Page 19 of Virgin Bratva Prisoner

When I do get too hungry, I sneak downstairs and find leftovers in the fridge. I heat them up, then carry them back up to the room where I can eat in private and not have to face Oleg.

The morning drifts by painfully slow because I am so impatient to get home and I have absolutely nothing to do to try and make the time go by faster. By late afternoon, I am ready to tear my hair out I’m so agitated.

I hate waiting. It’s such a waste of time.

Downstairs, I hear someone arriving.

The front door closes and voices drift up towards my room.

Is that my brothers? Are they here? Am I going home?

I push off the bed, feeling hopeful and excited.

Rushing towards the door, I run straight into one of Oleg’s guards.

Crashing into his chest, he grabs my arm and says, “Hey, slow down.”

“What’s going on downstairs?”

“Come on, I was sent to fetch you. I’m sure you will find out soon enough.”

My heart is beating fast and I feel a smile of relief spread across my face. My brothers must be here. I’m going home. Thank goodness.

The guard leads me downstairs, but not towards the front door. Instead, he turns towards the back of the house and guides me into what looks like an office.

“What the hell is going on?” I stammer, seeing a priest standing in the room.

The guard pushes me towards Oleg.

Oleg takes my arm and pulls me up against his side.

“What is going on?” I say more forcefully.

“We are getting married,” Oleg answers, curt and short. To the point.

“No, we are fucking not,” I snap back in shock.

“Yes, Raisa. We are. Now do as you are told.”

His fingers grip around my arm as I try to turn away from him. He yanks me back to his side.

“I’m not marrying you,” I cry out in desperation.

“Marry me, or your family will suffer.”

His threat is simple, but the possibilities of what he might do to the people I love are endless.

My jaw drops open as I stare at him in disbelief.

“Why?” I beg to know.

“Do as you are told, Raisa,” he says again.

The priest starts reciting the usual ceremonious rantings and before long he turns to me and says, “do you, Raisa Kuznetsov take Oleg Dubrov to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

I stammer, stuttering no reply at all. Oleg’s fingers dig into my arm.

As soon as I get out of here, I will divorce him. Whatever he has planned—it won’t work. “I do,” I mutter.

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