Page 11 of Used Bratva Bride

Footsteps. Slow, deliberate. A shadow looms over me.

Through the haze of pain, I see him—Mikhail, his expression unreadable, his gun still in hand. Another man stands beside him, his face obscured by the overwhelming darkness closing in around me.

I try to scream, to crawl away, to fight, but my body betrays me. The last thing I see before the world fades to black is Mikhail stepping closer, his eyes cold, unforgiving.

Then nothing.

Chapter Four - Mikhail

She looks small, fragile. but I know better.

I stand at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, watching her carefully. The dim lighting casts shadows along the soft curves of her face, making her look even more delicate, her long blonde hair fanned out over the pillow, but I don’t let it fool me. Looks mean nothing. Innocence is a mask, and I’ve seen enough people wear it to know better than to trust it.

The bandage on her arm is stark against her pale skin, a reminder of the bullet I put there hours ago. A clean shot—calculated, precise. Enough to stop her, but not enough to kill.

Not yet.

Ivan stands beside me, his posture casual but his presence sharp. He’s been waiting to ask the question, and when he finally does, his voice is low, steady.

“You could have ended it back there,” he says, studying me from the corner of his eye. “Why go through the trouble of bringing her here?”

I don’t look at him. My eyes stay on her.

“Not that easily,” I murmur. “I’ll make her suffer first.”

Ivan exhales, a sound laced with both understanding and curiosity. He doesn’t need to ask more. He knows how this works. Revenge isn’t just about balance—it’s about control. It’s about making them feel the weight of their choices before I erase them from existence.

If I had put a bullet in her head back there in the street, it would’ve been over in seconds. Too fast. Too clean. This is better.

She starts to stir, her fingers twitching slightly against the crisp white sheets. A slow, unconscious movement, but a sign that her body is waking up, recognizing the pain.

I take a step closer, watching as her breath hitches, as her body tenses against the unfamiliar surroundings. Her brows pull together, her lashes flutter, and then finally—her eyes open.

At first, there’s nothing but confusion. Then wariness.

She doesn’t move right away, but I see the way her breathing changes, the way she blinks quickly, as if trying to clear the haze of unconsciousness. Her gaze flits around the room, taking in the unfamiliar space, the reality of her situation sinking in.

I let the silence stretch, let her feel the weight of it, let her realize she’s trapped. Then, finally, she looks at me.

I don’t speak. Neither does she. Still, I see the moment the fear sets in—the slight widening of her eyes, the way her throat bobs as she swallows.

She’s realizing exactly what kind of situation she’s in.

Sophia shifts against the mattress, her movements slow, uncertain, like a wounded animal testing its own limits. The wince that flickers across her face tells me everything I need to know—she’s in pain, and she’s trying not to show it. A lesser man might feel something for her, a flicker of sympathy, a moment of restraint.

I am not a lesser man.

I watch her struggle, her body tense beneath the crisp sheets, her breath uneven as she fights through the fog of unconsciousness. The bullet wound in her arm must be screaming, her muscles stiff from the shock, but I don’t offer her comfort. I simply wait.

The room is silent, save for the faint rustling of fabric as she shifts again, this time with more urgency. Her eyes move, flicking from the unfamiliar space around her to Ivan, who stands beside me, arms crossed, unreadable as ever. Then, finally, she looks at me.

That’s when I see it.

The moment the reality of her situation settles in, the slow, creeping awareness that she’s not safe. That whatever nightmare she thought this was? It’s real.

Fear is an interesting thing. Some people crumble under it. Others try to push past it, pretend it doesn’t exist. Then there are the rare few, the ones whose fear doesn’t make them weaker—it makes them sharper.

I don’t know which kind she is yet.

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