Page 8 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

The sound of sirens hums faintly in the distance—distant enough not to matter.

Lev’s men will be here soon. Until then, I’ve got time.

Yuri moans beneath me, the sound wet and broken, blood soaking fast through the fabric beneath his hands. His breath comes in quick, shallow gasps—shock setting in, pupils wide and glassy. He’s fading.

Too fast.

I don’t move at first. Just stand over him, chest rising hard, gun still loose in my grip. The air in the alley is cold, but sweat clings to the back of my neck. My jaw tightens. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

“We need a doctor,” Boris mutters, crouching beside Yuri. He peels back the soaked cloth, eyes narrowing at the angle of the wound. “Bullet missed the femoral, but barely. He’s bleeding out.”

“Patch him,” I growl.

Boris snorts. “With what? Duct tape? He’s got maybe fifteen minutes before he goes into full shock. Ten if he keeps thrashing like that.”

I kneel again, gripping the front of Yuri’s jacket. “You die before you talk, I’ll drag your soul out of hell myself and make you finish what you started.”

He barely hears me—eyes rolling, hands trembling.

Boris curses under his breath and straightens. “Both of our guys are out of the city. Pavlenko’s in Montreal. Kravchenko’s gone to fucking DC for that politician’s daughter.”

My pulse drums behind my eyes.

No doctor. No time. No margin for mistakes.

“Then get me a new one,” I say, rising to my full height. My voice cuts sharp, final. “I don’t care where. I don’t care how. Just make sure he doesn’t die.”

Boris doesn’t hesitate. He steps a few feet away, pulls out his phone, and starts dialing, voice already low and urgent.

I watch him from the edge of the shadows, blood pooling at my feet, leaking from a man who should’ve been dead hours ago. The steam from the car has faded now, leaving only the copper scent of blood and the bite of cold night air.

Boris says a name. Then another. His voice drops further.

I know—right then, standing there in that alley—that somewhere in this city, someone’s about to get pulled into our world. Someone who didn’t ask for it. Someone who won’t see it coming.

Boris hangs up with a single word: “Done.”

Whoever he finds—whoever he drags into this—they won’t be walking away clean.

They never do.

Chapter Two - Elise

The old orphanage looks smaller than I remember.

I park across the street beneath the bare, reaching limbs of a winter-worn tree, engine ticking quietly as it cools. The building hasn’t changed. Same flaking paint, same tired shutters drawn against the cold. Ivy still curls along the side wall like it’s trying to hold the place upright. Time has worn everything thinner, but not away.

I cross the street slowly, envelope tucked inside my coat. I always bring it in person. It’s not much, just a modest donation I send each month, but I never trust mail to carry what this place means. It deserves a hand-delivered kindness.

The gate squeaks as I push it open.

The front steps groan under my weight, familiar beneath my boots. The bell above the door jingles when I step inside, and for a second, I swear I’m thirteen again—awkward, freckled, clinging to my books like armor.

Warmth hits me in waves. The radiator clicks steadily beneath the front windows, and the smell—old wood, lemon cleaner, and something sweet baking in the kitchen—wraps around me like a childhood blanket. Voices drift from down the hall, followed by the sudden burst of laughter. Children.

Always laughter here, even when there wasn’t much to laugh about.

“Dr. Emberly?” a familiar voice calls out.

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