Page 16 of Kidnapped By the Bratva

Sophia laughs softly, the sound sending a strange, almost electric pulse through me. “I wish,” she says, a hint of something playful in her tone. “He was just a random stranger, though. Probably never see him again.”

Oh, you’ll see me again, Sophia.

Her voice grows softer, and I listen closely, my pulse quickening slightly as I catch the subtle change in her tone. She’s not just talking to her friend anymore. She’s thinking aloud, her thoughts slipping into the conversation without her realizing. “But… I don’t know,” she continues, “there was something about him. Like, when he looked at me… I felt it. This pull. It was so strange. So intense.”

I can picture her now, her expression softening as she tries to make sense of what she felt. She doesn’t know I’m listening—doesn’t realize how much I’m enjoying this. She’s trying torationalize it, to chalk it up to a brief moment of attraction. I know better. That pull she’s talking about? It wasn’t one-sided.

Her friend laughs, but Sophia brushes it off. “Anyway,” she says, her voice still carrying that breathy tone, “I don’t even know why I’m talking about him. It’s not like it matters. I’m supposed to be marrying Jackson, right?” She pauses, and I hear the frustration creep back into her voice. “God, this is so messed up.”

There’s a silence on the line, and I can almost feel the shift in the air around her. She’s not talking anymore, but I can hear the way she’s breathing—slightly uneven, like she’s lost in thought, like the memory of that brief encounter is lingering in her mind. I know that feeling. It’s the same one I had when I walked away from her.

It’s strange. I’m used to being in control, to keeping a cold distance between myself and whatever I need to get done. There’s something about Sophia that has me curious, that makes me want to get closer—to see how far this pull between us can go. I don’t even have to be in the room with her, and I can already feel it. The tension. The desire.

Her voice cuts through the silence again, but it’s softer now, more vulnerable. “I just… I want something real, you know? Not this arranged bullshit. Not Jackson. Someone who makes me feel alive.”

Careful what you wish for.

“Shit, Soph,” her friend mutters, “I gotta go. Just don’t do anything you’ll regret, okay?”

She snorts. “Sure. Bye, Jen.”

Her words hang in the air, and I can hear her shifting, maybe lying back on her bed, her thoughts drifting. She’s quietfor a few moments, and I let the silence stretch, listening to the faint sound of her breathing. There’s something almost intimate about it—being able to hear her like this, without her knowing I’m there. It’s like I’m inside her mind, hearing the things she wouldn’t say to anyone else. The things she barely admits to herself.

Then she lets out a little moan that makes my pulse quicken. Her breath stutters and the bedsheets rustle; it’s enough to make my cock half-hard.

I picture her lying there, her body stretched out on the bed, the tension from the day slowly melting away, fingers sliding beneath her waistband. Is she wearing something as pretty as the dress she wore the other day? Or, even better, is she only in her panties?

She probably doesn’t realize how beautiful she looked when she bumped into me—how the sadness in her eyes only made her more intriguing. I wonder what she’s thinking about now, in this quiet moment, when she’s not putting on a face for anyone. Is she thinking about Jackson? Doubtful. If anything, she’s probably thinking about that stranger she can’t quite forget.

Me.

I can feel my pulse quicken as I listen to her shift again, the soft rustle of sheets beneath her. She doesn’t know I’m here, that I’m listening to every breath, every moan. She has no idea how much power that gives me.

I listen as she pleases herself, and it’s only a matter of minutes before her quiet sighs go soft, and I know she’s finished. I imagine her pretty face, dark eyes and full, wanting lips.

Fuck, it’s going to be impossible to keep my hands off her.

Chapter Eight - Sophia

The afternoon sun blazes overhead as I drive along the highway, the windows of my car rolled down to let in the breeze. It’s a clear day, perfect for a gym session to blow off some steam. I need it. Everything lately has been too much—my father’s constant pressure, Jackson’s unbearable presence, and that lingering feeling of being trapped. I grip the steering wheel a little tighter, trying to shake off the frustration gnawing at me.

Suddenly, the car jerks forward, sputtering as the engine makes a strange grinding noise. My heart sinks as the car slows down, the dashboard lighting up like a Christmas tree. I press on the gas, but nothing happens. No response.

“Seriously?” I mutter under my breath, pulling the car over to the shoulder. I shift into park and kill the engine, glaring at the dashboard like it’s personally offended me. With a sigh, I pop the hood and step out of the car, the heat from the pavement hitting me immediately.

I stare at the engine, hands on my hips. I have absolutely no idea what I’m looking at. The inner workings of a car might as well be a foreign language to me. I lean over slightly, as if that’ll somehow help me figure it out, but the tangled mess of metal and wires just leaves me feeling more lost.

“Okay, what now?” I mutter to myself. I could call a tow truck, but I don’t fancy waiting for hours.

I pull out my phone, quickly typing in car shuts down on highway into the search bar, hoping YouTube has a miracle video for moments like this. As I scroll through the results, a car slows to a stop behind mine.

I glance over my shoulder, suddenly aware that I’m alone on the side of a busy highway. A man steps out of the car—a tall, broad-shouldered figure with an air of casual confidence. He’s wearing a simple T-shirt and jeans, nothing that screams danger, and his face is open, friendly even. His dark hair is neatly cropped, and he moves with an ease that suggests he’s done this kind of thing before.

“Need some help?” His voice is deep but warm, not the least bit intimidating. He approaches with his hands raised slightly, as if to reassure me that he’s not here to cause trouble.

I hesitate for a second, glancing from him to my car. Something about him puts me at ease, though. Maybe it’s the way he smiles or the way he keeps his distance, waiting for me to respond.

“Yeah, actually,” I say, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “The car just shut down. I have no idea what’s wrong with it.”

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