Page 38 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

I saw Kolya Sharov put a bullet in a man’s head like it meant nothing. No hesitation. No flicker of remorse. One second, Yuri was alive, struggling to breathe, whispering truths in his fevered delirium—and the next, he was slumped over, lifeless, blood pooling beneath his skull in a dark, slow-spreading halo.

Kolya just walked away.

As if Yuri was nothing more than an old knife he didn’t need anymore. Just a tool, discarded the moment it stopped being sharp enough to use.

Which means I was never safe. I was never anything more than the next tool, the next loose end to tie off.

You’re not fine,he said, stitching me up with those rough hands, his thumb pressed to my pulse like he gave a damn.Don’t be useless.

The words twist in my chest now.

Useless is a death sentence in his world.

I stumble onto a dark, unfamiliar street. My shoes are torn. My socks soaked. The snow soaks through the threadbare scrubs and into my bones. I don’t know where I am anymore. I must’ve wandered for miles through woods, half conscious, bleeding. I passed fences. A frozen creek. Abandoned roads.

Now, I’m in a part of the city I barely recognize—old buildings and cracked sidewalks. Neon flickers over closed storefronts. There are no people. No warmth. Just the wind knifing down alleys, cutting through my scrubs like they’re paper.

My legs give out near a brick wall. I slide down to the ground, panting. I need help. I need someone—anyone—to tell me I’m safe.

The first thing I think of is the police station. It’s automatic. A childhood instinct. Run to the people with badges. They’ll protect you.

The thought sours in my mouth almost immediately, because I remember now.

I remember a night a few days after I first started treating Yuri—before I was locked up. I’d passed by the edge of the farmhouse and heard voices. Kolya and Boris. They didn’t know I was close enough to hear.

“You think the cops will care?” Boris said, laughing. “They do whatever we tell them.”

“They’ve got families to protect, same as anyone,” Kolya replied. “A few bribes, a few reminders. They know who really owns this city.”

I’d written it off then. Just posturing. Big words from dangerous men.

Now I know better. There isno onecoming to help me. The police won’t save me.

I can’t go to a hospital. He’ll have eyes there. I can’t go home. He probably knows everything about me by now—where I lived, who I talked to, what I left behind. He’d find me in hours. Maybe minutes.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Then it hits me.

William.

A memory flashes: his arms wrapping around me in that little office at the orphanage, his voice warm, the weight of his hand on my shoulder.I still see that little girl who used to stitch up her own scrapes.

He always said if I ever needed anything, anything at all, I could come to him.

I never believed I would. I never let myselfneedanyone.

I need him now.

I push myself back to my feet with a grunt, using the wall for balance. The pain nearly sends me to my knees again, but I grit my teeth and force my legs to work. My body protests with every ragged step. I don’t even know if I’m walking in the right direction.

The thought of William is a thread.

The only thread I have.

I follow it into the dark.

***

The truck that picks me up is old—creaks like it’s stitched together with rust and second chances. The driver is older too. White beard, faded ball cap, eyes that don’t linger too long when they glance at me. I don’t know his name, and I don’t ask. I don’t have the strength. I’m crumpled in the passenger seat, blood drying along my ribs beneath the oversized coat he offered without a word.

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