deeper. Something more dangerous.

He leans back slightly, eyes heavy lidded, gaze dropping again to the line of my throat. He says nothing else.

My hand twitches at my side, fingers curling.

His mouth hovers close, and still, he does nothing. That restraint? That infuriating, inflexible control? That’s what breaks me.

No matter how much I want to scream at him, and kiss him, and shove him away, and collapse into the heat of this thing between us, I can’t.

I don’t know which impulse will win.

He steps back without a word, pulling his phone from the inside of his coat. The moment breaks, but the heat of it lingers, clinging to my skin like smoke.

He speaks in Russian—sharp, fast, clipped like a blade. I don’t understand the words, but the tone is unmistakable. A car. Instructions. Movement already in place before I even know we’re leaving.

My knees are still weak.

I breathe through my nose, force my spine straight. I won’t let him see the way my fingers tremble. Not from fear. Not entirely. Something heavier pulses in my chest. Adrenaline, yes. Tangled with it—something more dangerous. Something that twists lower, hot and shameful.

We wait in silence.

The alley is quiet now, the music inside muffled, distant. I can feel him watching me. I don’t look to check, but I know it. The weight of his gaze is precise. Measured. The kind of attention that doesn’t wander. It roots itself in your skin and stays.

The car pulls up, tires crunching softly over the asphalt. Sleek, black, windows tinted deep. Maxim walks forward and opens the door without looking back.

A choice. I could walk away. Esme’s still inside. My phone’s in my purse. I could call a car, disappear, find somewhere else to sleep, even if it’s only for one night.

I watch him, his face unreadable in the streetlight. Then I step forward and slide into the car.

The door closes behind me with a solid thud.

Inside, the temperature is cool, the interior dim. Leather seats, silent engine, everything wrapped in muted luxury. He follows a second later, the car shifting beneath his weight. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t reach for me.

Still, the space between us feels thick.

His thigh settles near mine, close enough to feel the heat of his body, the pressure of his presence. The scent of him—wood, spice, the faintest trace of tobacco—wraps around me until it’s impossible to ignore.

I want to be strong. I want to hold on to that defiance, that fire I carried out of the club. But my limbs feel heavy. My skin hums with the aftershocks of too much: too much sensation, too much pressure.

I hate the quiet part of me that wants to lean into the warmth. I hate that I keep replaying the way he looked at me back there, gaze locked on mine like he already knew the outcome.

I hate the part of me that wonders if he’s right.

The city slides by outside the window, blurred lights and flashes of movement I can’t bring myself to care about. My head tips back against the seat.

I close my eyes. I’m not ready to surrender, but I’m not strong enough to fight forever.