Page 18 of Virgin Bratva Hostage

The curve of her hips.

Those luscious lips tinted pink.

Chapter 6 - Ruslana

I sit against the headboard, holding my cuffed wrist in my other hand and glaring at the back of his head—then down the thick muscular curve of his neck, over his sculpted back—I am trying to set him on fire with my eyes. I am trying to laser giant holes straight through him and make him burn to ashes. I want to tear him to pieces. How can he just be lying there so calmly—going to sleep? How does he expectmeto go to sleep now after what just happened—after everything? Today is such a disaster.

I’m so angry with him.

How did he manage not to fall for my tactics? That’s what I really don’t understand. I always get what I want when I flutter my eyelashes and put on that alluring smile. It always works. In fact, I can’t remember a single time when it didn’t work.

How is he immune to my charm? Is he not interested inwomen? That might be it. Although, I did see the way his eyes traced over me. I know he was attracted to me—he just somehow managed to control it all.

My charmsalways work.

I huff loudly, hoping that I am annoying him and keeping him awake.

I can’t sleep now.

I’m so wired and high on adrenalin.

I’m so angry. Wanting revenge. Wanting to escape.

And—I still have my hairpin. Oh my fuck.

I should stop being so annoying and let him fall asleep. When he does, I can pick this lock and get the hell out of here.

I carefully pull the pin from where I tucked it into my bra. Pressing it between my fingers together, I stare at him. Waiting. Impatient.

I’m as quiet as a mouse and not moving at all.

I wait, counting the minutes, watching him closely.

After what feels like forever, I start to believe that hehasto be asleep.

He is very still, breathing evenly, but I can’t tell for sure.

I guess it will have to do. The risk is worth the reward.

I can’t sit here all night.

I slip the pin into the handcuff keyhole and start moving it around in the same way I did with the bedroom door.

It feels different, but I think all locks must feel different from each other—it doesn’t mean it isn’t going to work.

I keep wiggling, moving, twisting—I don’t feel any mechanisms moving inside, though.

Keep going, Ruslana. Keep trying. It’s just a different kind of lock. It still has a key which means it has to be the same as all the other locks. If you can pick the door—you can pick the handcuffs.

An hour goes by and my wrists are both screaming in pain.

I’ve lost all sense of hope and I want to cry.

One wrist is hurting because I have to twist my arm to reach the lock—the other is hurting because I have been moving this damn pin none stop for far too long. I stop, flexing my wrist and rubbing my fingers beneath the cuff a little to try and massage away the ache. This is a nightmare.

It isn’t working. This lock is—it’s useless to keep trying.

I sigh, fighting tears and frustration. Exhaustion is blurring my vision, my body feels heavy. I can barely keep my eyes open at this point.

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