Page 6 of Stolen By the Bratva King

The man’s muscles bulge in his arms like tangled roots as he drags me across the cold, dirty warehouse floor.

“Please stop,” I cry.

“Quiet,” he commands, “or I’ll have to knock you out again.”

It takes all my willpower to clamp my mouth shut. I have to stay awake for this, or I’m afraid I’ll never wake up again. I’m lucky enough not to be dead already.

The man shoves me into a corner and my back hits the solid wall, knocking the breath from my lungs.

The other men trudge in my direction, huddling around me in a circle again, trapping me with their imposing figures.

“What do you want?” I ask again, tears rolling down my cheeks. I’m trying so hard to be strong but it’s impossible. I’m not built for this kind of treatment.

“Who sent you?” the one who dragged me across the floor demands.

“Nobody,” I squeak.

He takes a step closer, and I flinch, raising my arms up by my head. “Please, don’t do this. I was just walking by. I don’t know anything.”

“You were staring into the window,” he shouts. “What were you looking for?”

I swallow hard, my eyes jumping from him to the men behind him, all wearing fierce expressions as if they want to break and smash something.

“Tie her up,” one in the back grounds out through clenched teeth. He has tattoo sleeves running up and down both arms, trailing up his neck.

“Undress her,” another says. “Make sure she isn’t hiding anything.”

“Look in her purse. Find her ID. Maybe if we find out her name and where she lives, it will encourage her to get chattier.” The man who says it rakes his tongue across his teeth with a thirsty glint in his eyes and a grin on his lips that makes me tremble.

“I mean no harm,” I urge. “I didn’t see anything.”

“Liar,” the man who dragged me hisses, his scathing glare cutting through me like a knife.

“I still say we tie her up and torture her until she talks,” tattoo sleeves suggests, his voice brimming with excitement.

“Will you all please justshut up.” The ringleader’s voice is like a sledgehammer coming down and the room goes quiet. His chest rises and falls fast. “I can’t think with you morons making all these suggestions.”

He swivels to face me. The pad of his thumb cocks his gun. It makes a tiny clicking sound. The chrome of the barrel is blindingly shiny like the reflection of the sun on a body of water. My breath catches and I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood.

“I don’t want to die,” I squeak. “Please let me go. I won’t say anything. I won’t tell anyone.Please.”

“Why would we let you go?” The man points his gun at me. His facial expression is benign. It’s like he’s having a casual conversation that he’s indifferent about. His sudden calmness unnerves me.

I glance around the room. The people who had been looking at the guns are gone. The men surrounding me must be the weapons dealers.

I’m utterly alone. A million scenarios play out in my mind. Me running and getting away. Me running and them shooting me in the back of the head. Me running and them pulling me back, kicking and beating me to death.

A rattly sob shatters like glass inside my chest. I’m going to die here, and it’s all because I’m an overambitious workaholic.

“Who sent you,” the man growls, impatience making his face flush.

I stare at my feet. My knees are still tucked close to my body. I say nothing.

“She’s not going to give us anything,” one of the others declares, “you’ll just have to kill her.”

“Yeah, get it over with. We don’t have time for this,” one wearing a leather jacket, even though it’s a million degrees outside, says.

The man holding the gun brings the trigger closer to me. His steps echo through the room. The only other sound is my hollow breathing. My pulse pounds through my eardrums. My blood is hot, rushing through my brain, making me lightheaded.

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