Page 22 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

I study her face. The tension in her jaw. The flicker in her throat when she swallows. “No,” I say.

Her mouth opens slightly, then closes. “You said if I kept him alive—”

“You did.”

“Then let me go.”

“You kept him alive.” I move closer, my voice even. “That doesn’t mean I’m done with you.”

I motion to Boris, who’s already stepped into the room behind me. “Take her to the back room. Lock it.”

She flinches. “What?”

“Don’t give her a means of escape,” I add. “Nothing sharp.”

“You said—”

“I said what I needed to keep him breathing,” I interrupt. “You’re not stupid, Doctor. You knew that wasn’t a promise.”

Boris reaches for her arm.

She jerks back. “Don’t touch me.”

Earlier, Boris told me her name. I say it now through a clenched jaw. “Elise,” I warn.

“Don’t—say my name like that.” Her voice cracks—not with fear this time, but rage. “You think you’re powerful because you have a gun, because you order people around and they flinch when you look at them?”

I don’t move. I let her words hang in the air, her breath catching from the force of them.

“You’re nothing but a coward,” she spits. “A coward hiding behind threats and weapons. I don’t care how many people you’ve hurt—it doesn’t make you strong. It makes you pathetic.”

Boris tenses. His hand’s already gone to his side, half expecting me to draw mine. But I don’t.

I take a breath, and then I smile.

Not real. Not warm. The kind of smile that shows teeth and nothing behind them.

“You’re lucky I like arrogance,” I murmur. “It makes things… interesting.”

She glares at me, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Lock her up,” I repeat, stepping back.

This time, she doesn’t fight when Boris takes her arm—just turns her head away as he leads her down the hall. Her steps are stiff, furious. She disappears into the dark without another word.

The door slams, the bolt slides home.

I stand there for a moment longer, listening. The silence that follows shouldn’t feel heavy, but it does.

***

Later, in my own room, I pour a drink I don’t touch. The fire crackles low in the hearth, barely more than embers now. The night has turned colder—wind clawing at the eaves, branches ticking against the window like bony fingers. I lean back in the chair and stare at nothing.

I’ve broken men for less than what she said to me. I’ve shattered bones, burned skin, emptied whole magazines into people who raised their voices the wrong way. I know what I am. I know what it takes to keep power in this world.

I can’t stop hearing her voice.

“You’re nothing but a coward.”

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