Page 20 of Forced Bratva Hostage

Impressive.

I didn't think she had it in her to be feisty, and her spunk was rather entertaining. Perhaps I'd get on her nerves more often.

“Virgin by choice or circumstance?” My eyes squinted as I reclined in my chair, my tone carrying a hint of mockery.

Her jaw tightened, brows arching at the bluntness of my question. “Are you trying to get under my skin?” Her eyes flashed with vexation.

I raised an eyebrow, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Sweetheart, if I wanted to get under something, it wouldn't be your skin.” My lips curled into a smirk, my tone hinting at the hidden message.

Her eyes widened, realizing the true meaning of my words, and soon, she tore her gaze off me, her body tensing. Wren shifted uncomfortably, and her words trailed off as sherose to her feet, muttering, “Please, excuse me.” She turned and left the table.

Seeing her riled up brought me some sense of satisfaction, and I let out a soft scoff, watching her ascend the stairs.

Chapter 8 – Wren

A couple of weeks had gone by, and still no word on my father's whereabouts. He'd managed to stay hidden from Afanasy's men and his wrath. Sadly, I couldn't say the same for myself.

I was still trapped in this mansion, this prison—forced to put up with my jailer's sneers and intimidation. His wit and sass was as charming as it was annoying.

Afanasy seemed to be loving my circumstances, like he found comfort or peace in watching me suffer both emotionally and psychologically. And to make things worse, he'd never pass on the chance to make a comment that would leave me either vexed or hurt.

He obviously delighted in my pain and agony. But then again, that was the definition of being a prisoner.

Yeah, I was allowed to move freely around the mansion, and I could eat and drink whatever I wanted. I had an opulent space for a bedroom with a comfy mattress and a cozy duvet to keep me warm.

Physically, it didn't seem like I was a prisoner, but I was, and lately, Afanasy would always remind me of that with every opportunity he got. He'd look at me with a pesky little grin etched on his enticing lips.

Most times, I'd frown at his mocking smirk, but there were occasions where I would lose myself in a heartbeat, noting the faintest details on his face. And I despised myself for that.

I hated how I easily noticed the way his captivating green eyes would crinkle at the corners when he spoke, how his lips would curve each time he flashed me his signature smirk.

The feeling that my mind had betrayed me, prioritizing physical attraction over my present predicament, was so frustrating.

Every time Afanasy was in my space or anywhere around me, his commanding presence always stirred up conflicting emotions within me. Whenever I set my eyes on him, fear and resentment would always wrestle with an unwelcome fascination that often left me unsettled.

Over the past few weeks, I'd tried to curtail the way I reacted to seeing him, to conceal the effect he had on me. But it was as though the more I tried, the more I woefully failed.

The man could see right through me like I was a house made of glass.

I’d yet to figure him out; his perfect blend of fire and ice made him almost unreadable. One minute, he'd be all chatty, his words weighing less, and the next minute, he'd turn cold like a freezer.

Every time I thought I had a grasp of his behavior, he'd switch tactics, and just like that, I'd return right back to square one. Level zero.

Lying in bed, my back against the soft, comfy mattress, I stared at the wall clock across from me.

It was almost 2 A.M.

I pulled the sheets up to my chest, my eyes never leaving the clock. My feet tapped an inpatient rhythm against the bed frame. My mind was racing with anticipation as 2:30 seemed to crawl closer.

I'd spent the past few weeks planning my escape.

My patience had worn out—I couldn't keep waiting for my father to show up with the money he owed the Bratva. I had to do something to help and also get myself out of this hellhole.

I couldn't bear the suffocating atmosphere anymore, and Afanasy's delight in my predicament only fueled my desperationto escape. I was done giving him the satisfaction of seeing me suffer.

He didn't just enjoy keeping me prisoner; he was starting to act like he owned me—like I was one of his prized possessions.

God! I hated that. I hated the strings on me—the feeling of being watched, of being controlled.

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