Page 37 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

I haven’t stopped seeing it since.

That night, I don’t sleep.

I don’t drink.

I just sit in the dark, the fire low, barely embers, and watch the window.

I picture her out there. Bleeding. Cold. Huddled in the snow with nothing but sheer will keeping her alive.

I don’t want her dead, I want her back.

I want her broken open. I want her walls down, her voice soft, her eyes on me without that fire. I want to know why she got under my skin in ways no one ever has. Why her pain made something twist in my chest. Why her defiance turned me on more than any polished woman ever has. Why I dreamt of her thighs around my waist instead of the blood I spilled.

I want to tear her open until I understand.

Boris returns near dawn, eyes tired, frost clinging to his coat.

“No sign,” he says, shaking his head. “Blood trail ends past the tree line. Either she passed out, or someone found her.”

I rise from the chair, breath slow, calculated.

“Then keep looking,” I say, my voice low, cold.

“Kolya—”

“Keep looking.”

I’m not done with her.

***

Snow crunches beneath my boots, the sound brittle and sharp in the frozen silence. The sun hasn’t fully risen—just a pale smear behind the treetops, leaking silver into the shadows. Boris walks beside me, rifle slung over one shoulder, eyes scanning the brush for movement. The men are spread out behind us, quiet as ghosts, but I don’t trust them to find her.

This time, I’m doing it myself.

Every step deeper into these woods feels like a noose tightening around my chest. I don’t know if it’s anger or something worse—something low and wrong and clawing at the edges of my ribs. I should be focused. Tactical. But my jaw is clenched too hard, and my thoughts keep circling back to the blood on her fingers, the look in her eyes as she ran.

“She couldn’t have gotten far,” Boris mutters, pushing a branch out of the way. “Not bleeding like that. She was already weak.”

“She’s smart,” I say, scanning the snow. “Don’t assume desperation means stupid.”

He glances at me sidelong. “You always talk about hostages like this?”

“She’s not a hostage,” I snap before I can think.

Boris wisely doesn’t respond.

We follow the faint trail of blood—just a few drops here and there, fading into the snow like they’re ashamed to be found. At one point, we stop by a small pine, its lower branches broken. There’s a smear of red on the bark. Fresh. My pulse kicks up. She was here.

She’s close. We move faster.

Chapter Ten - Elise

The pain is worse now.

Not sharp like the blade that tore into me, but deep—radiating through every muscle, curling hot in my side where the stitches have torn open. My body aches with every step. My lungs burn in the cold. I can’t stop shivering, even as sweat slicks my skin beneath the blood-stained scrubs. My legs are jelly. My fingers, numb.

I keep going, because Ihaveto.

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