Page 25 of Used Bratva Bride

I barely have the strength to stand.

His lips part slightly, as if he’s about to say something, but then he laughs.

It’s quiet at first, then low and dark and cruel.

“You don’t want to be alone?” he repeats, shaking his head. “You’ve spent days trying to get as far away from me as possible, and now you’re asking me to stay?”

I grip his sleeve tighter, my fingers trembling. “I… I don’t know what I want.”

Mikhail watches me for a moment longer, his amusement still lingering, but something shifts in his posture. He tilts his head slightly, considering.

Then, to my complete shock, he moves away from the door, not toward it.

He strides toward the desk instead, lowering himself into the chair, as if he owns the space, his posture relaxed, calculated.

“You’re pathetic,” he mutters, almost to himself.

I sink back onto the bed, curling into myself, feeling the tension in my body ease just slightly at his presence.

I shouldn’t feel comforted.

This man is my kidnapper. My enemy.

Exhaustion has stripped me raw, and right now, anything is better than the suffocating loneliness of this room.

A long silence stretches between us before Mikhail finally breaks it. “Tell me, little Spade,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, but no less dangerous. “How much did you know about your family’s dealings?”

I don’t hesitate. “Nothing.”

His jaw twitches, just slightly. “That’s the second time you’ve said that.”

“Because it’s the truth,” I insist.

His gaze sharpens, assessing, picking apart every inch of me.

“Yet,” he muses, “you’re here because of them.”

The words settle over me like a storm cloud, suffocating and heavy. I press my lips together, my fingers curling against the sheets.

His dark eyes stay locked on me, studying every twitch, every flicker of emotion on my face. I know what he wants. He wants me to crack. To confess to something I don’t know. To feed into whatever twisted conclusion he’s already drawn about me.

I have nothing to give him.

“I already told you,” I murmur, voice hoarse. “I don’t know anything about their dealings.”

His gaze sharpens.

“Convenient,” he says, amusement laced through the word.

I let out a weak laugh, more bitter than anything. “Not convenient,” I snap, though there’s no real heat behind it. I’m too tired for that. “Frustrating. You think I want to be thisclueless? That I wouldn’t rather have some kind of information to bargain with?” I shake my head. “You can interrogate me all you want. You can ask the same questions a hundred times. My answer won’t change, because it’s true.”

Mikhail’s expression doesn’t shift. He just leans back in his chair, his fingers drumming lazily against the armrest. “Then tell me something useful.”

I inhale sharply. “Like what?”

He grins. “Tell me about your father.”

I swallow. My throat feels like sandpaper, but I force out a response. “You already know everything you need to know about him.”

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