Page 61 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

“I know it does.”

She pushes off the wall, chin lifted, feet bare but steps steady. She walks past me like she’s won something, like she’s choosing to walk away and not fleeing from the heat still lingering on her skin.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she calls over her shoulder.

I watch the sway of her hips, the defiance in every step.

“I don’t need to,” I murmur, too quiet for her to hear. “You’re already mine.”

Even if she hates me for it—especiallybecauseshe hates me for it—I know the truth.

She’ll run. She’ll fight. She’ll always burn hotter when she’s near me.

I’ll always chase the flame.

Chapter Sixteen - Elise

He doesn’t knock, although he never does.

The door swings open with that same quiet authority he carries into every room—shoulders squared, expression unreadable. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, barefoot, hair damp from the shower I barely had the will to take.

“Get dressed,” he says. “We’re leaving soon.”

His voice is clipped. No warmth. No explanation, just expectation.

I glance toward the garment bag that had been laid across the bed while I was gone. I’d avoided touching it, like maybe if I pretended not to see it, it wouldn’t matter.

“Where?” I ask, because I can’t stop myself.

Kolya’s eyes meet mine. “It’s not up for discussion.”

Then he leaves.

The pit in my stomach twists tighter.

I sit still for a moment longer, fingers curled into the bedspread, then I move. Not because he told me to. Not obeying feels worse. Like tempting something too sharp to be played with. Maybe, just maybe, because part of me is curious.

What the hell does a man like Kolya Sharov consider aformal event?

When I unzip the garment bag, my heart sinks.

The dress is sleek. Dark as ink. Silk, or something close to it. Backless, with a slit that rises far too high, and a neckline that promises attention I’m not ready for. It’s expensive. Designed to make a woman feel powerful. Or owned.

My hands tremble as I pull it on.

By the time I step out into the hall, heels clicking softly on the marble floor, Kolya is waiting. He turns at the sound, and for the first time in what feels like days, helooks.

Not just stares.Looks.His eyes darken, and something in his jaw tightens.

It lasts all of three seconds. Then it’s gone—buried beneath the same cool mask he always wears.

***

The car is silent as we drive through the city, lights streaking across the windows like falling stars. I sit stiffly beside him, my hands curled tightly in my lap, nails biting into the soft flesh of my palms. The dress feels like a second skin, suffocating and too soft all at once, and every time the silk shifts over my thighs, I’m reminded how little of me is covered.

Kolya hasn’t said a word since I stepped into the car. Just stared ahead, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily over the armrest like this is any ordinary night.

It isn’t.

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