Page 55 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

He nods once, as if reassured—but he keeps holding me tighter anyway.

His fingers stroke lazy lines along my back, and when he feels me shiver, he reaches down, pulls the blanket up over both of us. “Sleep,” he murmurs, his mouth close to my temple. “I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time in what feels like forever…

…I believe him.

Chapter Fifteen - Kolya

She’s everywhere.

In the quiet between conversations, in the space between gunshots. In the back of my mind when I’m supposed to be focusing on strategy, threats, numbers. I’ll be mid-sentence, issuing orders, when I remember the way she bites her lip when she’s thinking—or how she fiddles with the ring I put on her finger like it might burn her.

She doesn’t know I watch her, but I do. More than I should.

I notice the way she lingers near windows, her fingers twitching against the sill as if she could claw her way out through the glass. I see the tension in her jaw when she walks past locked doors. Her shoulders always a little too tight, her gaze always searching for exits. That defiance she used to wear like armor hasn’t vanished. It’s just quieter now. Turned inward.

She touches the ring absently, without thinking, but always with that same flicker of unrest. As if she wants to tear it off but doesn’t dare. As if some part of her knows—despite everything—it’s the only thing keeping her alive.

It should make me furious.

It fascinates me.

The way she survives. The way she keeps herself intact even when everything around her says she shouldn’t. There’s something feral in her strength. Something unbreakable.

And I want her. Not just to control her. Not just toownher. I want to know what it feels like to be wanted back by something that refuses to be tamed.

I return late. The air outside stinks of smoke and blood, my knuckles still raw from cracking across bone. Business tonight was… messy. An example had to be made. I didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate—violence is easy. Always has been.

Instead of heading to my office, where I usually drown the aftermath in silence and vodka, I take a different turn.

Her hallway.

I don’t even realize I’ve changed direction until I’m already outside her door, heart beating slower than usual, like my body’s bracing for something quieter. Something harder to fight.

The door isn’t locked, in fact it’s slightly ajar.

I push it open with two fingers, just enough to see inside.

There she is, asleep on the couch.

The room is dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of a lamp. She’s curled under a blanket, small and still, her face turned toward the back cushions. One arm dangles slightly, fingers brushing the floor. Her hair spills over her shoulder in a messy tangle, her lips parted just barely. She looks peaceful—but not safe.

Even now, there’s a crease between her brows, faint but telling. Even in sleep, she doesn’t let go.

I step inside without thinking, the door closing softly behind me. My boots make no sound on the rug.

I stand over her for a long time, watching her chest rise and fall in slow, steady rhythm. Her lashes flicker against her cheeks, caught in a dream she probably won’t remember. I wonder if it’s the kind that makes her heart race—or the kind that leaves her waking in a cold sweat.

I should leave.

I’ve told myself that a hundred times since bringing her here. That this thing—thispullbetween us—is nothing but proximity, circumstance, possession. That I need her obedient, not close.

None of it explains the tightness in my chest when I look at her now.

I crouch slowly, blood still drying along the edge of my knuckles. I should be wiping it off. Instead, I’m reaching out, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

She stirs, lips twitching, brows pinching tighter. I pause, hand hovering above her skin like I’ve crossed into something sacred. Something I don’t deserve to touch.

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