Page 54 of An Arranged Virgin for the Bratva

As I sit beside her, my mind races with possibilities. I'm acutely aware that this could all go horribly wrong. If Sofia truly wanted to leave, I'd let her go—I'm not a monster. But the thought of her slipping away again, of losing this chance to make things right, fills me with a desperation I've never known before.

But still, I don’t want her to feel caged. I want her to know she always has options when it comes to us. “You know, I had to do it this way. I was afraid Dima would try to kill meafter everything, so I couldn’t exactly walk in through the door as though nothing happened.”

A tense silence fills the car. Sofia mumbles something under her breath, her words barely audible over the hum of the engine.

"What was that?" I ask, curiosity piqued.

She turns her head, pinning me with those piercing green eyes. "I said, Dima doesn't even know I'm gone. He has no idea about any of this."

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "You didn't tell him?"

Sofia's lips curl into a smirk. "Contrary to what you might believe, Vlad, I don't need to go crying to my brother at the first hint of trouble."

I can't help but feel a surge of admiration for her ability to keep things between us, even though the differences between us are glaringly evident to everyone around. "That's… unexpected."

She shrugs, a gesture so nonchalant it belies the gravity of our situation. "I've learned to keep my cards close to my chest. It's served me well so far."

I nod, processing this new information. "Fair enough. But we're not out of the woods yet. Buckle up, Sofia. We've got a long drive ahead of us."

As I say this, I reach across her to grab her seatbelt, my hand brushing against her arm. The contact sends a jolt through me, and I can't help but linger for a moment. Sofia tenses but doesn't pull away.

"I can manage my own seatbelt, thank you," she says, her voice icy but with an undercurrent I can't quite place. Desire? Yearning? Sorrow?

As I put the car in drive, Sofia turns to me, her expression unreadable in the dim light. "And where exactly are you taking me, oh great kidnapper?"

"Somewhere safe," I answer, focused on the road ahead. "Somewhere we can talk without interruption."

"How romantic," she mutters, her voice laced with sarcasm. But beneath the ice, I detect a hint of curiosity. It's enough to give me hope that maybe, just maybe, I haven't completely lost her yet.

Now, the car drives through winding roads. The whole time, my palms are sweaty on the steering wheel, and I can feel my heart racing. It's not just the unfortunate circumstances of our situation—it's her proximity, the scent of her perfume filling the car, the memory of how it felt to hold her.

***

I guide the car smoothly onto the private airstrip, the headlights illuminating a sleek Gulfstream G650 waiting on the tarmac. My heart quickens at the sight. Everything is falling into place, just as I've meticulously planned.

"A private jet?" Sofia's voice breaks the silence, a hint of surprise in her voice.

I nod, pulling up beside the plane. "I wanted tonight to … mean something.”

Sofia says nothing.

As we exit the car, I notice Sofia's eyes darting around, taking in every detail. Her analytical mind is always working, even now. I lead her toward the aircraft, my hand hovering near the small of her back, not quite touching.

"After you," I gesture to the steps.

Inside, I watch Sofia's reaction carefully as she takes in the cabin. I've arranged everything perfectly—a table set for an intimate dinner, crystal glasses catching the soft lighting. To the side, carefully wrapped packages await her attention.

"What's all this?" Sofia asks, her tone guarded but curious.

I move past her, picking up a small velvet box. "I thought you might like some comforts for the journey. This one's special."

I open it to reveal a delicate emerald necklace I chose specifically to match her striking green eyes. "I remembered how much you admired it in that little shop."

Sofia's gaze flickers between the necklace and my face, her expression unreadable. I can see the wheels turning in her mind, weighing my gesture against her distrust.

To help her ease into it, I pour her some champagne—she takes a sip, thank god—before handing her another box.

She opens it, her eyes reflecting the diamonds within, strung on a tennis necklace. A carat apiece, thirty-six pointer. She looks up at me inquiringly.

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