Page 42 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

She’s too small like this. Too light in my arms. Too quiet.

I look down at her face, slack now in unconsciousness. Her lashes are still damp. Her lips parted slightly, like maybe—just maybe—she was about to say something before the darkness took her.

I hate the way it makes my chest feel. This should mean nothing. She’s just a body I need to keep breathing. Just a means to an end.

So why the fuck can’t I look away?

Her heartbeat is steady against my wrist. Fast, but steady. She’s alive. Alive because I let her be. I’ve stitched her back together and dragged her out of snowbanks and kept her from breaking apart entirely. Not because I had to—but because I wanted to.

I lift her in my arms and rise. Her weight is nothing. The hallway outside is still, silent as a grave. William stands just outside the door, watching with something unreadable in his eyes.

“She’s exhausted,” I say, like that explains everything. It doesn’t. Not even close.

William nods, stepping aside without a word.

I carry her down the hall, her head resting against my collarbone, and I don’t miss the way my hand shifts slightly at her back—like I’m protecting her from something no one else can see.

The room we prepared earlier is still made up—warm blankets, low light. I lay her down gently, brushing the hair from her face as she exhales a fragile breath and curls slightly on her side.

She doesn’t wake.

I stay there, crouched beside the bed, watching her like I’m trying to decode something I’ll never understand.

***

Elise

It’s not the pain that wakes me.

It’s the quiet.

Too quiet. The kind of silence that feels wrong. Staged. Like something waiting to fall apart.

I open my eyes in slow degrees, blinking against the low light filtering through drawn curtains. My body feels heavier than before, dull aches deep in the muscle. I’m tucked into a warm bed, layers of blankets pressed to my chest, but the comfort is laced with dread. My boots are gone. My coat’s been taken. Even the gauze at my side has been changed.

Someone’s been taking care of me, someone I don’t want touching me.

My breath catches as memory crashes back in: the truck, William’s house,him.That room. His voice. The grip on my neck.

You belong to me.

I sit up too fast. My vision swims, a sharp spike of nausea curling at the edges, but I force it down. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and wince as my bare feet meet the cold floor. My ribs throb, but the stitches have held.

There’s a window across the room. Locked, of course. A small chair near the door. No one’s watching—yet. My clothes sit folded on a dresser, clean. Another trick, maybe.

Still, I move.

I dress in silence, every movement stiff, careful. My hands shake as I pull the shirt over my head, but I bite it back. My eyes lock on the door. If I can just get out of the room, maybe I can—

The handle turns.

I freeze.

The door opens slowly, and Kolya steps inside.

I don’t think. I lunge for the window, bare hands clawing at the latch even as I hear his steps behind me.

“Elise,” he growls, too calm. Too cold.

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