Page 20 of Used Bratva Bride

Sophia doesn’t take the bait. Instead, she lowers her voice. “Let her go, Sharov. Or I’ll make sure this war you think you’re starting? Ends with you in the ground.”

I chuckle darkly. “Now that,” I say, swirling the whiskey in my glass, “I’d like to see.”

The call disconnects, but the weight of her words lingers. I stare at the phone for a moment before setting it down, my fingers drumming against the wood of the desk.

So Sophia denies killing Valeri. Interesting. I don’t believe her, but I do believe that she’s hiding something. I have just the person to help me find out what it is.

I glance at my study door, and imagine beyond to the cold room where Julie sits, trapped in a world she doesn’t fully understand.

A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts.

I don’t look up right away. My mind is still tangled with Sophia’s threats, with the layers of deception that seem to stretch deeper than I initially expected. I don’t believe her denial of Valeri’s murder, but something about the way she spoke… it wasn’t just lies. It was calculated. Like she was steering me away from something bigger.

The knock comes again, firmer this time.

My jaw tightens. What now? “Enter,” I say, my voice edged with irritation.

The door swings open, and one of the household staff—a woman whose name I don’t bother remembering—steps in hesitantly, hands clasped in front of her. She keeps her gaze lowered, the way they always do.

“Sir,” she says, her voice careful, as if bracing for my reaction. “It’s about… Miss Spade.”

I arch a brow, setting my whiskey glass down. “What about her?”

The maid hesitates, shifting her weight slightly. “She’s… unwell.”

I exhale through my nose, my irritation sharpening. Julie Spade is a problem I do not have time for. Not tonight. Not when I have Sophia circling like a vulture, waiting for the moment I slip.

I rub my temple, already regretting what I’m about to say. “What do you mean unwell?”

“She hasn’t eaten since she arrived,” the maid says carefully. “She barely drinks water. When I checked in to clean, she was curled up on the floor. She looked feverish.”

I tap my fingers against the desk. “She’s not my concern.”

The woman swallows. “Yes, sir, but if she’s sick, she’s no use to you.”

That gives me pause. I don’t need Julie to be comfortable. I don’t care if she’s scared, miserable, desperate. If she’s weak—if she wastes away before I can use her, before I can break her—then she becomes worthless.

That, I do care about.

I push back from my chair, standing with a slow, measured breath. My initial irritation simmers beneath the surface, but I force myself to shove it aside. Julie Spade is a pawn, a means to an end, but she is my pawn.

She won’t slip through my fingers that easily.

I glance at the maid. “Send someone to bring food to her room. Something light—broth, tea. If she doesn’t eat, force it.”

The woman nods quickly, turning to leave, but I stop her with a low voice.

“I’ll check on her myself.”

I don’t go to her right away.

A part of me wants to. Not because I care—not because her suffering stirs anything in me—but because she’s mine to control. Control isn’t just about force. It’s about timing. If I go now, she’ll still have that spark of defiance buried beneath her pain. She’ll still see me as her enemy, her captor.

If I wait? If I let her suffer a little longer—let her body weaken, let the hunger twist in her stomach, let the fever cloud her thoughts—then when I finally step in, when I give her food, medicine, relief….

She’ll be grateful. Or at least, she’ll need me, and that’s the beginning of something I can use.

I take my time, pouring another glass of whiskey and sinking back into my chair. The firelight flickers across the rim of the glass as I swirl the liquid absently. My mind drifts, but not to Julie—not yet.

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