Page 51 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

He’s kept his distance, disappearing into meetings, phone calls, locked doors. I don’t know what business he runs from this mansion, but I know it’s soaked in blood and secrets.

Yet, the longer he stays away, the more I think about him—something I promised myself I wouldn’t do.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, feet brushing the cool floor.

“Get yourself together,” I mutter. I’ve said it a hundred times these past few days.

I cross the room and draw the curtains open. The window stretches nearly floor to ceiling, an expanse of glass overlooking a winding drive bordered by bare trees and high stone walls. Guards in dark coats stand at the gates, barely moving. This place is a fortress. A cage with silk sheets and no visible bars.

There—down the drive—ishim.

He steps out of a black car, tall and commanding even from a distance. His coat whips in the wind as he exchanges a few words with Boris, face unreadable as always. Then he heads inside.

My stomach twists. I don’t know if it’s dread, or something worse.

I let the curtain fall shut. When I turn toward the bathroom, I catch the glint of something on my hand.

My breath stops. There’s a ring on my finger.

Not one I recognize. Not my own. Elegant. Heavy. A band of platinum or white gold with a single, narrow diamond inset so cleanly it barely catches the light unless I move. It’s simple, deliberate, expensive.

Panic grips me.

I stare at it like it might vanish if I blink hard enough. I tug at it instinctively—it doesn’t budge. Not tight enough to hurt, but snug. Familiar, like it wasmeantto be there.

I don’t remember putting it on, I don’t remember anyone putting it on. I don’t remember—

My knees buckle a little, and I sit hard on the edge of the bed, heart in my throat.

This isn’t a gift. It’s a message, or maybe a threat.

I press my palms to my thighs and breathe, trying to steady myself.

I don’t know when he put it there, orwhyhe hasn’t said a word about it. But as the sound of distant footsteps echoes down the marble hall beyond the bedroom door, I know one thing with absolute certainty.

I don’t remember walking out the door.

One second, I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the ring like it’s a noose dressed in diamonds, and the next, I’m storming down the gilded hallway barefoot, heart slamming against my ribs.

The house is a maze of marble floors and vaulted ceilings, all designed to impress and disorient. But I find him easily.

I don’t knock, I throw the door open.

Kolya stands just inside, one arm braced lazily against the frame of the balcony doors, a glass of something dark in his hand, like this is any other morning. Likenothingis wrong.

His eyes meet mine, and he has the audacity tosmirk.

“What the hell is this?” I snap, holding up my hand. The ring catches the morning light like it has a damn spotlight on it.

He doesn’t even blink. “A ring.”

“Don’t play games with me.”

“I’m not. It’s real gold.”

My hands curl into fists.

He watches me with that maddening, casual confidence, as though he’s waiting for me to come to my senses andthankhim. He doesn’t move, but his presence consumes the space between us like smoke—thick, suffocating, inescapable.

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