Page 81 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

Quietly. Smoothly.

I slide from the bed, already dressed beneath the covers. Something comfortable. Dark. Easy to move in. The moonlight barely touches the room, but I don’t need light. I know the layout by now. The hidden corridors, the service stairwell near the west wing, the rusted latch on the side exit Kolya probably doesn’t even remember exists.

My shoes are in my hand. I slip them on just before I reach the door.

There’s no one outside.

I move like a shadow, keeping close to the walls, avoiding the security cams I’ve learned to track. It’s not a flawless escape, but it doesn’t need to be. Not if they’re not expecting it.

Only—they are.

I just don’t know that yet.

The street beyond the compound is quiet, cold, the kind of empty that hums with danger. I don’t pause. I know where I’m going.

Hetold me.

In the seconds before Kolya’s men dragged him off, he leaned forward and hissed something at me.

“Under the old bridge. Midnight. Two nights.”

I hadn’t believed I’d actually go.

Here I am.

The bridge is crumbling at the edges, its underpass thick with moss and damp. Broken glass crunches beneath my steps. I hear the water running nearby—slow and black, a ribbon through the darkness.

I hate that I’m here, but hate is nothing new.

He’s already waiting when I approach. Same flannel shirt. Same slumped posture. Like he’s been drinking the past two days straight and can’t remember how to stand.

“Elise,” he says, lighting up when he sees me. “You came.”

My arms fold across my chest before I can stop them. “Only for answers.”

He nods quickly, eyes glassy. “I can explain. Iwantedto explain. They—they wouldn’t let me. That man—your husband, or whatever the hell he is—”

“He’s not the reason I was in a closet alone at eight years old,” I snap.

That shuts him up, at least for a second.

“I was young,” he mutters. “Scared. Your mother was gone. I didn’t know what to do. The drugs were—”

“I don’t care,” I bite out. “You don’t get to blame a needle for locking up your daughter and disappearing.”

“I didn’t disappear.” His voice trembles, desperate. “I left you at the orphanage. You were taken care of—look at you now! You’re alive, aren’t you?”

Alive. As if that’s the bar.

He steps forward like he might touch me. I move back without thinking.

“You’re not my father,” I say. “Not really.”

His mouth opens, closes.

“You’re just a man who left.”

He nods, slowly. “Maybe, but I’m also the only one left. The only one with the truth.”

---