Page 53 of The Lazarov Bratva

“It’s simple,” Kristof says. He moves slowly and methodically as he folds the ends together and smoothes out the creases. “You belong to me now.”

Deep down, I’ve yearned for those words more than I will ever admit, but this situation is far beyond my wildest dreams. My gaze flickers down to my body, and my pale skin is lit up with marks and rising bruises. He did this. He’s marked me like the ink that covers his own skin.

“I don’t understand,” I whisper.

“Katja is fine. She is safe. Ivan took her home from the club last night, and we did everything in our power to ensure she got back into the Estate without raising the alarm. But…” He pauses to press the last fold into the sheet, and my heart leaps. “She will be killed if she breathes a word of last night to anyone. About you. About the club. About me. Any of it. She opens her mouth, and I cannot guarantee her survival.”

“What?”

He can’t be serious. And yet, as he sets the folded sheet on the side of the bed, it strikes me just how much trouble she will be in. My father is not a forgiving man at the best of times, but if he finds out what we did, then she’d be in terrible trouble. Just as I reason that he won’t kill her because I’m fine, something clicks in my mind.

I am fine, but no one knows that, do they?

Kristof straightens up and clasps his hands together, steepling his fingers, and my heart skips a beat.

I’m tied to a bed in a room I can only assume is in Kristof’s house.

He didn’t take me home.

“Are you… kidnapping me? Are you turning against my father?”

“What an ugly word.” Kristof scoffs sharply. “I have not turned against your father. My loyalty to the Orlova family remains the same, and it will not waver.”

It’s an answer, but it’s not the right answer. It doesn’t soothe the most important concern that rises inside me as his gaze lingers on my naked body. Shyness steals across me, and I still want to hide from his gaze, even as memory proves he’s seen everything I have to offer. He doesn’t deny the kidnapping.

Sense tells me I should be angry. Furious and disgusted, even, because what kind of man fucks a woman and then locks her away?

Sense fails me, though, and as Kristof moves around the bed and takes a seat next to me, a pulse of alarm flashes through my body. Curiosity begins to rise because never in my wildest dreams did I think Kristof would actually have a deep enough interest. As much as I clung to our kiss, I half-reasoned that it was out of pity.

“You haven’t answered my questions,” I say hoarsely, staring up at him. “Why am I naked? Why am I tied up? You are kidnap?—”

He pulls the tray closer, and the sight of the pills clams up my throat, killing my words.

Panic surges suddenly, hot like the press of an iron brand, and I jerk as far away from him as the ropes will allow.

“No, no, wait. You don’t have to drug me, okay? I mean, I would stay here willingly if you’d just fucking asked me, you know that? If you had come to me like a normal person and asked me, I would have been all over this, but please, you don’t have to drug me!”

It’s a half-truth. If Kristof had come to my room and offered to steal me away, I would have said yes in a heartbeat. But I need to be awake. I need to be present and aware because the only thing that scares me more than being immobilized is being drugged up.

Kristof, to my surprise, laughs and picks up the pills.

“Alena, stop being so dramatic. They’re painkillers. You’re hungover, aren’t you?”

Oh.

I pause, and my mouth hangs open slightly.

Right. Makes sense, actually, and I’ll gladly accept anything to dull the throb in my skill.

“I—yeah. How did you know?”

“Last night was your first time drinking. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work out what you're feeling.”

Oh.

The prickling flush of embarrassment weaves through me, and I nod. Kristof picks up the pills and holds one aloft.

“Open.”

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