Page 73 of The Bratva Enforcer and His Virgin Bride

There is something about her that refuses to fit into my calculations—a stubborn anomaly I can’t quite account for. And that uncertainty is beginning to bleed into the way I approach her, shifting the ground beneath both of our feet.

Chapter 9 – Sofia

Since my books arrived at the house a few days ago, I feel calmer. Like I can breathe properly again. Like this place—this massive, quiet, too-perfect place—might actually belong to me for as long as I’m here.

Or at least… not feel like a prison.

I set one of the books down on the bedside table and run my fingers over the spine again, just because I can. It’s a small thing, but it makes everything feel more normal. Familiar. Mine.

My husband still isn’t around me. He’s still distant. Still careful.

It’s strange because after that day he helped me with the box, I thought something had shifted. I thought there was a softening. A beginning. I thought maybe we could at least be civil with each other.

Maybe even speak without that heavy silence between us. But he’s pulled away again. Like whatever almost happened between us was never real at all.

So I’m alone again.

I should be relieved. And part of me is.

He isn’t hovering. He isn’t controlling. He isn’t trying to force anything from me. There’s no pressure. No expectations I can feel pressing against my skin. That should be a good thing.

That should be exactly what I wanted.

And yet…

A small part of me—one I don’t fully understand—misses his presence. His intense presence. The way he enters a room and everything becomes aware of him, even if no one speaks. The way people straighten without being told.

And most of all… the way his eyes move over me. Not in a soft way. Not in a kind way either. In a focused way.

As if he’s trying to understand something I have not said out loud yet.

I press my fingers against the book tighter. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I prayed for distance when I married him. I prayed for space. For peace.

For exactly this.

And now that I have it, I don’t know why it feels wrong.

The house is quiet this afternoon. Footsteps from the hallway echo faintly, then fade. He is somewhere in the house. I know that without seeing him. I always know.

I stand and walk toward the window, pulling the curtain slightly aside.

The grounds stretch out below—too green, too controlled, too perfect to feel real. Guards move at the edges of the property like shadows pretending to be men.

And somewhere in all of that structure… he’s there. And somehow, he can’t even be bothered to speak to me. I turn away from the window and go back to my book.

But the words blur almost immediately.

I read the same line twice.

Then a third time.

Nothing sticks.

My mind keeps drifting—restless, unsettled in a way I don’t like.

After a while, I close the book with a quiet sigh.

I need to move.