Page 13 of Forced Bratva Hostage

Okay.

I can do this.

He’s just a man.

Men are easy and predictable. Ithink. I haven’t had any experience with them at all because my brother never let me date anyone. But at the same time, I’m not an idiot. I’m not blind. I see the way every single one of the guards watches me and Van. That creepy fucking sicko. His gaze always makes me want to gag. I know what he’s thinking.

Men like women to be weak and helpless. All I need to do is play the little damsel in distress and it will melt this guy’s willpower to a puddle of nothing. Then I can escape.

Before I open the bathroom door, I get into character. It’s showtime.

He’s still standing there, waiting for me as I step into the hall.

“Thank you. I honestly appreciate you being kind enough to let me use the bathroom,” I say, keeping my voice innocent and quiet. No more shouting, no more cursing.

As I walk past him, I stumble a little and fall against him, pressing my body against his. Briefly, I’m distracted. My hand drifts over his chest, and I get a taste of just how sculpted his stomach is. Holy fuck.

Wow.

Um.

Focus, Tia.

“Sorry,” I whisper, looking up at him with wide eyes and a little pout. “My foot is hurting. I-I didn’t mean to—" My fingers spread across his chest, and I bite my lower lip.

The guy reaches down and grabs my hand, tugging me away from his perfect, masculine, Adonis body. I gasp as he moves me roughly away from him, pushing my back up against the wall as he towers over me.

“Nice try, little bunny. Do you think I’m stupid? That wasn’t even good acting. You can’t switch from the gutter mouth you had last night to a sweet little angel in a matter of thirty seconds and expect me to fall for it.” His body is hot against mine, his lips inches from my face.

I could stand on my tiptoes and kiss him.

For some reason, that is all I can think about right now.

Dammit.

He pushes away from me, and with his massive hand gripping my wrist, he drags me past the bedroom into the living room area, shoves me onto the sofa, and snaps the other end of the cuffs closed over the leg of a coffee table, the carved out design stopping me from slipping away.

Eyeing the table, I pull my mouth to the side.

“Um. I could just pick this table up and leave,” I say in disbelief.

He shrugs.

“Go for it. Barefoot, running through the forest carrying a coffee table that weighs maybe forty, fifty pounds, in a dress that hardly covers your ass—I’d be interested to see how far you get.”

I can’t hide my disdain as I glare at him with hatred. He shows no emotion at all, and in this moment, his coldness reminds me of Boris.

Is this how all men are? Selfish, emotionless, cold, miserable, dickheads?

Is my entire life going to be like this—being pushed and pulled to fit into whatever role a man needs from me? Like a tool, a puzzle piece in someone else’s plan? It’s clear that’s all I am to this guy. I’m a means to an end. He said it himself.

He’s bossy, arrogant, and clearly doesn’t give a shit about me.

Letting out a heavy sigh, I flop sideways against the sofa, because it’s the only way I can get comfortable with one wrist attached to a stupid table.

I watch him as he wanders over to the kitchen area, making himself a coffee, not bothering to offer me one.

I refuse to beg him for anything. Not even coffee.

---