Page 16 of Used Bratva Bride

“You don’t understand,” I whisper, my voice shaky but firm. “I’m not Sophia. I don’t belong in this mess. I didn’t do anything to you.”

Mikhail sneers, a slow, dangerous curve of his lips. “Is that what you keep telling yourself?”

“I—”

“Your family played a role in my uncle’s death. Do you think your innocence means anything to me?”

His words slice through me, sharp and unyielding. My breath catches, anger flaring beneath the fear twisting in my gut.

“I didn’t know anything about it,” I snap, forcing my voice to hold steady. “I was never part of their world. You—you kidnapped me, shot me, and you’re keeping me here like some kind of—”

I don’t get to finish.

Mikhail moves fast. Too fast.

His hand wraps around my throat again, pressing just enough to silence me, to make my body tense in panic. His grip isn’t tight enough to choke, but it reminds me—he could if he wanted to.

“You don’t dictate the rules here,” he murmurs, his face inches from mine. “I do.”

My fingers fly to his wrist, gripping hard, trying to pry him off, but he doesn’t budge. My pulse thrums wildly beneath his palm, my chest rising and falling with each shaky breath.

“You don’t want to test me,” he continues, his voice calm, controlled, deadly. “Because I promise you, Julie, whatever fear you’re feeling now? I can make it so much worse.”

A tear slips down my cheek, but I don’t sob. I refuse to give him the satisfaction. My body betrays me—the slight tremble in my fingers, the way my knees weaken beneath me.

Mikhail watches, taking it all in. Then, he lets go.

I gasp for air, stumbling slightly against the window, my entire body shaking.

“Go back,” he says, his voice hollow. “Walk yourself into that cold little room you came from.”

I hesitate, my pride screaming against it. Then I see the way he’s watching me—waiting.

So I do the only thing I can do. I walk.

The walk back to the room is silent.

I move first, my steps slow, reluctant, but I move. If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that if I hesitate, if I resist, he’ll remind me just how little control I have here.

Mikhail follows, close enough that I can feel him behind me, a presence that dominates the space, pressing against mysenses. He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t force me forward, but the weight of him is enough.

I can feel the heat of his body at my back, the way his movements are measured, unhurried—in control.

The hallway is dim, and with every step, the floorboards groan softly beneath my bare feet. I refuse to turn my head all the way, refuse to look at him, but from the corner of my eye, I see him.

Tall. So much taller than me. Broad shoulders that fill the space like a shadow I can’t outrun. The black shirt he wears fits him perfectly, stretched over his chest, tucked neatly into dark slacks. His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, exposing the intricate tattoos that snake across his skin, inked lines of history, violence, power.

I swallow hard.

I should be disgusted. He kidnapped me. He shot me. He’s playing some sick, twisted game, and I don’t even know the rules yet.

Except my body—my traitorous, stupid body—reacts differently.

The closeness, the heat of him—it does something. It coils something deep in my stomach, a slow, simmering tension I hate.

I hate that he’s beautiful. I hate that, despite my fear, there’s a tiny part of me that notices him, that wonders how someone so cruel can look so good. I hate that my body responds before my mind can remind me that this man is my captor.

I take a sharp breath, forcing myself to focus, forcing myself to ignore the way my skin prickles with awareness.

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