Page 25 of Captured By the Bratva

A wave of dread washes over me. He says it all so casually, so matter-of-factly, as if these shadows and threats are just partof his world—a world I never wanted any part of. But now, somehow, I’m bound to it, tethered to him.

I shake my head, trying to pull free, desperate to escape his suffocating control, but his hold remains strong, his expression darkening, an edge of barely restrained anger flickering in his eyes.

Without another word, he lifts me off the ground, his arm firm around me, ignoring my protests as he carries me back through the winding halls of the mansion.

“Put me down!” I struggle against him, but it’s useless. His jaw is set, his gaze focused ahead, as if nothing I say or do could make him change his mind.

"If you insist on acting like a child," he growls, his voice low and filled with a quiet menace, "then I’ll treat you like one." His tone drops to a dangerous whisper as we reach the bedroom, his face inches from mine, his eyes dark and unyielding. “Run from me again, Cathy, and the consequences will be severe.”

I shiver, my heart pounding in terror, the weight of his warning pressing down on me, suffocating. He places me down on the bed, his hands lingering on my shoulders for a moment before he straightens, towering over me, his presence overwhelming.

“This is for your own good, whether you believe it or not,” he says, his voice low and steady, a final, immovable decree. “You’re not leaving, Cathy. Not now, not ever.”

And with that, he turns and storms out, the heavy click of the lock echoing through the silence, sealing me inside. The room feels oppressive, the walls closing in around me, and I’m left alone, trapped, the reality of my situation sinking over me like a shroud.

Tears prick at my eyes, hot and stinging, and I try to blink them away, but the despair is too deep, too overwhelming to ignore. I’ve fought him, pushed back, resisted with every ounceof strength I have, but it doesn’t matter—he’s made sure of that. His presence surrounds me, binding me to him in ways I never anticipated, in ways that terrify me.

With a trembling breath, I pull the covers around myself, wrapping them tightly as if they might protect me, though I know better. The bed feels enormous, a cold and empty space that only emphasizes my vulnerability, my powerlessness.

I feel small, a sharp contrast to the defiance I clung to earlier, and as I sink deeper into the darkness of this room, my carefully built walls begin to crumble.

A choked sob escapes, breaking the silence, and then another, until the tears spill over, hot and relentless. I bury my face in the pillow, muffling my sobs, letting the anger, the fear, the overwhelming despair pour out.

I’m trapped, caged in a world I never wanted, bound to a man whose power feels absolute, whose control is a constant shadow looming over me.

His gaze haunts me, that intense, possessive look that I can still feel, even now, as if he’s still here, watching me, his presence lingering in every corner of this room. I can’t escape it, can’t shake the feeling of being claimed, of being under his control.

I don’t know what kind of future I’m trapped in, or if there’s any way to escape the dark hold he has over me. The thought spirals in my mind, endless and hopeless, as I cling to the pillow, the tears soaking into the fabric.

A faint click breaks the silence, and I freeze, the sound sharp and unmistakable in the stillness. The door. He’s coming back. Panic floods through me, and I hastily wipe at my face, trying to erase the evidence of my tears.

My heart races, every beat echoing in my chest as I try to steady myself, to push the emotions back down, to find some semblance of control.

I press my face into the pillow, willing the tears to stop, swallowing the sobs that still linger in my throat. The instinct is all too familiar—a habit ingrained from childhood, from nights spent stifling my cries so my mother wouldn’t hear, wouldn’t find me with tear-stained cheeks.

I learned early on that showing weakness, showing any emotion at all, would only make things worse. Tears only made her angrier.

I tell myself to breathe, to gather my strength, to hide every trace of what I’m feeling. But the fear is too close, too fresh, and I can’t escape the sense that any slip, any crack in my mask, will only feed his control, his power.

I feel the muscles in my jaw clench, my body tense as I brace myself for his presence, for whatever he’ll say or demand next.

The handle turns, and I close my eyes for a brief second, steadying myself, pushing the last remnants of emotion down as far as they’ll go.

But it’s not Ivan who walks in when the door opens. It’s someone I’ve never met before.

14

CATHY

The door opens slowly, and a woman steps in—older, petite, yet somehow sturdy as a mature oak. She has a welcoming warmth about her that fills the room, easing some of the chill in my heart.

Her hair is pulled back in a practical bun, with a few wisps escaping, framing a face lined with age but softened by kindness. Her eyes are sharp, observant, taking me in with a look that feels maternal.

She tilts her head slightly, a small smile touching her lips as she watches me, and then, in a low, gentle voice colored by a Russian accent, she murmurs, “Ah, golubushka. You have been through much, haven’t you?”

She notices my frown. “From the old country. It means little dove.”

The endearment—golubushka, “little dove”—startles me. It’s so soft in this place that has been nothing but dark and hard. I swallow, trying to hide the rawness I feel, but the concern in her eyes makes it impossible to keep everything buried. She takes a few steps closer, her gaze calm and understanding, as if she knows the weight I’m carrying.

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