Page 26 of Virgin Bratva Hostage

So, every night when he comes to bed, I argue a little harder.

Sometimes, the wordplay is fun and goes on for a while. Other nights, he snaps back a few comments and then huffs loudly before he falls asleep.

Tonight was a shorter conversation, and now he is lying with his back to me and his breathing heavy.

I watch him for a long while, just enjoying the fact that someone is next to me.

It grates at me, being so alone like this. I am a very social person and I have never been challenged in this way.

Watching him, and feeling the weight of his coldness towards me, tears start to stream down my face.

Fuck. I don’t want to cry in front of him. I don’t want him to hear me.

“Avraam,” I say his name gently, needing a few more moments of conversation before another long night followed by another long, empty, pointless day alone.

“What, Ruslana?”

“What do you do all day? Do you work or—“

“What kind of a stupid question is that?” he snaps angrily. “Of course, I work. I work like my father did, and like his father did before him. I work because every man should work. I come from a long line of strong, capable men and every man in the Abaza bloodline worked towards building a strong empire—“

“Abaza,” I mutter quietly, realizing he has let me know who he is. “Avraam Abaza,” I say his full name.

He spins around and glares at me, shooting daggers with his eyes.

He didn’t mean to slip up like that. I got through his defenses.

“Did your father do the same work you do? Did you take over from him?” I ask casually. If he is in an information-giving mood I may as well see how far I can take this. “Do you still work with your family?”

I wonder if he has brothers, how many, how big his forces are.

“Are you kidding me right now? Are you interrogating me?” he snaps angrily.

“No, I was just talking,” I reply defensively.

He clenches his jaw. Thick muscles feathering across his face.

He looks furious.

Then he shakes his head and throws the blankets off his body.

He stands up.

“Where are you going?” I ask in a panic. I don’t want to be alone. This is the only time of day I am not alone, and I don’t want that to end.

“I will be sleeping in my own bed. I need peace and quiet, not your constant whining.”

“I wasn’t—“ He is walking away before I can say anything else and anxiety begins to grip tight in my chest.

“Please don’t go,” I mutter, more to myself than him because he is already out of the door, pulling it closed behind himself.

It is the longest night I have felt since being kidnapped.

All night, I toss and turn, wondering if I have pushed my luck too far. If he will come back the next night or if he is going to completely avoid me now.

The next day, after the guards give me my usual fifteen minutes in the bathroom and the housekeeper delivers my breakfast—I sit in tense anxiety for hours.

Hour after hour after hour.

---