Page 57 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

I pull my hand back slowly, watching the way her breath shakes just slightly when I do. Her lips part like she might speak—but I beat her to it.

“You’ll never belong to anyone else,” I say, voice low and rough, the words slipping out like smoke. “No matter how far you run. No matter who helps you. You’re mine now.”

Her eyes widen—just a fraction—but it’s enough.

She hates me for saying it.

Yet, something in herreacts. Her pupils darken. Her jaw clenches. Her fingers dig into the blanket like she’s holding herself together.

I don’t wait for a response.

I stand and turn away, blood still drying in the cracks of my knuckles, heart beating too loud in my ears.

The scent of her clings to me—soap, warmth, that faint, addictive trace of skin that I can’t forget. It sticks to my clothes, follows me out into the hall, down the stairs, into the quiet rot of the night.

Even after I leave her, she’s still there.

A ghost I can’t shake.

***

Two days.

Forty-eight hours of silence between us, of restraint barely held together by obligation, by business, by the thin excuse of duty. I’ve spent every moment of it trying to pretend I’m in control. That nothing’s changed. That I’m still the man I was before she looked me in the eye and didn’t flinch. Before she touched my face with shaking hands and still didn’t pull away. Before she fell asleep in my house like she had any right to haunt it the way she does.

I’ve thrown myself into work with brutal efficiency. I’ve dealt with shipment issues on the docks. Broken the wrist of a rat who thought he could cut product from our supply. Arranged a cleanup for the mess left behind after the Romanian deal turned sideways.

Except, she’s still there, in my thoughts, under my skin.

A quiet presence in every room I enter, even if she’s not in it. I’ll be mid-conversation and my mind will wander—to the way her fingers curl when she sleeps, to the mark I left on her collarbone that still hasn’t faded. To the way she touches the ring on her finger like it’s some kind of curse. Like she doesn’t realize it’s the only reason she’s still breathing.

By the second night, I find myself walking past her door without meaning to. Standing outside it like a fucking idiot. Listening for movement. A breath. Anything.

I don’t go in. Not that time.

God, I want to.

The temptation to see her—to touch her again—is starting to feel less like desire and more like addiction. I’ve never allowed myself to be addicted to anything.

Not drink. Not drugs. Not people. Until now. Until her.

“You’re quiet.”

Boris’s voice cuts through the silence of my office like a knife as soon as I enter. He’s slouched in one of the armchairs near the window, a half-empty glass of vodka dangling from his fingers. His posture is casual, but his eyes are sharp, assessing.

“I’m working,” I say without looking up.

He scoffs. “No, you’re not.”

I lift my gaze, slow. “You want to say something, say it.”

He takes a long sip before answering. “You’ve been distracted since you brought her here.”

I lean back in my chair, steepling my fingers. “My business is running just fine.”

“For now.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You worried about me, Boris?”

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