Page 10 of Captured By the Bratva

I’m kneeling on the rug, rubbing absently at the faint stain, when I feel it again—a shadow falling over me, cold and unmistakable.

The fine hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and I freeze, every nerve ending coming to attention as a presence fills the room. I didn’t hear any footsteps, no door opening or closing, but there’s no mistaking it this time.

I’m no longer alone.

Slowly, I look up. Standing a few feet away, half-shrouded in the dim light, is a man—a tall, dark figure with eyes that pierce through the shadows like black fire. He’s wearing a black suit that fits him perfectly.

His gaze is locked onto mine, and I feel an intense, primal energy radiating from him, magnetic and terrifying all at once. He’s so still he could almost be part of the darkness itself, as if he was born in it.

My heart pounds as I take in his features, unable to look away. He has the kind of face that belongs to another era—high, sculpted cheekbones, a strong jaw, a mouth that looks both cruel and impossibly inviting.

There’s a striking symmetry to his features, but the shadows soften and sharpen them in equal measure, making it impossible to tell if he’s beautiful or monstrous. He seems to hold both qualities in him at once, a living contradiction.

I feel naked under his gaze, exposed in a way that goes beyond my body. His dark eyes move over me with an intensity that’s both assessing and possessive, as though he’s seeing more than I’m willing to show.

A strange thrill courses through me, an attraction so strong it feels like a betrayal of my own instincts. Every nerve screams that he’s dangerous, but a deeper, hidden part of me aches to be closer, to feel the warmth of his skin, to know what it’s like to beheld in arms that look as if they could crush or protect with equal ease.

He steps forward, and my breath hitches. There’s power in his every movement, a restrained grace, as though he’s holding back something untamed.

His presence fills the room, pushing out everything else, and I feel small beneath him, a mouse in the presence of a panther. I want to shrink away, but at the same time, I’m drawn to him, to the strange, electric force that seems to freeze me in place.

There’s something so familiar about him, a haunting recognition that I can’t place. I study his face, trying to unravel the memory, but it dances just out of reach. And then, he speaks.

“Remember me, Cathy?” His voice is a low, velvety growl, deep and resonant, wrapping around me like a dark promise. The sound seeps into me, lighting a spark of memory, an echo I’ve heard before, though I can’t remember where.

“Sorry, have we met before?”

His breath is warm against my skin, and a shiver runs down my spine as he leans closer, his eyes darkening with something I can’t name.

“My name is Ivan Morosov,” he says, his gaze never leaving mine, every syllable a slow, deliberate claim. “I am the head of the New York Bratva.”

6

CATHY

The man in charge of the New York Bratva is my new boss. That’s not good.

He leads me down a narrow, dimly lit hallway, his footsteps soft but steady as he moves through the shadows. My heart pounds, echoing in my chest as I follow, feeling the weight of the silence between us, heavy and oppressive.

Head of the Bratva? Well, that explains the pay and the armed guards. But why would he hire me? And why am I sure I know his voice from somewhere?

He stops in front of a door at the end of the corridor, turning to glance back at me, his gaze intense, holding something I can’t quite read. With a slight gesture, he opens the door and steps aside, inviting me in.

I hesitate, glancing into the room beyond. The air feels thicker here, the shadows deeper, like this room has secrets woven into the very walls.

Heavy velvet curtains hang from tall windows, framing them in deep crimson. The thin slivers of moonlight that manage to slip through cast faint, eerie patterns on the floor.

The walls are paneled in dark mahogany, a rich wood gleaming faintly in the low light, but also absorbing all warmth, making the room feel colder.

Every instinct screams at me to turn back, but there’s something magnetic about this place, about Ivan himself, that pulls me forward.

I take a breath, then step inside, feeling as if I’ve entered not just a room, but a world entirely of his making.

The door clicks shut behind me, and suddenly, the room feels smaller, as if it’s pressing in on me, drawing me closer to him with every breath.

Ivan stands a few feet away, watching me closely. His face is unreadable, his dark eyes intense and fixed on me, drawing me in even as they seem to keep me at a distance.

I feel as if he’s looking past my defenses, peeling back layers I’ve spent years building, leaving me exposed in a way that’s both terrifying and strangely comforting.

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