Page 39 of Captured By the Bratva

I snort, rolling my eyes. “A promise of what?”

He lifts an eyebrow, his gaze dark and teasing. “A promise to stay.”

“Oh, is that so?” I shake my head, but I can’t deny the flutter in my stomach at his words.

Just as I’m reaching for another spoonful, savoring the warmth of the dish, a heavy knock sounds at the kitchen door. Ivan’s face shifts instantly; the warmth fades, replaced by a steely resolve that feels like a slap. His jaw tightens, and he sets his spoon down, rising with a cold, calculated precision.

The door swings open, revealing Nik, his gaze sharp, his stance tense. He glances at me for a brief moment before his attention turns fully to Ivan. Whatever message he brings, I can tell from his demeanor that it’s serious, urgent.

“Ivan,” Nik says, his tone clipped. “We need to talk.”

Ivan doesn’t even look back at me. He’s already slipping into a different version of himself, the one I’ve seen before—the one that commands, controls, and brooks no softness.

He mutters something low to Nik in Russian, his words like steel, and the warmth of our shared moment evaporates. In an instant, he’s transformed, leaving the man who shared his pastwith me nowhere to be seen. They talk for a minute while I can only watch, understanding nothing.

“I’ll handle it,” Ivan says to Nik in English, his voice a sharp edge. Then, finally, he turns to me, his gaze unreadable. “Nothing to worry about. I have work to do.”

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving me alone at the table, the empty bowls and half-eaten plates suddenly feeling hollow. The weight of the silence presses down on me, and I feel an ache in my chest I wasn’t prepared for.

A few minutes ago, he’d been someone almost warm. Someone I could almost imagine knowing beyond the walls of this mansion. But now, I’m not sure which is real—the man who laughed with me over a meal or the cold, untouchable figure who just left the room.

I sit there, stirring my spoon absently through the remaining borscht, a bitter taste rising in my throat. It’s jarring, this shift in him.

One minute, he’s a man with a past, with memories he’s willing to share. The next, he’s a stranger again, locked away behind walls I have no hope of penetrating.

The question looms in my mind: Is this cold, calculating Ivan the real him? Or is there truly something softer beneath that armor, something real?

A part of me wants to believe in the warmth I glimpsed tonight, but as I sit alone in the dim kitchen, doubt settles in like a chill. I may have seen a crack in his facade, but it’s clear he’s in full control of when—or if—he’ll ever let me see beyond it again.

23

CATHY

The mansion’s silence wraps around me, thick and heavy, as I wander its shadowed corridors. It’s late, and the usual staff movements have quieted, leaving only the soft, almost imperceptible hum of this vast, lonely place.

I’m not even sure why I’m exploring—maybe it’s curiosity, or perhaps a strange pull, an urge to see if there’s more to this place than polished rooms and silent guards. There’s no sign of Ivan anywhere. I guess I better get used to being alone.

Each step echoes, cushioned by thick carpets but reverberating through the quiet spaces like a whisper. The chandeliers cast a warm, muted light, spilling shadows across the floor and letting darkness gather in the corners, stretching out as I move.

The walls seem to lean in, as though they’re watching me, waiting for something.

Turning a corner, I enter a forgotten section of the house. The wallpaper here is faded, peeling at the edges, and the furniture is draped in white sheets, ghosts of a life long past.

Dust hangs in the air, catching the dim light in tiny specks, and it smells different here—musty, old, like time itself has settled in.

As I walk, something catches my eye—a small, rough carving at the base of a doorframe. I crouch down, squinting to make out the faint letters scratched into the wood.Ivan. The letters are uneven, almost shaky, the kind of carving a child would make, trying to leave a mark, to say, “I was here.”

I feel a strange ache in my chest as I run my fingers over the letters, imagining a young Ivan kneeling here, pressing his name into the wood to claim something for himself in this massive, intimidating place.

Did he feel small and lost here, too? Was this carving his way of anchoring himself, of saying he mattered?

With a push, the door creaks open, revealing a small, dim room with a high window. Dust hangs thick in the air, swirling in the narrow beam of moonlight that manages to slip through the grime-streaked glass. A lone box sits in the corner, the lid slightly askew, as if someone left it open long ago and forgot it was there.

Curious, I step closer, my hand reaching out before I can think twice. The box is filled with old toys—a set of small wooden blocks, chipped and worn smooth at the edges, a little red toy car missing one of its wheels, and, nestled at the bottom, a faded stuffed bear with a button eye hanging by a thread.

I pick up the bear, feeling the softness of the worn fabric against my fingers. There’s something tender, almost heartbreakingly so, about this battered little toy.

I can picture it in the hands of a young child, its fur once plush and new, now matted with age. This bear, so small and unassuming, might have been Ivan’s companion during long, sleepless nights. It’s hard to imagine him, fierce and unyielding as he is now, once clinging to this simple toy.

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