Page 20 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

“Easy, big guy,” Miron teased with a lopsided grin. “I was only joking.”

I ignored him and shifted my attention to Dobryn. “I can’t force the information out of the girl. She’s like a flower that’ll wither if not properly taken care of. I don’t want that for her, not while she’s under my protection.”

“If she’s like a flower, then how about you water her?” Dobryn suggested.

I almost rolled my eyes. “Explain.”

“It’s simple. I hate to be the one to say this, but you’ve got the charm, man. Any girl would fall for you very easily, and she isn’t an exception. She’ll fall for you sooner or later. Use it to your advantage.” He leaned in, and his lips curled. “You know how women are when they’re in love. She’ll spill everything in no time.”

I thought about it for a moment. Romance wasn’t my thing—it never had been—but there was some truth to what he’d just said. I didn’t have to fall in love with her; all I needed to do was pretend I was and get her to fall in love with me until I got the information I needed.

My stomach fluttered with amusement.

Things had been boring lately, at least until the shipment went missing and Peter got murdered. A little game of hearts with my little prisoner wasn’t such a bad idea.

“So, are you in?” Dobryn asked with a lift of his brow.

Miron stared at me with that dark amusement lurking in his eyes at what my answer would be.

I stretched my legs out in front of me. “It’s not a bad idea. Actually, it’s a pretty good one.”

She was alone now and vulnerable. All I needed to do was pull the right strings, and in no time, she would start to see me as her only source of comfort. The emotions would come naturally when that happened.

Miron clasped my shoulder, grinning. “There he is. I was afraid you were starting to get softer.”

I huffed out a low chuckle. “It’ll be a cold day in hell when I start to get softer, Miron.”

He laughed, finishing his drink and slamming the glass on the table. “And here I was thinking hell was starting to freeze over.”

“With your existence, I doubt that will ever happen,” I teased, sitting back and enjoying the show in front of me for the first time this evening.

I was curious to see how this game would end if I played my cards right.

Chapter 9 – Giselle

Dinner was beef stroganoff paired with mashed potatoes and a glass of expensive red wine. It’d been days, and I still couldn’t get used to the fancy dinners. They were delicious, but after watching the chef put so much time and effort into making it, I would honestly prefer a burger and fries from McDonalds.

It was nearly nine p.m. when I finished. Most days, I had dinner by six or seven at the latest, but I had slept through most of the evening, and when my growling stomach finally forced me to wake up, it was already eight p.m.

Luckily, the chef had asked what I would like for dinner during lunch, so she made it earlier.

After my meal, I sauntered back upstairs, ready to slide under the duvet and go back to sleep, when I passed a door at the end of the hall, far away from my own room. One of the maids had told me it was Andrei’s room. It was locked at all times, and no one was allowed to go in there when he wasn’t home.

It was open today, though, and I couldn’t resist the temptation to peep inside. Given the type of man Andrei was—cold, cruel, calculating—I needed to see what the inside of his room looked like. Perhaps he had a human body hidden under his bed.

I pushed up onto my toes and crept over to the slightly open door. A Caravaggio-style dramatic art of lone, brooding figures sitting right above his bed caught my attention when I popped my head inside to make sure there was no one there.

The painting was one of a kind. From afar, I could tell whoever the artist was had taken his time and crafted such a magnificent piece of art with gentle strokes of his brush.

I wanted to make something as beautiful as that one day.

Maybe I could use it as a source of inspiration.

I looked behind me to make sure there was no one watching before I gently pushed the door open to make more space for my frame, and I sauntered inside.

His room wasn’t very different from what I imagined: white walls and ceilings, with a touch of dark grey décor and furnishing. A king-sized bed sat in the middle of the room, and a recliner was right in front of the glass wall at the other end.

I neared the painting, folding my arms and taking in the details. From what I could tell, the painter was telling the story of a man who’d become a darker shadow of himself while walking down a path no one else could. There were what appeared to be dead bodies littered behind him, and it seemed like his soul died a little with each step he took.

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