Page 23 of Used Bratva Bride

Julie Spade might think she knows fear. She might think she’s seen the worst of me, but she hasn’t.

Not even close.

I leave the study, my steps quiet against the wooden floor as I move through the dimly lit hallways of my home. The house is still, wrapped in a heavy kind of silence that only deepens as I approach her door.

The two guards stationed outside straighten as I approach, their eyes flicking to me for instruction. I don’t acknowledge them. I don’t have to.

I rest my hand on the doorknob, feeling the cool metal beneath my palm.

Then, without hesitation, I push it open.

Chapter Seven - Julie

I don’t know how long I’ve been curled up on the cold floor, my body shaking with chills that won’t subside. Time has lost all meaning. The hunger twisting in my stomach has dulled into something hollow, something I no longer have the strength to fight against.

I can’t remember my last meal. I can’t remember the last time I felt warm.

The room is nothing but a box of emptiness, a place meant to strip me down to nothing, and it’s working.

I keep my eyes closed, slipping in and out of consciousness, my body so weak that even my thoughts feel sluggish. Somewhere in the fog, I hear the door creak open.

I don’t move. I can’t move.

Then, suddenly I feel warmth. I’m being lifted.

Strong arms curl around me, shifting me effortlessly from the floor. Heat radiates from the body holding me, pulling me out of my numb haze. My head lolls against a solid chest, the scent of him—something clean, something dark invading my senses.

For a second, I think I’m dreaming. Then I blink, and my vision clears just enough to see him.

Mikhail. His expression is unreadable, his face carved from stone as he carries me effortlessly, his grip firm but not painful.

Confusion flickers inside me, but I don’t have the energy to question him. My body is too weak, too tired.

The temperature shifts as he moves, the air losing its chill as we enter another space. This room is different. It’s warmer. Softer. The contrast is jarring.

A plush bed replaces the cold, hard floor I’ve been confined to for days. The sheets are crisp and clean, the air scented faintly with something rich—leather and wood, like an old library. It feels lived-in, human, a stark contrast to the sterile prison he had thrown me into before.

I don’t get to linger in that warmth for long.

Mikhail places me down carefully, but the moment is short-lived.

His voice slashes through the silence, his tone sharp, angry. “Do you think starving yourself is going to save you?” he demands.

His words hit me like a slap, jolting me out of my daze. I blink up at him, my body still too weak to sit up, but my chest tightens at the way he looms over me.

“You refuse food like some pathetic attempt at control,” he continues, his voice laced with frustration. “Do you think I care if you grow weak and frail? If you wither away in some childish act of defiance?”

I flinch, his words striking something raw inside me.

He paces the room, tension rolling off him in waves. “You will eat. You will get stronger. Don’t think for a second that playing the victim will help you escape or avoid your purpose here.”

My breath shudders out, and before I can stop it, the pressure in my chest cracks wide open. Tears spill down my face. A broken, choked sob escapes me. It rips from my throat, loud in the suffocating silence of the room. I hate it. I hate that I’m breaking down in front of him.

That after all the fear, all the suffering, all the ways I’ve tried to hold myself together, this is what finally shatters me—his words, his sheer indifference to whether I live or die.

I clutch the sheets beneath me, my fingers curling into the fabric, my body trembling from exhaustion and hunger and helplessness. My breath comes in gasps, each inhale shallow and uneven, my vision blurred with tears.

Mikhail stops pacing. I can feel his gaze on me, unwavering, piercing, but I don’t look at him. I can’t.

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