Page 82 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

I hesitate. My heart skips. “What truth?”

He smiles, crooked and hollow. “About the Ember Trust. About why they took you. Why they paid for everything. Why that rich bastard came sniffing around all those years ago asking about a girl with no name and no ties.”

My stomach twists. “What do you know?”

“I know who he is,” he says, eyes narrowing. “That Kolya Sharov. I know what he did before you ever laid eyes on him. You think he found you by accident?”

I feel the blood drain from my face.

He chuckles, dry. “You think you’re free now? You think you’re his equal? He picked you for a reason, Elise. You’re a name on a list, a piece of a deal made long before you knew what power even was.”

I step forward. “What deal?”

Before he can answer, I hear it—the crunch of gravel.

I whirl around just as headlights flare. Doors slam. Footsteps. I count at least three. Maybe four.

“Shit,” my father mutters.

Too late, I realize what’s happening.

I wasn’t lucky. I wasallowedto find him.

The men don’t shout. They don’t run. They move with practiced efficiency.

Within seconds, I’m seized by the arm. One of them shoves my father to his knees. His hands go up, trembling.

“Please—please, I wasn’t—”

“Quiet,” one of the men snaps.

“Elise!” he shouts. “Hechoseyou—don’t you see that? It was never an accident.”

The words barely have time to settle in my brain before a rough hand clamps around my arm and yanks me backward. I stumble, breath caught in my throat, fingers scrabbling for something—anything—to hold on to.

“Wait—what are you—” My voice breaks as panic surges through my chest.

The men don’t wear Kolya’s colors. Their movements aren’t as precise, their hands rougher, greedier. One of them grabs my jaw, turning my face toward the streetlight. A flashlight beam stabs into my eyes. He grunts something in Russian, confirming something to the others.

That’s when it hits me.

These aren’t Kolya’s men. Thisisn’t Kolya.

I twist hard, driving my elbow back into a stomach—someone curses—but I’m too slow, too stunned. Another grabs me from behind, pinning my arms, dragging me toward the idling van parked just out of sight beneath the bridge.

“No!” I scream, kicking wildly. “Let go of me!”

“Elise—”

I whip around, eyes searching for the voice, desperate.

There he is. My father, standing there, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, watching.

“You—” I choke on the word, stumbling as they shove me forward. “Youset me up?”

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. His face says it all.

He did. He walked me into this like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.

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