Page 73 of Ruthless Bratva King

I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders and force myself to focus on the memories of our mornings together, the quiet moments when his walls came down and I saw the man beneath the Bratva armor.

The way his hand would brush against mine, deliberate yet tender. The way he’d trace the curve of my spine in bed as if memorizing me.

But those moments feel like they’re slipping further away with each passing second.

My sketchbook lies open, the blank page in front of me daring me to fill it with something solid, something real. Theroom is too quiet, but I try to focus on the scrape of pencil against paper as I press the lead to the surface.

A house. Our house.

I can lose myself in a dream, I guess.

I start again with a fresh foundation, sketching the shape of it in broad strokes. The lines are crisp and clean, the kind of stability I’ve always wanted but never had.

A wide front porch wraps around the structure, with tall columns reaching up to support the overhang. It feels welcoming, sturdy, and warm—everything this life with Dmitri has made me believe could be possible.

As I add windows, my mind drifts to him. I picture the way his shadow would fall across the hardwood floors as he moves through the space, the way his voice would fill the rooms, deep and steady.

For a moment, I let myself imagine us together in this house—him standing at the kitchen counter with a mug of coffee, me curling up by a fireplace with a book.

My pencil pauses.

The ache in my chest grows sharper. This dream, this fragile hope, feels so far from the reality we’re living. But if I don’t hold onto it, what else do I have?

I flip to a clean page and start drawing again, this time focusing on the living room. High ceilings, large windows letting in as much natural light as possible. I sketch a soft couch and bookshelves filled to the brim.

My hand falters. Could we ever really have that?

Shaking off the doubt, I press harder with the pencil, darkening the lines of the drawing. If I can picture it, if I can create it on paper, maybe I can make it become real. I add details: a vase of flowers on the mantle, a rug with intricate patterns under the coffee table.

The pencil moves faster now, driven by an urgency I can’t explain. I want to see it, to make it real. I want to believe that this house, this life, could exist.

I glance up from the sketchpad to the empty room around me. The stillness feels heavy again, pressing down on me like a weight.

I close my eyes and imagine Dmitri’s hand in mine, the warmth of his palm, the way his thumb would brush over my knuckles.

“If you come back,” I murmur to the quiet, “this is what we’ll have. A place that’s ours. A home.”

I’m picturing Dmitri and me curled up, the warmth of a fire crackling behind us, when I hear the front door click open.

My stomach tightens as I know at once something is wrong.

Before I can even process what’s happening, rough hands grab my shoulders and yank me backward from my chair.

My sketchpad slips from my lap and falls to the floor with a soft thud, the image of our perfect home staring up at me as I’m dragged away.

“Let go of me!” I shout, my voice trembling with both fear and fury.

Two men flank me, their grips like steel clamps around my arms. They’re big, broad, and entirely unfamiliar. Their faces are cold, their eyes devoid of any compassion.

“Shut up, bitch,” one of them growls, his voice low and menacing.

I twist and struggle against them, but it’s no use. They’re too strong, their movements too calculated. My bare feet scuff against the floor as they haul me toward the door.

“Who are you? What do you want?” My voice cracks, panic rising in my throat.

“We’re taking you to our boss,” the other man snaps, his tone clipped and businesslike, as if this is just another task on his to-do list. “Your husband’s been a very naughty boy.”

My blood runs cold, and my struggles intensify. “You can’t do this! Let me go! Dmitri will kill you for this.”

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