Page 39 of Forced into a Bratva Marriage
I wasn’t his partner. No. To men like that, women like me were treated as belongings—nothing more than another piece of property. I was yet to unravel his agenda, the true reason for this union.
The level of wickedness required to tie an innocent woman to yourself for all eternity for your own benefit was off the charts. His mind was full of evil and utter darkness; the man had no conscience at all.
How on earth was I going to survive a lifetime within these walls? Who did I ever offend to deserve such an inhumane punishment? Why did I get so unlucky at just twenty-one?
I knew deep down in my heart that I was destined for something much greater. But unfortunately, the devil got to me first and decided it was best to extinguish my light.
Now I was locked up in a mansion filled with everything but life. The structure was enormous, and the interior design was the best I’d ever seen. Everything was expensive: couches, chandeliers, wall art, antiques.
Yet despite all of this, the mansion was still dead. At least that’s how it felt to me. It lacked the touch of humanity, and the silence was worse than in a graveyard.
How could a house designed with proper lighting feel so dark? How could a space filled with luxury feel so empty?
This union was supposed to move me from prisoner to wife. But the chains never felt heavier or tighter. I didn’t want to be his wife; I never asked for that—I never asked for any of this.
It had been over five days since the wedding, and I had spent most of that time in my room. My gilded cage. I expected him to complain and probably force me to share his bed. But he didn’t. He let me do as I pleased, which was strange for a devil like him.
I hadn’t been able to figure out what game he was playing. Not yet, anyway. But a part of me appreciated the fact that he wasn’t pushing himself on me.
On the day of our wedding, he avoided my lips and kissed my forehead instead. Shocking. That same night, when I thought he’d try to take what “belonged” to him, he did the exact opposite.
Although I was grateful for his restraint that night, a part of me still wondered why he pulled away. Curiosity, not disappointment. I saw the glint of desire in his eyes. The man wanted me.
He could’ve easily taken me, and I wouldn’t have resisted. But he chose not to. Why? Did he not find me attractive enough? It was a stupid thought, but it did cross my mind.
Whenever I remembered that night, my heart always skipped a beat. Not because of what had almost happened, but because of how it made me feel at that moment.
His touch was electrifying, igniting a dangerous flame within me. I recalled my lips quivering subtly as I stared into those cold steel-blue eyes of his. His arm around my waist was gentle but firm, grounding me in place.
I wasn’t sure if I was imagining this or if it actually happened—his erection brushing against my robe. I thought I felt it when he pulled me close, and my bosom collided with his torso.
Maybe. Maybe not.
But whatever the case, that feeling still lingered—unwanted, yet present. I should’ve been repulsed by thepossibility that what I felt was his boner. I wasn’t. And that was a problem. Ahugeone.
Every now and then, that single memory would creep back into my mind, making me imagine stupid things. The kind of things that left me disappointed in myself afterward.
The more I thought about that night, the more these illicit thoughts took shape in my head. That’s how I knew I was gradually falling into a pit I might never crawl out of.
“Don’t worry. I won’t take you until you beg for it.”His voice still echoed in the back of my mind.
The conviction in his tone and the sheer arrogance of his words were infuriating. That was why I hated myself for entertaining those thoughts. I would rather they remain thoughts, never to be acted upon.
He was so convinced I’d beg him for it that he’d wait an eternity. Because I would never do that. Never.
The knock on my door snapped me out of my thoughts.
“Mrs. Tarasov. It’s me, Agata,” she called from the hallway outside.
Mrs. Tarasov.
I never was going to get used to that name. It wasn’t mine. On paper, it was. But I hadn’t accepted it. I never would.
“Come on in,” I answered. “It’s open.”
The door gave way without a creak, and she stepped inside, carrying a tray of food. My stomach growled in anticipation as the sweet aroma filled the air.
“Your breakfast, ma’am,” she said, quietly setting the tray on the bedside table.
