Page 11 of Virgin Bratva Hostage

Slowly, I sit up and blink myself awake, groaning again. The room is really dark, but even though I can’t see everything, I have a sudden urgent sense of panic. This is not my room. This is not anywhere that I recognize at all.

Everything that happened rushes at me all at once and I remember the chase and the man who took me. His penetrating stare and that dark smile on his face before he grabbed me.

Someone has kidnapped me. I’m being held prisoner.

How long was I unconscious? How long have I been missing? Where are my brothers?

I can’t believe this happened.

I was so careful.

I was so stupid.

My brothers are going to be furious and it’s all my fault. I always mess everything up because I refuse to do what I’m told. This isn’t the first time I’ve landed myself in a lot of trouble because I get up to mischief.

They were right all along, and I didn’t listen. Why do I always have to be so fucking stubborn? I hate to admit it—and I would never admit it to his face—but Rodion was right. I needed the guards. I was stupid to escape them and put myself in danger like that.

Stop.

Stop panicking. Stop being so hard on yourself.

You are a survivor.

It’s going to be ok.

I’m still me. I’m still smart enough to find a way out of here.

Climbing off the bed, I start to look around the room, examining everything—looking for any way to get out. The windows are barricaded with extra bars—thick rods that have been cemented into the walls. They have put a lot of effort into making sure I’m not going to get out that way. They either do this often, kidnapping people—or they have carefully prepared this room just for me. I don’t know which idea is worse.

Who has me? Why? What do they want with me?

I push the thoughts aside before they start to cause panic.

The windows aren’t the way out—but there has to be something. They aren’t perfect. No one’s perfect. They would have slipped up somewhere and I will use it to my advantage. I will get out of here.

I’m certainly not going to make this easy for whoever took me.

Reaching into my hair, I pull out a hairpin, a thin, long silver pin, neat, strong and sharp.

I have no idea how to pick a lock, but I’ve watched enough movies to at least give it a try. How hard can it be?

Besides, trying that is better than just sitting here and waiting for them to come back.

I want to get back to my family. I’ll put up with the seven hundred security guards and be perfectly happy about it. I won’t complain even once. In fact—I’ll say thank you and be grateful.

I just want to get home. That’s all that matters now.

I hurry towards the door, twirling the hairpin in my fingertips.

Crouching in front of the door, I peer into the lock. I can’t see anything. It’s too dark. But that’s ok. From what I understand, this is mostly based off feel and not sight. I have to trust my instincts on this one.

Taking a deep breath, I steady my shaking hands and slip the pin into the lock. It slides in easily.

I keep moving it—gently—slowly. Rolling it around, spinning it and twirling it—I keep hearing little clicks and feeling the internal mechanism moving around inside the door. I have no idea if it’s working.

It’s taking forever and part of my brain is screaming that it’s useless and the other part is screaming that I don’t dare give up—there is no other way out of here—

And then it happens.

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