Page 15 of The Bratva King's Twins

Given how nice the place was, and how wealthy he claimed to be, I had no doubt the house was monitored better than a high-security prison.

Even if I tried to run, I probably wouldn't get anywhere, anyway.

Letting go of a breath, I felt just as stuck, even knowing the door opened.

As two choices laid out in front of me, I didn't know which one I preferred.

I could either leave the bedroom and explore the house, or shut myself in again and refuse to be anywhere near Aristarkh.

The more I thought about him, the less I wanted to see him. It was a shame, too, given how attractive he was. Even if I felt like I was going crazy in that room, he had caused me more than enough pain and distress for me to be willing to stay put.

The more distance between us, the better.

Regardless of how tempting that first option seemed, I accepted defeat and closed the door softly.

Stewing over what happened and how awful things were for me, I flopped back onto the bed and tried to soothe that burning ache inside my gut, where dread and deep sadness mingled.

Helpless and completely lost concerning how I was going to move forward, I tucked several pillows beneath my head and closed my eyes just as my nose tingled with emotion.

My tears burned down my cheeks, reminding me that only pain was ahead of me, and there was nothing I could do about it.

***

The contrast of night and day streaming through the windows was my only indicator of the passage of time, but beyond that, I had no idea how long I had been there once the days started blurring together.

As much as I wanted to believe Aristarkh was a monster for locking me away, nothing was stopping me from leaving the room. The door was unlocked, a constant reminder coursing through my head. He brought me food throughout the day, sighing whenever he found the previous meal untouched, only to take the old one away and leave the new bag.

He attempted a few words to me, but every time he entered the room, my lips seemed to seal shut. I couldn’t bring myself to speak to him, especially not when he had forced my hand and left me with no choice. I could tell he was growing tired of it, but the motivation and will I previously had was sucked out of me.

I tried resisting the food he brought me for as long as I could, but when the growling in my stomach turned into stabbing pain, I took what I wanted and left the rest. The same applied to the new clothes he brought me, all with the tags still on, and all name-brand.

Aristarkh’s attempts at smoothing things over by buying me new things started to feel reminiscent of my dad’s tactics, as if he had taken a page straight from his book. Like offering an olive branch to me, he wanted the food, the clothes, and the free access to the house to make him seem charitable.

He wanted to convince me he wasn’t so bad, but I could only assume he didn’t realize just how similar it was to my old life. How it turned my stomach to think about how closely he was following Dad’s playbook.

Despite all of his attempted niceties, it wasn’t enough.

I felt like I was going crazy. Staring at the same four walls, looking outside the windows I couldn’t escape from, and being forced to stew about my current situation only made those dark thoughts even worse. I needed a break from that isolation, even if it meant running into my supposed husband in the meantime.

Heaving out a sigh as I pulled on a cream-colored knit sweater, I reached for the doorknob for the first time in days and opened it without thinking twice.

I hated him, but I hated being stuck in that bedroom even more.

Glancing both ways down the hall, I couldn’t hear or see anyone walking around, and I relaxed somewhat. Aware of which end led to the staircase, I chose to start in the other direction.

Walking down the hall, I took in everything as if I were in a museum for the first time, noting everything with a critical eye.

From what I could tell, Aristarkh didn’t have very many sentimental items decorating his house. Instead, he had fairly basic yet obviously expensive decor, almost like he went with the furniture and pictures used for staging.

It was minimal yet chic, and despite the lack of any personal touch, the house was warm enough.

Turning a corner, I peered into a nearby room, catching sight of several rows of bookshelves.

My interest piqued, and without hesitating, I made my way inside. The sleek shelves were lined with books—stuffed to the brim as if that was the only thing he collected in his life.

Despite the situation, I was in awe. From old textbooks and non-fiction books to leather-bound, limited-edition copies of mystery, horror, and fantasy novels, he had it all.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to fathom how much everything must’ve cost him, so instead of dwelling on that, I inspected the small library from top to bottom.

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