Page 28 of Captured By the Bratva

“I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to pry,” I say. “I just… I found this room.” The photograph still rests in my hand, and I instinctively draw it closer to my chest. “She was beautiful,” I say. The warmth in Elena’s eyes, the laughter captured in that photo—it’s a part of him I haven’t seen, and something in me wants to understand.

For a brief moment, something shifts in his expression. His gaze softens, just for a heartbeat, his features almost human beneath the mask he wears so tightly.

The pain is there, unmistakable, a flicker of grief that he’s clearly tried to bury. But as quickly as it appeared, it vanishes,his face hardening, the walls between us slamming back into place.

“She was.” His voice is rough, as though the words themselves are laced with thorns, and I see him fight to keep control. “But this room is off-limits to you, Cathy. You don’t belong in here.”

The finality in his tone stings, but more than that, the way he closes himself off frustrates me. I want to push, to ask him more about Elena, about this life he keeps hidden behind locked doors, but I sense that any attempt will only drive him further away. There’s a distance in his gaze now, a wall I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to breach.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, though the words feel hollow, insignificant against the weight of his past. He doesn’t reply, but the silence stretches between us, thick with tension and unspoken words.

His gaze narrows, a hint of something protective glinting beneath the surface. “Don’t come in here again,” he warns, his voice dangerously low.

There’s no anger now, only a strange mix of command and caution, as if he’s trying to protect something fragile beneath the coldness. The shift unsettles me, leaving me unsure whether he’s warning me away for my own good or to keep his own secrets safe.

My phone pings from deep in my pocket. The sound feels jarringly loud in the stillness of the room, cutting through the remnants of tension lingering in the air.

I reach for it instinctively, but Ivan’s eyes flick back toward me, sharp and knowing, as though he’d expected it. A slow, smug expression spreads across his face.

“It’s probably from him. Read it,” he says, his voice low and mocking, a hint of disdain threading through the words.

There’s a challenge in his tone, a darkness that makes my stomach twist, but I can’t ignore it. With a deep breath, I unlock the screen, my hands suddenly unsteady as I pull up the message.

The words are stark, brutal in their clarity.

You think I won’t find you? Come back, or I'll make you regret it.

My heart stops, icy dread sinking into me as I read it again, the threat unmistakable.

Panic pulses through my veins, and I feel my grip on the phone tighten involuntarily. I don’t know if it’s fear or anger that overwhelms me more, but I feel a desperate need to shove the phone away, to erase his words from my mind.

I look up at Ivan, half-expecting rage or possessiveness, but instead, his face is calm. He’s watching me carefully, his eyes glinting with a strange intensity.

“Let me see it.” His words are softer than I expect, and for a moment, I hesitate. The lack of a command, the quiet way he asks—it almost feels like he’s giving me a choice. Despite myself, I feel a flicker of trust as I hand him the phone, my pulse racing.

Ivan reads the message, his gaze sharpening slightly, but his expression barely shifts. He hands the phone back to me with a slow, calculated calm, his face unreadable. “I’ll deal with him,” he says quietly, but there’s a finality in his tone that sends a chill down my spine.

I swallow, my voice unsteady as I ask, “How?”

Ivan meets my gaze, his expression darkening, his voice so steady it feels as if he’s talking about the most ordinary thing in the world. “I will kill him.” His words are cold, almost clinical, yet they hang in the air with a gravity that’s impossible to ignore.

A shiver runs through me, a wave of fear mingling with something deeper, something I can’t quite name. His words are a stark reminder of who he is, of the dark world he inhabits, butthere’s also a strange comfort in them—a twisted sense of safety, knowing he would go to such lengths to protect me.

My chest tightens with conflicting emotions, the reality of what he’s saying hitting me hard. Ivan would kill for me.

The weight of that promise pulls me down, settling somewhere between fear and a twisted sense of comfort. He’s a murderer, ruthless and unyielding, yet the protection he offers is like a dark, suffocating shelter. The trap feels less like a cage and more like armor, heavy and impossible to ignore.

I try to steady my breathing, but Ivan’s gaze sharpens, anchoring me. “You’re not safe, Cathy,” he says, as though he’s speaking a fact, something as certain as gravity. “Not until your ex is dead. You’re mine, and I don’t share.”

His possessiveness is unsettling, but there’s a part of me—a small, shameful part—that’s drawn to his fierce determination. In his eyes, I’m something worth keeping, something he would go to any lengths to protect.

My head spins, and I look away, trying to gather my thoughts, but he doesn’t let me. His voice pulls me back, calm and chilling. “It’s time for us to get married.” He says it with such a casual certainty that it leaves me momentarily speechless.

I stare at him, my shock apparent, but he continues as if he hasn’t just upended everything. “A dress is already prepared for you,” he says, his tone smooth, unbothered. “It’s waiting in the parlor in the East Wing.”

His words are calm, but the underlying command is clear, as solid as steel. My shock morphs into anger, and I feel a surge of defiance. “I don’t want to marry you,” I snap, my voice sharper than I intended.

He merely raises an eyebrow, a dark, amused smile tugging at his mouth. “What you want and what you need are two very different things. You will either walk down the aisle willingly or be dragged down it kicking and screaming.”

---