Page 48 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

Instead, I take her to the west wing.

To the only room in the house that’s never been used for violence. The quiet room.

It used to belong to someone else—long before she ever became part of this world. Someone I failed to protect. Someone who died because of me. I keep the room clean, untouched. As if memory lives in dust and fabric. As if silence can preserve what blood destroyed.

I push the door open with my shoulder and step inside. Soft gray walls. A narrow window. A small fireplace, unlit. A bed.

I lower her onto it gently, brushing the hair from her face. She doesn’t let go until the last possible second—fingers dragging down my chest, reluctant, unconscious.

She sinks into the mattress, curling onto her side without prompting, eyes half lidded and dazed.

I pull the blanket over her. She watches me the whole time.

For the first time in hours, maybe longer, her breathing evens out. Her body softens into the bedding. Her hands stop shaking.

I sit down on the edge of the bed and let the weight settle over me.

She doesn’t let go.

Even after I’ve laid her down on the bed, tucked the blanket around her, even after I whisper something pointless—quiet, mechanical, likeyou’re fine now—she still clings.

Her fists are curled tight in the front of my shirt, white-knuckled, like if she lets go, the world will devour her whole.

I stare down at her. Her eyes are closed now, not asleep, but exhausted, lashes damp and stuck together. Her breathing’s still uneven, but it’s slowing. Her body’s trembling, but less than before.

I could pry her fingers off me. Could tell her she’s safe, that this room is quiet, that no one else is coming. That the storm is dying down. That I’m not going to hurt her.

I don’t lie to her.

Instead, I remain on the edge of the bed, trying to ignore the fact that her breath keeps brushing against the base of my throat, warm and human and far too close. That her hands—so small against my chest—won’t fucking loosen.

I curse under my breath and stand abruptly, pulling out of her grip.

She makes a soft sound—half protest, half reflex—but she doesn’t reach again. She just curls tighter into herself, breath shivering again as the wind kicks up outside.

The thunder starts low this time, distant but still there, and I see her flinch.

A sharp pain shoots through my chest. Not guilt. Something else. Something I don’t recognize. Something Idon’t want to recognize.

I move.

Draw the thick curtains shut, one by one, muffling the flashes of light and muting the sound of the wind as best I can. The storm is thinning, but it still whispers through the walls like it knows what it did to her.

I glance at the far corner where an old speaker sits on a shelf. A leftover from when the room meant something else.

I flick it on.

A soft static hums before it settles into a slow, low jazz station. Nothing loud. Just a muted piano, a lazy saxophone. Smooth. Quiet. Human.

Behind me, I hear her exhale. One slow breath, followed by another.

Her grip may have loosened, but she still hasn’t moved from where I placed her. She’s a shadow curled into that bed—small, pale, hollow. The girl who once stood straight-backed and unafraid in front of my gun is gone, hidden beneath layers of shock and betrayal.

I pace once, twice, dragging a hand down my face like it’ll shake this off, like I can shove this strange, foreign feeling back where it belongs—buried deep, sealed tight, the way I’ve always done.

It doesn’t work. I look at her again and the knot in my chest twists harder.

She didn’t cry when I first took her. She screamed, fought, bit my damn hand. Even the first time I pressed a gun to her temple, her eyes never wavered.

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