Page 45 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

I hadn’t spoken a word that night. I hadn’t cried, but I do now.

The sobs break out of me with no warning. I press my palms to my ears, curling into the corner of the bed like it’ll shield me, like this thin, grimy mattress can block out the storm tearing through my chest. I try to tell myself it’s just weather. Just wind and sky and sound. But that logic dies fast.

This fear isn’t new. It’s rooted deep in bone and memory, in every moment I ever felt powerless and small and unwanted.

Another crack of thunder, this one so loud the walls tremble.

I scream. Hands over my ears. Eyes squeezed shut.

I’m not in control anymore. I’ve lost it. Completely. The tears come in waves, hard and ragged, my breath hitching and breaking like a ship caught in surf. I curl tighter, pressing my face to the wall, and sob like it’ll undo something, like it’ll drain the fear out of me somehow.

It doesn’t. It only makes it worse.

I don’t know how long I stay like that. Minutes. Hours. My sense of time has unraveled completely. All I know is rain and thunder and sobs—my own, echoing around the room like they don’t belong to me.

I feel like I’m drowning in it.

I don’t hear the door open.

Not over the storm. Not over the panic.

I feel the shift. The slight change in pressure as air moves differently, the faintest creak of the floorboard as someone steps into the room.

I stiffen. My body still thinks it can disappear if I hold still long enough.

Then I hear the voice. Low. Sharp. Unmistakable.

“Elise.”

I flinch.

Another rumble of thunder makes me jerk again. My hands fly back to my ears, breath ragged and uneven. I don’t answer him. I can’t. My throat’s too raw. My chest feels like it’s caving in.

“Elise.” Closer this time. Still low. Not angry.

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter.

The mattress shifts. He’s kneeling now, beside the bed. I can feel the weight of his presence without looking at him.

For once, he doesn’t touch me. He just waits.

Another thunderclap.

My entire body lurches.

Then, finally, I hear him sigh—quiet, heavy, like he doesn’t understand why this is happening and doesn’t know what to do with it.

Then his voice, again. Softer. “It’s just a storm.”

I let out a broken laugh, half hysterical. “Just a storm,” I croak, still not looking at him. “That’s what you think I’m scared of?”

Silence. Then, softly: “Isn’t it?”

I want to scream at him. I want to tell him this fear is older than him, older than Yuri, older than blood and betrayal. It’s a fear with roots. With memories. It’s not about noise—it’s about being trapped. Being powerless. Forgotten. Small.

It’s about being a child and knowing no one’s coming for you.

Except, I can’t say that. I can’t say anything.

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