Page 18 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

I glance at the window again, straining for anything more. A road. Lights. Another building. But the only thing out there is dark earth and trees standing like sentries. Silent. Watching.

A sudden creak makes me jerk. Wood settling—or footsteps? I can’t tell. I hold my breath.

Minutes pass. Nothing.

I shift my weight slowly, easing toward one of the crates. Maybe I can break it. Use the edge. Do something, but it’s too far. My legs drag, bound just enough to stop me. I collapse sideways with a soft grunt, heart in my throat.

I breathe hard through my nose, willing myself not to cry.

I’ve seen women come into the hospital after being taken. Some of them make it. Most don’t. I never imagined I’d be one of them. Never imagined I’d be the one waking up in some freezing basement in the middle of nowhere.

Whoever brought me here didn’t do it out of panic. This was orchestrated. Controlled. Planned. They knew who I was. Where I’d be. What time my shift started.

This wasn’t just a kidnapping; it was a calculated abduction. Which means someone out there thinks I’m valuable. Useful.

That’s the only reason I’m still breathing.

For how long?

The air feels heavier now. My head aches more with every passing second. The sting at the back of my neck pulses. I don’t know what they used—something fast, something potent—but I still feel it in my veins, dragging my thoughts under.

Another footstep upstairs. Whoever they are, they’re coming for me.

The door creaks open.

I flinch, instinct tightening every muscle in my body. The light from the hallway slashes across the floor, a crooked line of pale yellow that cuts through the cold. For a moment, I see only the outline—broad shoulders, a straight spine, the confident, deliberate step of someone who doesn’t hesitate.

Then he steps into the room, and everything in me locks up.

Kolya Sharov.

I don’t know him—not in any real way—but the moment I see him, Iknow. The weight of him fills the space like smoke, slow and suffocating. His presence isn’t loud, but it’s absolute. Like gravity. Like drowning.

Everybody knows the Sharovs.

He’s tall—impossibly tall from where I sit on the floor—and dressed in black from coat to boots, the heavy kind of fabric that drips wealth and authority in equal measure. His face is cut from stone: sharp cheekbones, square jaw, the cruel set of a mouth that doesn’t smile. But it’s his eyes that freeze me. Dark, sharp, and cold. So cold. They rake over me like I’m nothing more than a tool, an object to be assessed and used.

No pity. No warmth. Just calculation.

“Get up,” he says, voice low and rough—like gravel under boot.

My body moves before my brain can keep up, adrenaline overriding everything else. I scramble clumsily to my knees, then my feet, legs stiff and numb from too long on the floor. My arms are still bound, and I stumble as I rise. He doesn’t offer help. Doesn’t reach out. Just watches, waiting.

I don’t dare look away from him, but I feel it—the danger wrapped around him like a second skin. Something about the way he carries himself, the stillness, the control. There’s no doubt in my mind that this man has killed. Not just once.

He unties me and turns without a word, expecting me to follow.

I do.

The hallway outside is just as rough as the basement—bare wood, cold air leaking through every crack. I’m not sure if it’s a house or a shed or some crumbling ruin, but it’s not meant for comfort. It’s meant for keeping things inside. Things like me.

He leads me into a room at the end of the hall. There’s another man in the corner—dark jacket, face unreadable—but I don’t have time to focus on him. My attention is swallowed by what’s in the center of the room.

A mattress. Blood-stained. The man on it—

My stomach flips.

He’s pale. Sweating. His leg is wrapped in thick, dirty gauze, soaked through with dark red and brown. Infection. Maybe worse. The smell hits me next—rot, decay, blood gone sour. My breath catches in my throat, and I instinctively take a step back.

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