Page 92 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

“I know.”

“They were going to hurt me.”

“I know.”

His grip tightens around me. His arms are steel now, wrapped around my back, locking me in place like the world might try to take me again.

“It’s over,” he says, voice low. Dangerous. “I won’t let anyone touch you again.”

I believe him. Not just because of the way he speaks it, but because of what I saw. The carnage. The way he moved through men like they were paper. The look in his eyes when he saw me in that chair.

I reach up and fist my hand in his shirt, clutching hard. I don’t even realize I’m crying again until my breath hitches. This time, I let it happen.

I let myself fall apart in his arms. He doesn’t rush me; he just holds me through it, his fingers stroking my hair, his cheek resting against the top of my head.

I know this man is still dangerous. Still cruel. Still wrapped in blood and power and fire.

I don’t know how long we sit there. Minutes, maybe. Hours. Time stopped making sense back in that basement.

Kolya says nothing else, and I’m grateful for that. Words would only shatter whatever fragile thread is holding me together. Instead, he lets me curl into him, pressed so tightly to his chest I can feel his heart—steady, thunderous, human.

My fingers knot tighter into his shirt, and I hate that it grounds me. Hate that the scent of blood, smoke, andhimmakes me feel safer than I’ve felt in days. It shouldn’t be this way. He shouldn’t be the one I crave when the world falls apart.

I need him like air.

Eventually, the SUV slows, pulling into a private underground garage. The rumble of the engine dies, leaving a cavernous silence behind.

Kolya shifts, one arm sliding beneath my legs. I start to protest—some stubborn instinct refusing to let him carry me—but my body is too sore, too heavy. I let him lift me, his grip firm and careful.

He carries me through the corridor, up the stairs, until we’re back inside the mansion. Warm light spills from sconces along the hall, soft and golden. The contrast from the darkness I came from nearly undoes me again.

His steps are measured. Controlled. He kicks open the door to his bedroom with his boot.

Not mine.His.Somehow, I’m not surprised.

He sets me on the edge of the bed. My skin sinks into the thick mattress, and the sensation almost brings tears back to my eyes. He kneels to undo my shoes, his bloodied fingers moving with reverence. Then he stands, taking off his jacket—ruined, soaked through—and tosses it aside.

“Take this off,” he says, nodding to my shirt.

I hesitate. His eyes flash. “You’re covered in someone else’s blood. I’m not asking again.”

I pull it over my head with shaking hands.

Kolya doesn’t look away. His eyes track every inch of exposed skin, and for once, it doesn’t feel sexual—it feels like he’schecking. Cataloguing bruises. Damage. Making sure I’m whole.

He disappears into the bathroom and returns with a damp towel, gently wiping the grime from my skin. He’s quiet as he works, brow furrowed, jaw clenched like he’s barely containing something. Maybe rage. Maybe guilt.

Maybe both.

I breathe through the touch, letting it ground me again. “You killed him,” I whisper eventually. “My father.”

Kolya doesn’t stop. “Yes.”

“Thank you.”

That makes him pause. His eyes lift to mine, searching. Maybe for regret. Maybe for sorrow.

There’s none.

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