Page 73 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

I slide down the wall, knees hitting the floor, arms wrapping around myself so tight it hurts.

It doesn’t make sense. He’s supposed to be gone. Hewasgone.

He left me.

He left me locked in that tiny dark closet on a night the storm broke every window in the house. I cried until I threw up. Until I passed out. He never came back. Not that night. Not ever.

Not until now.

Still… he’s my blood. The only living tie to the life I never asked for.

Tears prick my eyes, hot and angry. I don’t want to cry for him. He doesn’t deserve it. He never did.

I’m crying anyway.

Not for who he is, but for who I was. For the little girl he left behind. For the woman I became because of it.

***

The sheets are cold.

I didn’t think I’d notice that, but I do. I curl into myself anyway, drawing my knees up beneath the silk, letting the quiet close over me like water. The bedroom is dim, thick with shadows, the curtains drawn tight, though a slice of gray light cuts through where the fabric doesn’t quite meet. I watch the dust move in it. Particles suspended midair, drifting with no real direction. Just like me.

My body is warm from the bath I didn’t want, my hair still damp against my cheek. The walk, the encounter, the rush of being dragged away—it all sits inside me like a bruise that hasn’t decided where to bloom. I’m not shivering, but my bones feel like ice.

I haven’t spoken since I got back. Haven’t looked at anyone. The guards let me in without a word, their faces blank, and I walked through the marble corridors like a ghost until I reached this room and shut the door behind me. No one’s knocked. Not yet.

I don’t want anyone to see me like this. Not him. Especially nothim.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.

He hurt me. My father. Left me. Locked me away when I was small enough to still think monsters lived in closets—then proved me right. That memory should be enough to fill my chest with fire. All I feel is this aching hollow, this slow burn beneath my skin that won’t turn to anger, no matter how tightly I curl my fists.

Why didn’t I scream at him? Why didn’t I spit in his face?

Why did part of me still look for something in his eyes—something soft, something human, somethingfatherly—even when I knew better?

I squeeze my eyes shut.

I’m not a child anymore. I’m not that girl in the closet, arms wrapped around her own ribs like they were the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

Lying here, alone, I don’t feel like Elise Emberly, the doctor. Or Kolya’s captive. Or his reluctant fiancée. I just feel small.

The sheets rustle as I shift. I roll to my side, pull the blanket higher over my shoulders, tuck my hands beneath my chin like it’ll make a difference. The soft tick of the clock across the room becomes a steady rhythm in the silence. It makes me want to scream. To cry. To disappear into the seams of the mattress and not wake up until none of this feels like mine anymore.

I don’t know how long I lie there. Minutes. Hours. Time stretches weird when you’re hollowed out.

Eventually, there’s a knock at the door.

I don’t answer.

A moment later, the door creaks open anyway.

Footsteps. Even without looking, I know it’s him.

Kolya doesn’t ask if he can come in.

I bury my face deeper into the pillow, pretending I’m asleep.

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