Page 8 of Violent Love: Viktor
I refused to fail.
My days of fucking women from behind were over.
Chapter 4
Natalya
When I arrived at his suite, Mr Petrov had been obnoxious and far too handsy. I’d considered asking a male colleague to deal with the esteemed guest, but decided it wasn’t worth the hassle of irritating my manager. The man had complained about not having enough towels and that the toilet hadn’t been cleaned properly. I suppose all politicians lie.
It was his fault I was now locked away in this filthy black prison.
I thought of the dark-bearded man, the way he’d forced my mouth open and pushed the barrel of his gun inside. The scarred brute with tattoos crawling over his hands had fed off my fear. I saw it in his black eyes. But his words—cold and deliberate—haunted me most.
Do you want to live, bitch?
The Bratva never left witnesses. No one ever testified against them. Was he offering me a way out? Or was he simply toying with me, only to kill me later?
I shivered at the memory of the curved pink scars that ran from the side of his forehead to his cheek, disappearing beneath his beard. They were not scratches. They were deep, vicious wounds—old and unforgiving.
When I woke, I was still on the cell’s filthy floor, my damp skirt and tights clinging to me. The room reeked worse than my urine. After retching several times, I forced myself to breathe through my mouth. I lost all sense of time. I dozed in and out, trying to escape the nightmare with fragments of sleep.
A key turned in the lock. My stomach heaved.
The door swung open, and I stared up at a towering silhouette. The light behind him was blinding, so I raised my hand to shield my eyes.
“Get up,” he snapped.
It was him—my abductor.
“Pozhaluysta, miloserdiye,” I whispered, the only words I could form through my disoriented mind.Please, mercy.
He crossed the room without pause and grabbed a fistful of my hair, dragging me across the floor. I scrambled to stand, but he was too fast, too strong. I clawed at his hand, trying to pry his fingers loose, screaming as pain tore through my scalp. He did not pause. Did not flinch. Just dragged me down the grey, dingy corridor.
“Next time I give you an order, I expect you to obey,” he growled before yanking open a light grey door.
I saw black scuff marks along its bottom. The proof that people couldn't escape. Then, he pulled me upright in a single motion.
Petrov lay on an operating table, sobbing. Naked. Helpless. It wasn’t a pretty sight. There was a doctor beside him. When the man turned, I gasped—and stepped back into the brute.
His eyes were wrong. Not clinical. Not cold. But hungry. A doctor who had sworn an oath to save lives… now preparing for something else.
“Is this the one, Viktor?” the doctor asked.
“Yes,” Viktor said curtly, beginning to pull me back.
Oh God. The one? What did that mean? Next on the table?
“Please—” I tried again, but the words tangled in my throat as I saw the doctor lift a scalpel from the metal tray.
I began to shake.
Viktor dragged me back until I hit something cold. He took my wrists and tied them down. I jerked, but then he tipped me backwards, strapping me to a wheeled frame. He pushed me closer to the bed.
“No. Noooooo,” I screamed, thrashing, but he stopped at the foot of Petrov’s table.
Viktor vanished into a darkened corner of the room, and I heard the sound of running water. That was when I saw it.
The camera. It sat on a tripod, aimed at the table.
