Page 51 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

“Thank you,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

The gratitude in her eyes is tentative, uncertain, but it stirs something in me nonetheless.

I nod once, saying nothing as I walk away.

The threat is gone, but the war is far from over. More than ever, I’m certain of one thing: I’ll destroy anyone who dares to come near her again.

Chapter Seventeen - Hannah

The sitting room feels impossibly still, the heavy silence broken only by the faint ticking of a nearby clock. I sit on the couch, my knees drawn to my chest, staring blankly at the empty fireplace. My mind replays the nightmarish events of the attack in an endless loop—the glint of the knife, the intruder’s feral eyes, the sound of Makar’s gunshot ringing out.

My chest tightens, and I wrap my arms around my legs, trying to ward off the lingering fear that clings to me like a second skin.

Along with the fear is something else.

Makar.

The way he moved—ruthless, precise, unrelenting—when the intruder lunged at him. The way his voice cut through my panic, steady and firm, grounding me when I felt like I might shatter.

He protected me.

The thought unsettles me. He’s supposed to be the enemy in this twisted arrangement, the man who controls my every move. And yet, in those terrifying moments, his presence was a strange comfort, a shield against the chaos.

The door opens, and I stiffen, my heart leaping before I see him. Makar steps inside, his dark suit still immaculate despite the events of the evening. His gaze sweeps the room before settling on me.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then he crosses the room, his movements deliberate, his expression serious but softening slightly as he meets my eyes.

“The attacker,” he begins, his voice steady but laced with an edge, “was connected to Kris. I guess he wanted revenge for what happened.”

The mention of Kris sends a shiver through me, but I say nothing, waiting for him to continue.

“I’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again,” he says, his tone darkening with unspoken promise. “You’re safe here.”

The words settle over me like a blanket, heavy but comforting in their finality. I feel a spark of relief—unexpected and unwelcome—though I try to hide it.

His gaze lingers on me, sharp and assessing, before it shifts slightly, and his brow furrows. “You haven’t eaten in days,” he says, his tone firm but with a hint of something softer. Concern?

I blink, startled by the sudden shift in topic. “I’ve been…,” I falter, unsure of how to finish the sentence.

“Neglecting yourself,” he finishes for me, his voice carrying a note of disapproval. His gaze flickers briefly to my stomach, then back to my face. “That’s not good for you. Or the baby.”

The unexpected gentleness in his voice throws me off-balance. I stare at him, unsure of how to respond.

“Come downstairs for lunch,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You need it.”

He turns toward the door but stops after a few steps, glancing back over his shoulder. His gaze meets mine, steady and expectant, waiting.

I hesitate, my body rooted to the couch as the conflicting emotions swirl inside me—fear, resentment, confusion, and something dangerously close to gratitude.

Finally, I nod, unfolding myself from the couch and standing. My legs feel unsteady, but I force them to carry me forward.

Makar waits by the door, his expression unreadable as he watches me approach. When I reach him, he turns and leads the way out of the room, his presence both commanding and strangely reassuring.

For a moment, I stay rooted where I am, my chest tight with the weight of everything unspoken between us. Then, forcing myself to move, I follow him out of the room, the soft thud of my footsteps trailing behind his steady stride.

He leads me through the hall, his broad shoulders cutting an imposing silhouette against the dim lighting. When we reach the main staircase, he pauses briefly, his gaze flicking back toward me.

“Don’t take too long,” he says, his tone calm but firm, before turning and heading toward the dining room.

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