Page 76 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

And worse—worse than all of it—I’m angry that some twisted part of me still feels safer here than anywhere else.

I bury my face in my hands.

“God, what’s wrong with me?”

Kolya doesn’t respond. He doesn’t reach for me again, doesn’t offer platitudes or threats. Just sits there beside me, the silence between us dense and raw.

“I should’ve screamed at him,” I say after a while. “When I saw him, I should’ve said something. Anything. I couldn’t move.”

“You were in shock.”

“I’m not a child anymore.”

“No,” Kolya agrees. “You were, once, and he made sure that part of you never forgot.”

The words hit harder than they should.

I glance at him again. There’s no smugness in his expression now. No cold calculation. Just stillness. Watching. Waiting.

“You know,” I murmur, “for someone who claims not to care about the past, you’re good at digging around in mine.”

Kolya tilts his head. “I care about what makes you weak.”

I bristle.

Before I can snap back, he adds, “So I can make sure no one uses it against you. Not even you.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t even know what it means. Is that protection? Possession? Is there even a difference with him?

The silence stretches again. Outside, the wind picks up. I can hear it whistle against the windows, dragging leaves across the stone balcony. Another storm might be coming.

Of course it is.

“You’re tired,” Kolya says suddenly, standing.

I nod once. “Exhausted.”

He doesn’t say good night. Just walks to the door, pauses with his hand on the handle, and turns slightly toward me.

“If he ever shows up again,” he says, voice like steel, “I’ll kill him.”

The words hang in the air like smoke—dark, choking, impossible to ignore.

I should be horrified. Instead, my breath catches in a way I don’t expect.

Not because of the threat, but because of the promise beneath it. Kolya doesn’t offer comfort. He offers annihilation. No hesitation, no uncertainty. Just violence wrapped in certainty, gifted to me like a shield.

Kolya doesn’t wait for a response. Just walks out, the door closing softly behind him, and the silence he leaves in his wake is louder than anything he said.

I sit still for a long time after that.

The chill in the room creeps in again, settling over my shoulders. I let the blanket fall from my arms and stand slowly, my legs stiff from too long curled beneath me. The air tastes like frost and memory.

I walk to the door. Rest my palm against it.

He meant it.

Not because he’s kind, certainly not because he cares in the way normal people do. But because I belong to him, and no one lays claim to what Kolya Sharov considers his. Not even blood. Especially not blood.

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