Page 67 of The Lazarov Bratva

And they will never find her.

That I will make sure of.

20

ALENA

Kristof left with my assurance that sleep would come quickly, but as I settle among the blankets, surrounded by bars, it escapes me.

My body is exhausted, throbbing with each breath. Every so often, the muscles of my legs pull and I’m forced to change position, but doing so flares up every whip mark across my body that rubs against the sheet keeping me warm. Kristof is gone, yet his presence lingers in and around my body. When I close my eyes, I can still feel him against me. His cock still weighs down my tongue and spreads my pussy so wide I almost can’t breathe.

He’s like a phantom that’s left a part of himself behind to torment me in the best way.

After my tears, he had been kind and methodical about helping me wash and provided me with food and more painkillers. It was a glimpse at a different side of him I’ve never seen, a softer side that brushes my hair out of my face and helps me into the shower with a strong arm. I’ve never seen a glimpse of softness in all the years I’ve known him.

And yet here, he lets it out just for me.

“Fuck,” I murmur into the crook of my arm as my thoughts race.

This entire situation is absurd. I should be thinking about escaping, about how to get back to my family and away from the crazy man who’s kidnapped me. I should be plotting that, yet there’s a warmth in my chest, a contentment I haven’t felt since I was small. Wrapped up in a blanket that smells like Kristof, the bars melt away, and I can tell myself that I’m just snuggled up in bed, waiting for him to return.

That thought makes me sit up slightly, and I open my eyes. The empty, steel-grey walls stare back at me through the bars. I groan, slumping back onto my back. Movement pulls at the aching muscles near my core, and a sigh rushes past my lips, then one hand skims over my abdomen. Flickers of pain flare up from the red welts across my skin.

Am I really so affection-starved that I can accept these marks as love?

Yes. Yes, I can.

Why shouldn’t I?

I had a good time, there’s no denying that. Just replaying my orgasm in my head makes my core clench, and my heart skips a subtle beat. Kristof touched me, kissed me, and fucked me like he could never be parted from me. He seems utterly obsessed, and such a dark, fucked-up thing excites the quiet, neglected parts of my soul.

After all, what awaits me back home?

Mara’s always been cold and distant, so much so that I don’t think I’ve called her Mother since I was still wearing dungarees. If a motherly bone existed in her body, it never saw the light of day. Father was always busy. The Family came first in the eyes of outsiders, but I saw what that really meant. The Family meant the business, and I have too many memories of being scolded for being in the way or interrupting something terribly important.

It led to my younger years being spent in a lot of solitude, with my only companions being the books I could take from the library or the interactions with my tutors. Tutors who feared my parents more than anything else and only cared about getting my grades high enough to earn them an excellence bonus. Just the thought of how often I'd tried to reach out to them, only to be rejected or smacked by a textbook, has me clutching the blanket around me even tighter.

On the flip side, guilt would erupt in my father over his neglect, and some of my happiest memories are when he would dote on me with gifts and more finery than a girl knows what to do with. He would ply me with gifts and designer gear, from jewels to dresses, only to pat my head and leave me yearning for more when he returned to work.

For a time, I thought this was normal. As an avid reader, many of the books I read growing up lacked parental figures, which was normal for me. That changed, though, as I grew up and read more books. Happy families that spent time together on picnics or at shows, even just a walk along the beach, filled my thoughts. So often, I tried to gain just a conversation with my father, and he would brush me aside.

Mara didn’t even give me the time of day. I wasn’t a daughter. I was an ornament, a puppet to be guided where they needed me, all just waiting for the moment I stepped onto the chess board and became the pawn that would win them a game I barely understood.

My teenage years were spent between the pages of fantasy, yearning for something more, something exciting and lively. A prince to sweep me away, a beast to claim me out of all others.

Now, oddly, I have a mix of the two. My own godfather who wanted me so badly, so desperately that he kidnapped me, and now I’m in his prize, held behind bars and ready to be used at his whim.

That single thought sends a pulse of want straight through my body, and my tired muscles complain. Maybe that’s why all of this appeals to me so much. For so long, I’ve been starved of love, affection, and contact. Now, Kristof is here, almost addicted to me, if his fevered kisses are anything to go by. Follow a few simple rules, and I am his.

“No, Alena,” I whisper softly into the silent air. “You’re insane. This is insane.”

Maybe it’s a trick. It has to be, right? I can’t want this. I can’t accept this.

And yet even as I try and talk myself out of it, the dark corners of my mind that store those twisted fantasies of being stolen away stir quietly.

I’ve dreamed of this. Curled up at my window with books clutched in my hand, I’ve yearned for a world that exists for me and me alone.

I close my eyes and imagine Katja next to me, huddled up and giggling as we talk. Despite being the same age as me, she always gave me such sage advice. I suppose she had more exposure to the world being a maid in the house. My chest aches briefly, and I imagine laying my head on her lap and telling her all the details.

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