Page 44 of Forced By the Bratva

The house felt too large and too quiet, and the day seemed to stretch on forever. Every time a door closed somewhere downstairs, my stomach tightened, waiting for his voice or his shadow in the doorway. Neither came.

By afternoon, the silence had turned heavy, mostly because there was no sign of him anywhere.

I told myself he was busy. Maybe he had meetings that needed his attention or business deals to close. Besides, his kind of work required him to be away from home most of the time.

Unfortunately, that explanation didn’t stick. My mind kept circling back to the way he’d looked at me while he was inside me—intense, almost stunned—and then to the empty space beside the bed this morning.

Why did he leave me alone on the bed anyway? Sure, he stayed until morning. But why did he choose to lie on the floor?

My heart sank at the possibility of this being a sign of rejection. Maybe he’d gotten what he wanted, and that was the end of it. He’d fucked me, and now I no longer mattered to him.

The thought landed harder than I expected.

I sat on the edge of the bed with my hands clasped between my knees and tried to breathe through it. I had no right to feel discarded.

I was the one who’d been taken. I was the one who’d been locked inside this house. Wanting him to stay after what happened last night only proved how far I’d already slipped.

Still, the hollow feeling stayed.

I tried to read, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything else that wasn’t related to him. I paced the length of the room, anxious, as though my anxiety would solve anything.

Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his mouth between my legs, the slow drag of his tongue, the way my own hips had lifted to meet him.

I let out a frustrated groan, unable to get him out of my head. The memory of him made my skin prickle, and I hated how easily my body remembered every single detail.

Later that evening, I sat by the window, gazing at the twinkling stars when a knock on my door startled me. I recognized the pattern. It was him.

Before my brain could even register what was happening, I was already on my feet.

The door opened, and he walked inside, dressed in a tailored black suit that fit him perfectly. His polished shoes clicked on the floor as he crossed the room with his usual calmness.

My pulse raced as I held his gaze, expecting to hear a speech about how what happened was a mistake that wouldn’t happen again.

He halted in front of me, his cologne filling the air around me.

“I’m sure you have questions,” he said, one hand in his pocket. “One of them being…what exactly are we now?”

He wasn’t wrong.

But I didn’t tell him that. I just stood, heart hammering in anticipation.

“Allow me to clear the air,” he said, his eyes latched on me. “I’m going to marry you. And you’re going to be my wife.”

It wasn’t just the words that raised my brows; it was also the finality of his tone that left no room for further debate.

My lips parted, but before I could make a sound, he interrupted me.

“It’s not up for discussion, Iris.” His voice was low and even. “It’s been decided.”

The room felt smaller, and my pulse was beating so hard I was sure he could see it in my neck.

“I’m going to marry you,” he repeated, his tone final.

Chapter 16 – Ilya

Everything happened so fast, and within the next few days, the wedding was planned and organized. Paperwork was drafted and stamped, the ceremony scheduled in a private hall in the city.

On the day of our union, I wore an impeccably tailored black suit, custom-made for the ceremony. Iris wore a simple yet elegant ivory dress that I’d spent a fortune on. The fabric hugged her in all the right places, highlighting the delicate curve of her body.