Page 16 of Chased & Bred by the BRATVA
A lump forms in my throat, thick and unexpected.
I’ve never vanished before. Never just disappeared. And now that I have, now that I’m sitting in this bedroom wrapped in stolen heat and bruises that make me feelwanted, I can’t stop wondering—
What would I really be leaving behind if I stayed here?
A tiny apartment with a leaking pipe in the bathroom.
A job that drains me.
Friends who don’t even notice when I’m gone.
My hand drifts to the base of my throat, where the memory of his touch still lingers. I swear I can feel it, his teeth, his hands, the way he growledminelike it was a vow. Not a question. Not even a request.
He’s halfway to the door now, hand on the handle.
“I’ll be gone for a couple of hours,” he says. “Stay in the house. Don’t wander.”
I lift my chin. “Why? What happens if I do?”
He studies me for a moment. Then walks back and bends low, brushing his mouth against mine, slow and tender.
“You’re not ready to know that yet,” he murmurs.
Then he’s gone.
The door clicks shut behind him, and I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for days. I stare at the space where he just stood. The echo of his presence still lingers in the room like smoke.
I should be panicking. Screaming. Calling someone.Leaving.But instead, I curl my knees to my chest and sit in the quiet. Because I’m not sure what’s scarier anymore. The idea that Ican’tleave, or the idea that I might not evenwantto.
Nikolai
The city doesn’t feel the same anymore.
It’s too loud. Too bright. Toounaware.
People stumble down rain-slicked sidewalks with their eyes glued to screens, their headphones in, their backs turned to danger. A woman could vanish a dozen times in a single night and the world would keep spinning like she never existed.
Except this time, it didn’t.
Because this woman matters to me.
And I’m going to burn down every alley, every bar, every fake rideshare ring until I make damn sure it never happens again.
I adjust my collar against the drizzle as I step into the back entrance of Club Verve, the last place Rachel saw her friends. The doorman knows better than to stop me. We own half this block, and the other half owes us favors.
Inside, it reeks of spilled liquor, desperation, and vanilla body spray.
I nod at the bartender. He is young, twitchy, smart enough to recognize the weight of my presence.
“Security footage,” I say. “Last night. Side entrance.”
He swallows hard and motions me toward the back.
The office is cramped, full of sticky leather chairs and outdated equipment, but the security feed is clear. I scrub throughthe timestamp Rachel gave me. Midnight to two a.m. Dozens of women in tiny dresses, taxis pulling in and out, couples stumbling toward alleyways.
Then—
“There,” I mutter.
