Page 9 of The Bratva's Innocent Bride

Slowly, I walk around the room, taking note of the features inside. I check the mirrors—just regular, not two-way. I close all the blinds and drapes, turn off the lights, and stuff a pillow under the door to get complete darkness, in which I see two tiny little pinpricks of light—bugs. One is in the light fixture, and I grab it, pulling it out, tracing the cord all the way back to where it goes into the wall. The other is just above the bed frame, and I do the same to it, tearing the cord out until I can’t anymore. Then, I leave both cords tangled on the dresser for whomever to find.

There’s another light in the corner of the room—a camera—on the bookshelf. But I can’t figure out where it is exactly, so I take a throw blanket from the bed and drape it over the bookshelf, effectively blocking the camera from catching any of my activity.

Once that’s finished, I move into the attached bathroom and rummage through the drawers. Another woman must have stayed here recently because there’s a can of hairspray and a handheld mirror in the drawer. I take them out, place the hairspray by the front door in case I need it, and put the mirror on the floor. I grab the cap from the toothpaste on the counter and place it on the mirror, then put a pillow on top of the whole thing and use the pressure to crack the mirror into multiple pieces.

Luckily for me, this mirror is made of real glass, not the fake plastic stuff that many mirrors have.

I take several of the shards, using a tissue to hold them and place them throughout the room in places I think I might be able to take them from. Then, I wrap the remains of the mirror in tissues and put it back in the bottom drawer of the vanity in the bathroom.

Once I’m finished, I’m standing in the center of the room, breathing hard. It’s hot, and I move to the window, trying to lift it, but it’s bolted shut—of course it is.

For ten minutes, I pace the room, trying to figure out what my next move is. I run through everything I know about this Boris man and his family. All of them looked like they had killed before and would easily do so to me if given the chance.

Except perhaps Boris, who kind of looked like he might have a soft spot for me. I laugh to myself at the thought. Any man who’s willing to kidnap a woman probably doesn’t develop a crush on her. But I can’t stop picturing the look on his face when I kissed him at the altar. A man doesn’t look like that unless he’s interested in you.

I stop pacing when I hear a noise in the hall. Dropping to my stomach on the floor, I see the same white sneakers I noticed the maid wearing earlier, standing toe-to-toe with polished leather shoes. They were not the boots like Boris had on; they were nicer shoes.

Shoes befitting a butler of some sort.

“Excuse me,” I say through the crack in the door, watching as the shoes startle apart. It’s my guess that these employees are not supposed to be cavorting in the halls, so the voice has startled them. I stand and try to project my voice through the crack in the door. “Hi, please help me. I’m on my period, and there’s nothing in here—I’m bleeding through my clothes.”

I hear the woman gasp and say something softly, then hurry away. I hear the tapping of the leather shoes coming nearer to the door.

“Don’t worry, miss,” he says, “she’s going to bring you something.”

“Oh, that’s so embarrassing,” I say, “I didn’t realize there was a man here.”

“My apologies, ma’am,” he says, and I can practically imagine the blush across his cheeks. Talking about periods is a surefire way to get a man to leave you alone. A moment later, I hear his footsteps retreat in the opposite direction. I stand by the door, my heart racing when I hear the soft steps of the maid’s sneakers approaching again.

The key is in the lock.

The handle turning.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, jutting my hand out and hitting her pressure point just as the door cracks open. She’s out immediately, and I put my arms out, catching her and dragging her inside the room quickly.

I have her up onto the bed, quickly patting down her pockets. There’s a small set of keys and a key card that must open doors like this one. I take a deep breath, then quickly strip off her maid’s uniform, replacing it with my clothes.

Everyone’s different when it comes to pressure points and how long a hit knocks you out. My guess is that she’ll be down for at least an hour, but she could also wake up any second. Quickly, I use the bindings from my wrists to tie her to the bed, then use a pillowcase as a gag to try and keep her quiet. I don’t want anyone to know I’m gone.

Once everything is settled, I place her face mask over my mouth and nose and step out into the hallway. We’re pretty close to the same build, but I’m a little taller and meatier than her. Her shoes are too small and squeeze my toes painfully, but I push through, making my way down the hallway.

The house is even bigger than I thought, and it takes me a while to find the stairs I came up initially. I’m scanning the area, looking out for the men who brought me up here in the first place. I’m not sure they’d recognize me in the maid’s outfit, but I don’t want to take any chances.

I find another set of stairs, going down, and wonder if there might be a basement with a cellar door. If I can get through and out the cellar door, I might not need to bother climbing out a window or trying to find a service entrance.

As I go down the stairs, the air gets thicker and wetter, and I smell the unmistakable scent of blood. Once I’m fully in the basement, my body shudders. There’s dripping water. The walls are made of concrete, and the floor is stained in several areas with a deep brown color—what it looks like after a floor has absorbed blood.

This is a far cry from the furnished, finished basement I thought a house like this might have. I’d pictured a game room, maybe a home theater, a pinball machine. Somewhere kids could gather up and have a sleepover.

But this is a far cry from that. Instead, this feels like the basement a heroine walks through in a horror movie, the music increasing in volume until she turns the corner and sees some sort of horrible thing crawling toward her.

“Jesus,” I murmur, just as I turn the corner and see a man tied to a chair, his clothes speckled with blood. I suck in a breath and whirl back around the corner, pressing my back to the wall as two men enter the room from the other direction.

I recognize that guy. I’ve seen him around Mr. Allard’s offices before. Is there some sort of war against office workers going on here?

“Has he said anything?” My body jerks when the first man speaks, much closer than I expected. It’s Boris, I can tell from the inflection and tone.

“Obviously not, brother,” the other man says, and I recognize his voice as that of one of the brothers from the impromptu wedding. Devon? Or Derrick?

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