Page 90 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

I see a shadow at first, backlit by firelight and smoke. But when he steps forward, it’s like a god of wrath has descended into this rotting pit.

He’s soaked in blood—not his, I know that immediately. His eyes are wild, locked on to mine with a heat that scorches. There’s no restraint in him, no control. Just fury and vengeance given a name and a target.

His voice, when he speaks, is the coldest thing I’ve ever heard. “Get away from her.”

The two men left in the room barely manage to raise their weapons before he moves.

Kolya doesn’t shoot them clean. He doesn’t have to. He steps in close, grabbing the first by the throat and slamming him into the concrete wall with a sickening crack. A blade flashes in his hand—then blood, a scream, a gurgle—and the man drops, twitching.

The second man gets one shot off. It misses.

Kolya catches his arm, twists until it snaps. The man screams. Kolya punches him once—jaw, temple, then again—and again—until the skull caves in against the concrete. The body drops, lifeless.

Then silence again.

His chest heaves. Blood drips from his blade, from his knuckles. His shoulders shake, but not from exhaustion—from restraint.

Then his eyes meet mine.

“Elise,” he says, and it’s the only soft thing in the room.

I don’t speak. I can’t. My mouth is too dry, my body too frozen. I’ve never seen him like this. Not even close.

He kneels beside me, hands still slick, but they’re careful when they reach for the rope around my wrists.

“Did they touch you?” he asks. Low. Measured.

“No,” I manage to whisper. “Not like that.”

His jaw clenches. His hands tremble as he cuts me free, but he says nothing. Just cups the back of my head once I’m loose, pulling my face to his chest for one second—one stolen second of shelter—before he’s rising again.

Footsteps echo down the hallway.

My father steps into the doorway, behind Kolya.

“Wait—” I start, but too late.

Kolya turns.

There’s no hesitation. No words. Just a single shot. Clean. Precise. Right between the eyes.

My father drops like a marionette with its strings cut.

I gasp, flinching, but Kolya doesn’t even blink.

“He set this up,” he says simply. “He knew what they would do to you.”

I nod, even as my stomach turns. Even as tears sting my eyes, not because I grieve him, but because Idon’t.

Kolya grabs my hand. “We’re leaving.”

He pulls me through the carnage. Blood slicks the floor in dark pools. Bodies crumpled in doorways and down halls. The smell is thick, metallic, choking.

When we step out into the night, the air hits me like ice. Fresh. Clean. I gulp it in.

A black SUV waits. Boris stands beside it, blood on his cheek and a fresh gash across his arm.

“You got her,” he states.

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