Page 17 of Captured By the Bratva

It’s the kind of dress designed to draw every eye in the room, to leave anyone who looks at her captivated, almost helpless. And yet, despite how incredible she looks, I can tell she’s uncomfortable, shifting slightly as if trying to find a way to cover herself.

I don’t know why, but that tiny flicker of vulnerability—the way her fingers fidget against the sides of her dress, the way she glances down as if to check that nothing’s showing that shouldn’t be—somehow makes me want her even more.

I’ve seen a lot of beautiful women, dressed in much less, but none have ever had this effect on me. There’s a fire in her, a strength, but she tempers it with that softness she doesn’t even know she has.

The dress skims her waist, perfectly highlighting the curve of her hips. Her legs, long and toned, extend from the short hemline, smooth and inviting, each step revealing just a hint more of her thighs.

She’s a contradiction—vulnerable yet strong, demure yet sensual—and I feel something inside me shift, something beyond the usual pull of attraction.

I realize it’s because she’s not just beautiful; she’s mine. And not in the way I’ve ever thought about anyone before. It’s more than possession, more than lust.

She’s the only woman who’s ever made me feel like there could be something more. Something deeper than I’ve ever let myself admit I wanted. And for the first time, it’s not just a woman’s body I crave—it’s her, entirely, exactly as she is.

“Couldn’t have had sweatpants in there for me?” she asks, tugging at the dress.

“Let me show you something,” I reply, gesturing toward the hallway, enjoying her unwilling compliance.

I stop in front of a door and push it open, revealing another lavish bedroom bathed in warm, golden light. The room is furnished with an ornate bed, carved and polished to a gleam, its linens rich and soft.

A crystal chandelier casts a faint glow, refracted across the intricately patterned wallpaper. On one side, a large, well-equipped desk sits near the window, complete with a computer, sleek and modern against the vintage décor. On the wall are two large whiteboards filled with notes.

“What’s that?” she asks, running over to the desk.

“An Osiria Rose, known for its striking color combination. Blood-red on the inside but pure silvery-white on the outside. A lot like you.”

“Not the flowers, this.” She waves her hands at the whiteboards “My notes.” She turns to face me. “How?”

“Recreated by my people from surveillance photos. Jimmy wiped yours clean but wiping out my power over you will be far harder.

“This will be your office. You can work on your manuscript in here or the library. As long as you behave.” I turn my voice darker. “Misbehave and you’ll find the cellar becomes your permanent home. Your choice.”

She steps inside, glancing around with wary eyes. I watch as she ignores the fine linens, the ornate furniture, the luxuries she’s been offered as part of her confinement.

It’s clear the splendor doesn’t impress her. The whiteboards on the other hand, she looks like she could fall in love with them. She turns to face me and she looks on the verge of tears. “I thought I’d lost it all.”

I gesture to the computer. “You’ll have access to writing software and all your backed up files in the cloud. You can also use this computer to purchase anything you want. No limits.” I let my words hang in the air, waiting for her reaction.

She turns to me, her expression one of defiance, her mouth pressing into a tight line. “Bribery. That’s all this is,” she says, her tone scornful. “Trying to buy my compliance with luxuries.”

“Call it what you like,” I reply coolly. “The sooner you understand the realities of your new life, the easier it will be.” I step closer, looking down at her. “I have no limits on what I’m willing to provide for you. But remember, in the end, whether you fight me or not, you’re mine.”

I step back, pulling the door closed behind me. There’s a quiet finality to the sound, a subtle reminder that she’s under my control now, no matter how long it takes for her to accept it.

I pull out my cellphone and dial Amanda Grant as I walk away. She answers on the first ring, her tone sharp and efficient, as always. “Mr. Morosov? I trust your new employee meets your satisfaction.”

“Amanda,” I say, a faint smile curving my lips. “Good work today.”

“A pleasure as always,” she replies, the satisfaction evident in her voice.

“Yes,” I say, my tone colder, deliberate. “I need you to arrange a wedding for me.”

“That’s a tall order. How long do I have?”

“Forty-eight hours.”

10

CATHY

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