Page 66 of Forced Bratva Prisoner

I threatened to kill her.

I said the words out loud.

I’ll kill Sasha.

It echoes back into my thoughts, again and again.

I’d already decided not to involve her in any of this, and of course, I have no intention of killing her, but just saying the words to her father has cut into me more deeply than I could have expected them to.

Even pretending to want to do that to her—for the sake of my plan—makes me feel sick.

I can’t promise to kill an innocent person who has done nothing wrong to anyone. All she did was survive the torture of a man I hate. My original plan to use her life as a bargaining tool has gone out of the window a while ago already.

But I don’t need Danil to know that.

It was my plan all along. That was what I wanted.

But now. I just want Balakin in a rage. I want him angry, frustrated, his ego in shreds. Judging by his reaction on the phone, I am getting what I want.

But I said the words.

I said I would kill her.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath as I press the accelerator down to get home faster. It’s really bothering me.

I pull into the driveway, glancing in my rearview mirror. It’s silly to be paranoid; it was just a phone call. He doesn’t know where we are. But I guess there is also a distinction between paranoia and vigilance. My father’s house was a fortress and Balakin still got to my family.

Just hearing his voice has my nerves frayed and spiked at the edges.

I hate that man. I hate him with every fiber in my body, and I want him to suffer.

I walk into the house, forgetting the earlier excitement I had felt at the thought of seeing Sasha, and when she comes to greet me, I am flooded with guilt instead of happiness.

“Did you get your business in the city done?” she asks cheerfully.

“No. I still have work to do. I’ll be in my office,” I snap, not meaning to, and then walk away before she can read my mind and how I told her father I was going to kill her.

I walk away, but not before I see the hurt in her eyes at my harsh tone.

I have to ignore it. I have a plan. I had a plan. I had a plan for years, and I can’t let my emotions get in the way of fulfilling that plan.

In my office, I slump down into my chair and lean forward with my head in my hands. Not only do I feel intense guilt, but I also have a wave of memories of my family crashing into my mind.

Their smiles, their laughter. They way my dad used to make the best pancakes. My mom’s perfume when she hugged me. How my sister used to try and steal my clothes even though none of them fit her and how she would follow me around telling me I was her best friend in the entire world. Their torn and shredded bodies covered in blood, barely recognizable.

I press my fingers to my temples, hurting myself, trying to push the memories away because the emotional pain of it is worse than the physical pain.

That man has to pay for what he’s done.

He has to suffer.

He has to feel what it’s like to have his heart torn from his body.

There is a knock at the door and Sasha leans in, looking a bit concerned.

“Um. Dinner is ready, if you are hungry.”

“Dinner? What’s the time?” I ask shocked.

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