Page 9 of Captured By the Bratva

Both men are armed, and though I know it’s probably just a standard security measure, it feels strange— a reminder that I’mstepping into a different world, a place where the rules aren’t the same as back in the city.

Finally, the guard turns to me, gesturing toward the door. “You start in library,” he says, still struggling with his English. “Go, now.” He swings open the heavy wooden door.

I get the feeling this is my last chance to change my mind, to tell them to take me back. I glance behind me and then at the looming mouth of the house, like it’s ready to swallow me whole.

I can’t leave. It’s this or I know I’ll end up back with Jimmy. I’d rather die than do that.

I step forward, clutching my bag tighter as I cross the threshold.

The air inside is thick and still. I take a few hesitant steps, my footsteps echoing on the stone floor. Just inside the door, a cleaning cart is waiting for me, neatly arranged with supplies, as though someone has been expecting me.

I look around, the shadows stretching across the high walls and dark wood, feeling the weight of the silence settle over me like a shroud.

As the door clicks shut behind me, a faint chill runs down my spine. The silence of the mansion is oppressive, settling heavily around me as I push the cleaning cart down the hall, its wheels creaking against the old stone floor.

The corridor stretches out, long and dimly lit, with only a few muted sconces casting weak pools of light that barely penetrate the shadows in the corners.

The walls are dark, covered in faded wallpaper with patterns I can barely make out, curling slightly at the edges as if peeling back to reveal something hidden underneath.

My footsteps echo, and I glance around, catching the eyes of long-dead figures in portraits lining the walls.

Each face seems frozen mid-expression, half-frowning, half-smiling, as though they know something I don’t. The paintedeyes seem to follow me, watching with a strange intensity that makes my skin crawl.

I check my map, tracing my finger to the first room I’m meant to clean: the library. As I approach, I notice the double doors are shut, as if the room is holding itself closed, hiding whatever secrets are inside.

I stop, setting the cleaning cart aside, and reach for the handle, pausing for a moment to let my eyes drift over the carvings in the wood—strange, twisting vines and dark-winged birds etched into the heavy wood, so detailed they almost seem alive.

With a deep breath, I push open one of the doors, bracing myself as it swings inward with a low creak. A faint, musty smell wafts out, rich and earthy, like the scent of an ancient forest buried in the dark.

I gasp at the sight. Even in the gloom, the place looks incredible. A library from my dreams.

Dusty rays of light filter through a small crack in the heavy shutters covering the windows. I set my bag down and cross to the far side of the room, my shoes soft against the intricate rug, patterned in dark reds and blacks that seem almost stained with shadows.

The air feels colder here, but there’s something strangely comforting about it too, a chill that wraps around me like an invitation.

I pull open the shutters, letting light spill into the room. The sun outside is pale, casting a washed-out glow over the massive shelves and gleaming off the glass in the cabinets along the walls.

I feel an odd sense of relief as the light chases some of the darkness away, revealing more intricate details of the room.

In the fresh daylight, I can see the library in all its eerie beauty. The shelves stretch up to the ceiling, each one crammedwith leather-bound books, their spines dark with age, some cracked, others pristine.

The books look old, older than anything I’ve ever seen. I feel a strange urge to reach out, to run my hand along the spines.

In the center of the room, by one of the tall windows, is a heavy mahogany writing desk, its surface polished to a dark, reflective sheen. I can’t help but imagine myself sitting here, fingers poised over the blank page.

I walk over to the desk, almost in a daze, running my fingers along its smooth surface. A few dark stains mar the wood’s finish, like faint bruises, remnants of something once spilled but never fully cleaned away.

I look around, surprised to find that everything is already spotless. The shelves are dust-free, the rug pristine, and the faint mustiness that hangs in the air doesn’t seem to come from dirt but rather from the age and the memories soaked into the room.

I frown, my fingers brushing the edge of the desk as I wonder why they would hire me if the place is already this immaculate.

I pick up a cloth from the cart, kneeling by the edge of the rug where a small, faded stain catches my eye—a red-brown blotch woven into the fabric. I reach down to scrub at it, but it barely fades.

My mind spins with questions as I rub at the spot, trying to convince myself it’s nothing more than an old wine stain. But as I look around the room, as my gaze falls on the silent books lining the shelves nearby. More stains the same color. Why do I think it’s the splatter of blood, long since dried?

The silence presses down on me, thick and weighty, and for a moment, I feel as though I’m not alone.

I glance over my shoulder, half-expecting to see someone standing in the doorway, but there’s only the stillness, the room closing in around me. The sense of being watched prickles down my spine, but I shake it off, telling myself it’s just nerves.

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