Page 11 of The Bratva's Hunted Bride
“When my brothers find you—”
I scoff and close the distance between us again. “They won’t survive the attempt to take you from me.”
In a surprising burst of speed, she reaches past me for the knife block. Her fingers close around a butcher’s knife, and she slashes it in my direction, aiming for my throat. Good. Sheshouldn’t hold back when she thinks her life is in danger. That I have her here is evidence that her education in self-defense has been lacking, something we’ll have to change.
I catch her wrist, and the blade stops inches from my neck. “Drop it.”
She purses her lips and her muscles shake as she strains against my hold, trying to force the knife into the small gap remaining between blade and skin. My perfect, brutal girl. One-handed, I pluck the knife from her hand.
Suddenly, she wobbles, swaying on the spot with unfocused eyes. She stumbles into me, and at first, I think it’s a new ploy. Then her legs buckle and she starts to fall. I catch her, dropping the knife to hold her with both arms.
“Talia?” There’s no response, and her eyes are rolled back in her head. Panic slams my heart into my ribcage. “Talia!”
I scoop her into my arms and feel for her pulse at her wrist, pressing two fingers against the veins there. Thump. Thump. It beats steady and slow into my touch. She’s fainted.
“You’re going to be alright,” I say, more for my own benefit. She has to be alright. If I did this… if I hurt her in any way, I’ll never forgive myself.
With her in my arms, I make my way up the spiral staircase to the second floor, kicking open the door to a guest room. I place her down on the bed and brush the hair back from her face. She’s pale, all the lovely rosiness gone from her cheeks.
Fucking hell. What if she has a heart problem I don’t know about? Could it be her blood sugar? My mind races.Think. Calm down.Chances are she’s fainted from the fright of being kidnapped. There doesn’t have to be more to it than that. I hope I’m right. If anything changes, if she seems to be struggling at all,I’m calling an ambulance and taking whatever blowback comes my way. Better to end up in a jail cell than to risk something happening to Talia.
Her eyelids flutter closed, and she murmurs something. I lean in closer to hear.
“I can handle it, Marlen,” she mutters, words punctuated by the deep breathing of sleep. “I’m not a child.”
Marlen, her oldest brother and head of the Popov family. I pull the covers over her, tucking her into bed. It might have been nothing, just the sort of nonsense mumbled in sleep, a fragment of a dream. Or it could be more—her deepest thoughts given voice. I know little about the Popov family beyond the major players. Could Talia be struggling against her family’s restrictions?
I tuck that thought away for later and head down to the kitchen to get her a glass of water. This isn’t the plan. Once I got her here, I thought we had talked things through and she’d start to see how wrong she’d been for walking out on me. That she’d be forced to realize we deserve a real chance.
Setting the glass beside her bed for when she wakes, I watch her sleep. Her cheeks are sun-freckled, and some color is returning beneath the spots. She seems deeply asleep now, eyelids twitching and mouth gently parted, but just in case something changes, I pull an armchair over from its place by the window and sit sentinel by her bed.
I’ll watch over her until I’m certain she’s okay. Nothing bad will ever happen to her now that she’s with me.
Chapter 6 - Talia
This isn’t my room. I know it almost before I open my eyes somehow, maybe it’s the scent or the feel of the blankets against my skin. Something is different. Then I remember. Timofey.
Memory floods back in. The kidnapping, the car ride, the struggle in the kitchen, and then… blank. Everything after grabbing the knife to try to stab him is a blur. God, I can’t believe I did that. Did I really almost stab a man? I’m almost grateful it didn’t work, even if it means I’m still trapped here in his house. I don’t know that I’m capable of killing someone, even if it is in self-defense.
I sit up, and my head swims, forcing me to lie back down. Immediately, I think of the baby. Is she okay? There’s no way to know this early, no comforting kicks to tell me that she’s still moving around in there, but I press my hands to my stomach anyway.
“We’re going to be okay,” I tell her, taking slow breaths as I sit up again, moving more slowly this time. “We’re going to get out of here.”
If he wanted to kill me, I think he would’ve done it already. Maybe I’m just kidding myself, but it’s a glimmer of hope, and I’m going to hold on to it because otherwise, I might just lose my mind. The room is painted sky blue and has all the personality of a hotel room. Bland, white lamps, white curtains, white carpet. Not a single pop of color. It looks like a stock photo come to life.
Priorities, I think, as I push the covers down and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I stand, one hand on the bed for stability, and wait for the darkness in my vision to fade.Low blood pressure always has this effect on me. Shit. Is that what happened yesterday? Did I faint? The thought of being unconscious and completely at Timofey’s mercy makes my skin crawl. He could’ve done anything to me.
I shiver, remembering the way he ran that knife down my back. It almost seemed like he was enjoying himself. He probably was. There’s something unhinged about him. The sort of thing you might expect from a weird, loner type, but that feels completely at odds with how hot he is.
There’s a chair beside the bed, positioned close. Was he watching me sleep? The thought turns my stomach. I don’t want to think about how long I’ve been out, how many chances he’s had to do something to me. It’s still light outside, but it’s the low, weak light of early evening, and it was barely half past eight when I got back to the apartment. Too long.
I almost grab the glass of water on the bedside table, but stop short, fingers hovering next to the cup. It looks clear, but could he have put something in it? I wouldn’t put it past him. It’s easier to keep someone prisoner if they’re too drugged to fight back. So even though my throat is dry and hoarse, I resist taking a drink.
Once I’m steady, I walk over to the window. No bars, at least. I peer outside, and my stomach drops. I’m only on the second floor, but it looks like a long way down. Additionally, this bedroom overlooks a pool surrounded by white stone. Not something I want to land on.
Still, a broken ankle is better than whatever Timofey has in store for me. I turn the lock and set both hands against the glass, pushing it up. Nothing happens. It doesn’t budge an inch even as I strain with all my might.
“Shit,” I say under my breath, looking over my shoulder at the bedroom door. It’s open just a crack, like he wanted to give me some privacy. “How are we going to get out of here?”
