Page 22 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

“You remember,” she says softly, her voice barely audible.

I do. The realization settles over me like a heavy weight. That night, the blur of pleasure and heat—I hadn’t remembered her face until now, but the pieces fit.

I lower the gun slowly, my mind still racing.

“If this is a lie,” I say, my voice cold and sharp. “I won’t kill you. I’ll make you wish I had.”

She flinches, but she doesn’t look away.

“It’s not a lie,” she says, her voice steady now. “It’s the truth.”

I study her for a long moment, the silence between us heavy and suffocating. Her words hang in the air, impossible to ignore.

Pregnant. My child.

The gun feels heavier in my hand as I set it aside, my fingers flexing against the sudden tension in my chest. This changes everything, and yet, it changes nothing.

“Sit,” I order, my tone leaving no room for argument.

She hesitates but does as I say, lowering herself into the nearest chair.

“You’ve just made your situation more complicated,” I say flatly.

Her brows knit together in confusion, but she doesn’t speak, waiting for me to continue.

“Whether you’re telling the truth or not, you’ve made yourself a problem I can’t ignore,” I say. “Problems in my world don’t tend to last long.”

Her lips part, but whatever she was going to say dies on her tongue as I take a step closer, my gaze hard and unyielding.

“This isn’t over, Hannah,” I say, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Not by a long shot.”

The tension in the room is as thick as the silence that stretches between us. Hannah sits frozen in the chair, her hands gripping the armrests like they’re the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. Her face is pale, her lips pressed into a tight line, but her eyes—those wide, defiant brown eyes—meet mine without wavering.

It grates on me.

I pick up the gun from the table, spinning it idly in my hand before sliding it back into its holster. “Come,” I say, the command sharp and clipped.

She doesn’t move at first, her body stiff with hesitation.

“Hannah,” I say, my tone colder now, “if you’ve gotten this far without me shooting you, don’t push your luck.”

Her chair scrapes against the floor as she stands, her movements slow and cautious. I turn on my heel, not bothering to see if she’s following as I make my way out of the room. My boots echo against the marble floors of the hallway, her soft footsteps trailing behind me.

We ascend the stairs, the grandeur of the mansion swallowing her small frame. It feels almost absurd, seeing her here—someone so ordinary in a world that is anything but.

When we reach her room, I pull a key from my pocket, the metal glinting in the low light. I dangle it in front of her, the corners of my lips curving into a grin.

“This,” I say, letting the key swing gently on its ring, “is the only thing keeping you from freedom. Or what you think freedom is.”

Her eyes narrow, a flicker of annoyance breaking through the fear.

I step closer, leaning in just enough to make her uncomfortable. “You’ll be locked in here for your own safety,”I say, my voice low and deliberate. “But every night, you’ll eat dinner with me. Tomorrow, you’ll see a doctor, and I’ll know if you’re lying.”

She flinches, the color draining from her face. “I’m not lying,” she whispers.

“For your sake,” I reply coldly, “I hope not.”

I slide the key into the lock, turning it with a soft click before pushing the door open. The room is exactly as I left it—plush bedding, elegant furnishings, and an en suite. Luxurious, but in her eyes, I know it must feel like a gilded cage.

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