Page 56 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

What the fuck is this?

She’s a problem. A liability. A wildcard I never intended to keep.

I rise again, slowly, and just watch her.

If she wakes, I’ll say I came to check the lock. That I was just making sure she was okay.

The truth is simpler.

I needed to see her breathe, because the blood on my hands tonight didn’t rattle me; but the thought of losing her does.

She stirs beneath the blanket, slow and quiet, like her mind is still trying to catch up to her body. Her lashes flutter, and then her eyes open—sharp green flashing in the dim light.

She sees me.

I don’t move, not at first.

There’s a beat of silence between us. A single moment where everything holds still—the tension, the air, the last bit of sleep still clinging to her.

Then I see it.

That flicker. Fear. It’s gone almost as fast as it came, buried beneath something else. Strength. Defiance.

Even now, she meets my eyes like she wants to peel them apart. There’s accusation in her gaze. Fury, confusion. The question she won’t ask:Why are you watching me like this?

Her body tenses, just slightly, a shift beneath the blanket like she’s coiling inward—but she doesn’t recoil. Doesn’t run. She just waits, breath hitched, as I sink down beside her.

The couch dips under my weight. The cushion between us barely exists.

She sits up slowly, dragging the blanket higher over her chest as if it’s armor, even though she’s still clothed. Still safe.

I don’t speak. Neither does she.

The silence between us is electric—thick with everything unsaid, heavy with what we both pretend not to want.

I watch the way her throat moves when she swallows. The way her hands curl into the edge of the blanket. The way her gaze never flinches.

“You don’t sleep easy,” I say quietly.

She lifts her chin. “Whose fault is that?”

That sharp tongue again. It would’ve annoyed me once. Now it twists something low in my stomach.

I reach out before I think better of it. My fingers graze along the line of her jaw, tracing the smooth curve up to her cheekbone. Her skin is warm—soft, still slightly flushed from sleep. She sucks in a breath but doesn’t move away.

I let my hand trail down, fingers skimming the slender line of her throat.

I feel it, the pulse there. Rapid. Fragile. Alive.

I don’t press. I just touch.

Just enough to feel it hammering beneath her skin. Just enough to remind myself that she’sreal. That she’s here. That I could close my hand and take her apart—or that I could open it, and let her burn me from the inside out.

I tell myself it’s about control. Dominance. A quiet warning.

The truth is uglier. Messier. Dangerous in ways I can’t admit, even to myself.

I need to feel her.

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