Page 32 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

Kolya.

He appears in the doorway like a shadow made flesh, his coat still swinging from the force of his entrance. One look at me slumped against the wall and his expression changes—just barely. A flicker. The cold, hard mask cracks at the edges, and what slips through isn’t rage. It’s something else.

He crosses the room in seconds.

“Are you trying to die here?” he snaps, grabbing my arm.

His hand is rough, his grip tight enough to bruise, but I don’t fight him. I can’t. He hauls me upright, my legs dragging across the floor as he all but carries me to the nearest chair. I slump into it with a sharp breath, head falling back, vision spotting in and out like a faulty lightbulb.

Kolya drops to one knee, yanking my shirt up without ceremony to inspect the wound. His face is hard, eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a line. But his hands—his hands are steady. Quick. Efficient.

When he touches the edges of the gash, cleaning away the blood, there’s a strange gentleness hidden beneath the motion. A control so exact it almost feels careful. Almost.

“This’ll need stitches,” he mutters, already reaching into a nearby cabinet, pulling out a first aid kit. “Hold still.”

I don’t have the strength to argue. My head lolls to the side as he tears open a packet of antiseptic, douses a gauze pad, and presses it hard to my skin.

I hiss.

“Keep breathing,” he says, not unkindly, but sharp. Focused.

“I’m trying,” I mumble.

He starts stitching. The needle pierces flesh, and I flinch, but not from the pain. From the proximity.

Kolya Sharov is close. Too close.

His breath ghosts against my side, warm and sharp all at once. I can feel the weight of his body kneeling before me, the faint scent of smoke and winter on his coat, the quiet rasp of his breathing as he works.

I study his face while he leans over me. His brow is furrowed, lips pressed in concentration. There’s no trace of his usual cold amusement, no swagger. Just a man doing something he probably hasn’t done in years—and doing it well.

It unsettles me more than his threats ever have.

“You shouldn’t have gotten in the way,” he mutters after a moment. “That knife wasn’t meant for you.”

I swallow, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Yuri can’t give you what you need if he’s dead.”

Kolya doesn’t respond. Just keeps stitching.

Five. Six. Seven careful pulls.

Then: “The man who came for him wasn’t random. Someone hired a hit.”

I blink. “Who?”

He ties the last knot, cuts the thread clean, and presses gauze over the wound. “Someone who doesn’t want me—or the Bratva—finding out what Yuri knows.”

The implications settle like lead in my stomach.

Whoever’s behind this doesn’t just want Yuri silenced. They’re scared. Scared enough to send a killer into a room with guards and locked doors. That means whatever Yuri knows—it’s dangerous.

Deadly.

Kolya tapes the bandage down, then pauses.

For a moment, his hand stays on me. Just resting, the pad of his thumb brushing lightly along my wrist.

I feel it—the heat of his skin. The press of his finger just over my pulse.

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