Page 24 of Used Bratva Bride

“Are you finished?” he says, voice sharp, impatient.

His coldness only makes the sobs worse.

My throat tightens, and suddenly, the words I’ve swallowed for years claw their way out, spilling past my lips before I can stop them.

“If you think holding me here will make them beg for my return,” I gasp between sobs, “you’re wasting your time.”

The air shifts.

He doesn’t respond, but I feel his presence shift, his body going unnaturally still.

I force myself to continue, the words breaking, raw and bitter. “My family doesn’t care if I’m dead or alive. I mean nothing to them, especially my father.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to stop shaking, but it’s useless.

The silence that follows is unbearable. It stretches between us, thick and heavy, heavier than his anger, heavier than his threats. I can’t breathe past it.

Finally, I force myself to look up.

Mikhail stands rigid, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. His eyes—his dark, unforgiving eyes—are locked on me with an intensity that makes my stomach twist.

For the first time since he took me, he hesitates. It’s brief. A flicker of something in his gaze, something unknowable. I don’t know if it’s doubt. If it’s curiosity. If it’s amusement.

Mikhail doesn’t move.

The silence between us grows unbearable, thick with something unspoken. His dark gaze lingers on me, unwavering, and I feel my chest tighten under the weight of it. He isn’t the kind of man who hesitates, and yet—for the briefest second—I saw it. A flicker of something unfamiliar in his expression, something that doesn’t quite fit with the cold, ruthless presence he’s kept since the moment he stole me away.

Whatever it was, it’s gone now.

His lips curl into something almost mocking, and when he finally speaks, his voice is laced with quiet amusement. “So dramatic,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “You expect me to believe that your own family wouldn’t trade everything for you?”

I swallow, my throat dry. “Believe what you want,” I whisper. “It doesn’t change anything.”

He scoffs, turning away, already dismissing me.

Something in me snaps.

Maybe it’s exhaustion. Maybe it’s the way my body feels too weak to keep holding itself together, or the realization that my brilliant hunger strike only made things worse for me.

Or maybe it’s the crushing weight of being alone.

Before I even think about it, I stumble to my feet, the motion sending a sharp, dizzying wave through my head. I barely manage to grab on to his sleeve before my legs give out, my fingers weak around the fabric of his shirt.

Mikhail reacts instantly, spinning around and jerking his arm free of my grasp, his body tensed as if expecting an attack.

I don’t let go.

I clutch on to his sleeve again, my breathing uneven, my vision still blurry. “Please,” I rasp, not even sure what I’m begging for.

His eyes narrow. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I don’t want to be alone.”

I hear my own voice, breathless and shaky, and I hate it.

Mikhail stares at me, silent. His muscles remain taut, as if waiting for some trick, some act of defiance—but there isn’t one.

He knows I’m not trying to fight him.

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