Page 39 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

He didn’t ask where I came from, didn’t ask what happened. Maybe he thought I’d run from a husband. A bad deal. Maybe he’s seen enough bruised girls to stop needing details. I give him the address with a voice that barely works—William’s address—and he just nods, taps the steering wheel, and drives.

Every bump in the road jars the wound at my side. I keep my hands clutched around my ribs, squeezing them tight like I can hold myself together with pressure alone. My body wants to shut down. I can feel it trying to give up. My eyes keep fluttering shut, limbs heavy, but I force myself to stay awake, staring at the glow of passing streetlamps like they’re the only stars I’ve got left.

It feels like hours, but it’s probably less. Long enough for the pain to dull into something numb and bitter. Long enough for my thoughts to spiral around what I saw—Yuri’s lifeless body, the way the blood pooled so calmly on the floorboards, the gun in Kolya’s hand still warm when he walked out without a second glance.

If he could kill Yuri that easily, why not me?

I shift in the seat, jaw clenched. My breath rattles in my chest.

The truck finally pulls up to the narrow, familiar street lined with tired houses and trimmed hedges. William’s place looks just like it did when I was a child—quaint and quiet, the porch light casting soft amber onto the steps. I murmur a thank-you, my fingers fumbling for the handle.

The driver just nods. Doesn’t say a word. He waits until I’m out before pulling away.

The cold hits me like a slap as I climb the steps.

Every movement feels like a gamble. I knock once. Twice.

The door opens almost instantly.

William stands there in a sweater and slacks, silver hair tousled like he’s been pacing the floor. His eyes widen when he sees me—bloody, limping, half collapsing on his porch.

“Elise,” he breathes. “God, what happened?”

Then his arms are around me.

Warm. Solid. Real.

For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, I let myself lean into someone.

He ushers me inside, sets me gently into a chair by the fireplace. The warmth makes my bones ache worse somehow. Like they’ve finally remembered they’re broken.

He crouches beside me, one hand firm on my shoulder.

“I—” My voice catches. My lip trembles. Just like that, everything I’ve held in breaks loose.

The tears come fast, burning hot tracks down my cheeks. My breath hitches, then collapses entirely. I curl over in the chair, sobbing into my palms, and William stays there, steady, hand gripping mine like it might anchor me to the floor.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” I whisper.

“You did the right thing,” he says, quiet and sure. “You’re safe now.”

I tell him everything.

Between gasps, sobs, and flinching memories, I unravel the entire story—Kolya, the farmhouse, the stitches, the threats, the slow-burn fear that twisted into something worse. I tell him about Yuri’s last breath, the coldness in Kolya’s eyes, the way it all fell apart.

William listens. He never interrupts. Never questions.

When I finish, he brushes my hair gently behind my ear like I’m still that girl from the orphanage, scraped knees and wild stories.

“I believe you,” he says simply. “You need to rest.”

His voice is soft, almost fatherly, as he helps me stand.

“I’ve got a room already made up,” he adds, leading me down the familiar hallway. “You can sleep. I’ll bring you something warm in the morning. You’re not alone, Elise. Not anymore.”

I want to believe him.

Every aching step I take fills me with a little more relief. A little more warmth. The thought of a bed, clean sheets, the simple fact that I’m inside and not hunted like an animal—it starts to soothe the screaming in my bones.

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