Page 18 of Captured By the Bratva

The dining room is like something out of Dracula, all dark woods and polished surfaces, with the faint scent of candle wax lingering in the air.

A single chandelier hangs from above, casting a dim, golden glow over the long table stretched between us. Heavy tapestries drape along the walls, their patterns impossible to decipher in the low light, though I catch glimpses of rich colors—deep reds, stormy blues, muted golds.

Ivan sits at the other end of the table, silent and composed, his attention fully on the food laid out before us, indifferent to my sorrow. He picks up his fork, cutting into a piece of meat with a slow, deliberate motion, his gaze fixed on his plate as though I’m not even here.

I watch him in tense silence, gripping my own fork a little too tightly, the metal pressing into my palm as I think about the freedom I’ve lost.

I let my gaze linger on him, studying the controlled movements of his hands, the calm set of his jaw. His expression remains unreadable, focused, with a hint of satisfaction in his eyes as he ignores me.

It’s infuriating, this quiet power he has, like he’s a king in his own dark kingdom, and I’m just another piece he’s acquired.

My own plate is filled with foods I barely recognize—small portions, each arranged with care. There’s a steaming bowl of soup, clear broth with delicate herbs floating on the surface, and a loaf of dark, crusty bread.

The cutlery is heavy silver gleaming under the candlelight, the weight of it solid in my hand, each piece marked with a letter ‘M.’

The plates are fine, each one painted with intricate patterns that hint at some Russian tradition, and everything about the table is rich, luxurious, intimidating.

I glance at the door. Could I make a run for it?

He catches me looking, his mouth lifting in a smirk as though he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“Go ahead,” he says, his voice low, with a hint of mockery. His eyes meet mine, challenging, daring me to do something, anything. “I’m not stopping you.”

I feel the heat of his challenge. I drop my fork with a soft clink against the plate, rising from my seat, my heart pounding as I move with more defiance than I feel. I walk to the window, the ornate curtains spilling over its edges like silk.

I try to push it open, my hands pressing against the cold glass, but it doesn’t budge. The lock is firm, unyielding, and the faint layer of dust on the frame tells me it hasn’t been opened in ages.

Refusing to be defeated, I turn toward the door, opening it with a confidence I don’t fully feel. But as I pull it open, an armed guard stands there, his expressions indifferent. “Name’s Nik,” he says, giving me a nod. “Help you, American girl?”

The message is clear—this door isn’t for me. With a subtle shake of his head, he reaches forward, closing it again, locking me inside with Ivan.

I turn back to him, hating the satisfaction I see in his eyes, the way he sits there, watching my every move.

He gestures for me to sit with a single, unhurried movement, and I feel my jaw tighten as I return to my chair, each step weighted with frustration. When I’m seated, he finally breaks the silence.

“Eat,” he says simply, his voice soft, but there’s an unmistakable edge to it, as if refusing him isn’t an option. He leans back slightly, watching me as though daring me to disobey, but his voice softens as he gestures to the plates between us.

“It’s borscht,” he adds, pointing to the bowl of soup, “traditional Russian dish. It was originally made from whatever scraps were left, a poor man’s meal.”

His eyes linger on me. “But it has evolved, like my name, into something much richer. The Morosovs were once poor, like the borscht. But now we have our initials on our cutlery.”

He loosens his tie, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt to reveal a muscular chest covered in tattoos. He taps one. “And on our hearts. The family name is rich now, like the soup. Now you will eat then bathe. Is that clear?”

11

CATHY

The bathroom is an imposing chamber of stone and marble, grand and cold, as if carved from the walls of a castle. Dark tiles line the floor, arranged in intricate patterns, each piece smooth and cool beneath my bare feet.

A grand clawfoot tub sits in the center, its porcelain gleaming under the soft flicker of candlelight that fills the room with shadow and warmth.

Heavy velvet curtains hang over the window, thick and plush, but pulled back just enough to reveal a metal grille over the glass—a subtle reminder that even here, in this illusion of comfort, I am still his prisoner.

I reach for the stack of towels, soft and luxurious, and wrap one around myself, feeling the indulgent weight of the fabric, so different from anything I’m used to. Every detail here feels foreign, extravagant, a world far removed from mine.

Even in this intimate, cloistered space, Ivan’s presence lingers, the shadows themselves seeming to take on his power, his darkness. The house feels like a living thing, ancient and watchful. I almost feel as if it’s observing me, waiting to see what I’ll do next.

As I turn the faucet, hot water pours into the tub, filling the room with steam. The faint scent of lavender rises as I undress, mingling with the warmth, softening the atmosphere.

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