Page 43 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

I get the lock halfway undone before his hand clamps around my wrist, spinning me around. I fight—slap, kick, push—but I’m not strong enough. Not now.

“Stop it,” he snaps, grabbing both arms now, pinning them against my sides. His face is close, too close, and I can’t breathe.

“Let me go,” I whisper, voice raw.

“I warned you once,” he says. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

“Why?” My voice breaks. “So you can kill me like Yuri?”

His jaw clenches. “You’re not Yuri.”

“That’s not a comfort.”

“Kolya,” a voice says behind him.

We both turn. William stands in the doorway, his expression carved from guilt.

“Let her go,” he says quietly.

Kolya’s grip loosens, but not by much. I rip away from him anyway, backing into the corner like a wounded animal. My breath shudders in and out. My eyes snap to William.

“Why?” I ask, voice trembling now. “Why would you do this to me?”

His shoulders fall. “Because I had no choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

“Not in this world,” he says. “Not in ours. You think I wanted this? I raised you like my own, Elise. I protected you from things you couldn’t begin to imagine. When they came to collect, when Kolya asked for a doctor, I gave him the only person I trusted.”

“Yousoldme.”

“No.” His voice cracks. “I tried tosaveyou. This is for your own good. For mine too.”

Kolya doesn’t speak. He just stands there, watching me like I’m a puzzle he still can’t solve.

I don’t scream. I don’t cry. I just whisper, “You both deserve each other.” My voice shakes when I say it.

Then I look up and see William looming over me, and everything goes black.

Chapter Twelve - Elise

The air is colder than I remember.

I wake with a jolt for a second time—gasping, clawing at the thin blanket tangled around my legs as if it’s holding me down. My breath fogs in the still air. Every inch of me aches, bruised and burning beneath the surface, like my body hasn’t yet realized it’s alive.

The room is familiar. Familiar in the worst way.

The cracked walls, uneven with moisture-stained patches. The faint, metallic tang in the air—blood and rust and damp. The old lightbulb hanging naked from the ceiling, casting flickering shadows against the splintered floorboards.

I know this place. This is where I woke up after they took me. This is where I was kept.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to pretend I’m wrong. That this is some new hell. That I haven’t ended up right where I started, like a pawn shoved back into her corner.

The silence confirms it.

The quiet here is different. It’s not peace—it’s absence. No footsteps overhead. No voices muttering behind doors. No guards posted outside, not even the sound of wind through loose boards. Just that hollow, stretched-out stillness that means you’re well and truly alone.

I sit up slowly, each movement a grim reminder of the toll all this has taken. My ribs scream with the effort, the pain sharp enough to cut through the fog clouding my head. Someone cleaned my wounds again. There’s fresh gauze wrapped around my torso. The blood crusted along my hairline has been wiped away.

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