Page 31 of Forced By the Bratva

I leaped out of bed and crept to the balcony, careful to stay in the shadows. There, I caught a brief glimpse of him being helped out of the backseat by two guards.

His knuckles were split open, raw and swollen. His white shirt was soaked through with blood that clearly wasn’t all his.

My throat tightened at the sight, my heart pounding in my chest.

What happened? Is he okay?

I almost ran down to go check on him but stopped myself immediately.

One of the guards muttered something about the traitor refusing to cooperate. Ilya’s head turned, and whatever look he gave the guard silenced him instantly.

I stepped back from the railing before either of them noticed me watching, my heart pounding the whole way back to my room.

Wherever he had come from, things clearly hadn’t gone as planned. He was hurt, and I found myself wondering how I would’ve felt if he had lost his life tonight.

What if it was his corpse that returned?

The thought alone terrified me more than it should have.

I genuinely wanted to go check on him—not just to ask what happened, but also to make sure he got the medical attention he needed. But I had to stop myself from leaving my room.

He would sort himself out.

I was already too attached to him. The last thing I wanted was to bond with him while helping him clean his wounds.

So I tucked myself into bed with a pillow clutched to my chest, waiting for the moment I’d fall asleep. At least I was sure that was fine. That was good news.

Much later, half asleep with the Whiskers curled up warm against my side, I sensed movement near the door. When I opened my eyes, I saw it was him.

Ilya stood there, freshly showered, dressed in dark sweatpants and a black shirt, hair damp and pushed back from his face.

He seemed to think I was fast asleep, even though I was wide awake. I didn’t let him know, though.

I kept my eyes barely open—just enough to convince him I was asleep while still allowing me to keep track of my surroundings.

He paused before coming inside, his feet silent on the floor.

He crossed the room quietly and reached for the Whiskers, his careful hands stroking his fur.

Then his eyes moved to me.

Softer than I’d ever seen them.

Something almost conflicted flickered behind his gaze, like he was trying to work out whether something this gentle, this quiet, belonged anywhere near the world he came from.

I kept my eyes slightly open, watching him through my lashes, and said nothing.

He towered over me for a while, his hand reaching toward my face. My heart raced with anticipation, and I braced myself for his touch.

However, at the last second, he withdrew his hand and lingered a moment longer before walking away.

I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until he stepped out of my room and closed the door gently behind him.

He didn’t touch me at all.

Part of me was glad he didn’t; the other part was disappointed because, deep down, I wanted to feel his skin on mine.

What exactly was going on between us?