Page 88 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

I bite down on the gag until my jaw screams.

I don’t know how long the drive lasts. It feels like hours, but time stretches out in pain, in fear, in fury. When the van finally jerks to a halt, I’m almost too numb to care. Cold air rushes in when the doors open. Hands grab me, rough and fast. I’m dragged backward, my legs too stiff to move on their own.

The blindfold comes off, and I squint against the dim light.

We’re inside a building now. Something old, crumbling. Smells like mold, old wood, piss, and something else—something coppery and sharp.

Blood.

They’ve brought me to hell.

My arms are yanked behind my back again as they force me through what used to be a lobby. There’s shattered tile beneath my feet, broken glass glinting along the floor. The wallpaper peels in long strips, and old chandeliers hang limp and dead above us.

They take me downstairs.

The basement is colder. Damper. Lit by a single bare bulb that flickers every few seconds like it’s remembering how to stay alive. The walls are unfinished concrete, wet in places. The floor is stained.

There’s a chair in the center of the room, bolted to the floor. I know immediately it’s for me.

I dig in my heels. I fight, even now, even though I know it’s useless.

A man stands in the corner.

Not justaman.Theman. The one they all orbit like he has a gravitational pull.

Tall, lean, handsome in that sharp, snake-eyed kind of way. A suit too nice for this place, tie loosened like he wants to seem casual—but it’s a performance. Every inch of him screams power that’s built on other people’s screams.

This is the man who thinks he can break Kolya Sharov.

He steps forward, lips curling.

“So,” he says, voice smooth, rich with mockery. “You’re the reason the great Kolya is unraveling.”

I glare at him.

His eyes flick over me slowly, like I’m something on display.

“Tighter than I imagined,” he mutters. “Though I suppose a man like him wouldn’t settle for less.”

My stomach twists.

He gestures, and the guards shove me into the chair. I hiss as my raw wrists are bound to the arms. My legs are strapped next. Then the gag comes off.

I spit blood at his feet, and he laughs. “Oh, she’s got bite. I see why he’s so fond.”

I don’t respond.

I won’t give him the satisfaction.

He circles the chair, slow and patient, like a vulture waiting for me to rot. “You know, I almost pity you,” he says. “Almost. If you weren’t such a perfectly placed weapon.”

I look up at him. My voice comes out hoarse. “Kolya will kill you.”

His smile widens. “That’s the point, sweetheart. I want him to come. I want him towatch.”

“You think he’ll beg for me?” I ask, holding his gaze.

“I think,” he says, leaning close enough for me to smell his cologne—something synthetic and sharp—“he’llbreak. Once he does, everything he’s built will follow.”

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