Page 51 of Possessive Bratva’s Kidnapped Virgin

“Sit down,” I said.

She looked at me, confusion clear on her face. Then she sat.

I sat beside her at the edge of the bed. “Siroc’s next move will be more direct than this morning. The raid was designed for public impact—it’s already in three news cycles, the narrative is running exactly as he intended.” I watched her face as I spoke. “When it resolves cleanly, and it will, he’ll have another mechanism ready. He’s been building this systematically. The warrants were one layer. There will be more layers.”

She nodded, following and clearly processing.

“The financial pressure will escalate. He’ll try to use the news coverage to create withdrawal among our legitimate business partners—anyone whose board has a risk threshold will be receiving calls from people Siroc has primed to make them.” I paused. “We’re managing it. I want you to know what’s happening so that if you encounter anything—anyone approaching you in a professional context, any communication that feels adjacent to this—you bring it to me immediately.”

“I understand,” she said.

“Isla.”

She looked at me. “What? I heard you, boss,” she joked, chuckling.

“I’m your husband,” I corrected, my voice coming out lower than I’d intended.

She sighed, her eyes moving to the floor before they flicked back to my face. I could tell my words didn’t have a heated effect on only me.

“When I say Siroc’s name…” I watched carefully. “Your expression changes. I know it’s not fear. Something else.”

It was not a question.

“I know who he is, of course,” she said carefully.

“I know that.” I held her gaze. “That’s not what I asked.”

The silence between us stretched while we communicated without words.

She looked at me with the expression of someone standing at the edge of something they’ve decided they’re not ready to step off yet.

I let her make the choice, not because I didn’t want the information or I had decided the incomplete picture was acceptable, but because I had learned something about Isla Monroe-Golovin in the past three weeks that was relevant to the question of how to get what I needed from her.

She could not be controlled or even urged into honesty. She could only arrive at it herself, on her own timeline, in her own terms.

I was running low on patience, but I was not yet out.

“You’re protected,” I said. I heard my own voice shift in a way I couldn’t prevent and was done trying to. “Whatever is coming, whoever is involved, wherever this connects to what happened before you came here. You are protected. That doesn’t change.”

She nodded, the sincere look of acceptance in her expression like she was saying, ‘I needed to hear that.’

“You don’t have to carry things alone. That’s not how this works. Not anymore.”

Something broke in her expression for a moment. Her eyes went bright with something that wasn’t quite tears and then weren’t bright anymore in three seconds.

“I know,” she said, her voice almost quiet.

Then I stood and, because I couldn’t stop myself, I bent to kiss her forehead. I moved my hand to cup the side of her face and felt the warmth of her hand as it held my wrist, holding my hand to her face.

The room was suddenly hotter.

So I bent and kissed her lips. Once. And then again. Then she kissed me back, her lips lingering on mine but not quite going further. Then she moved back, and I stood straight.

My eyes searched hers. I understood even better in that moment how deep our intimacy was even when we weren’t technically doing anything.

She’s beginning to trust me.

And, fuck, she was doing something to me.