Page 13 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
I can’t look back.
The door to the room is slightly ajar. I don’t know if it was left that way or if I was too out of it to notice earlier, but I don’t stop to think about it. I slip through the opening, shoulders brushing cold metal, and find myself in a corridor.
Long. Gray. Empty.
It stretches ahead of me like something out of a nightmare—too clean, too quiet. Industrial tile beneath my feet. Harsh fluorescents buzzing overhead. The air smells like metal and something faintly chemical, like antiseptic that never fully fades. Every door I pass is closed. Steel and unmarked, bolted shut or padlocked. I try one at random, but it doesn’t budge.
A trap, part of me whispers. He’s behind one of these doors. Watching. Waiting.
I don’t stop. Can’t stop.
The soles of my shoes slap wet against the floor as I run. I count each breath, ragged and sharp. My lungs are already burning. Every rib throbs with a deep, aching bruise—the memory of his grip, the way he slammed me against the wall before everything went dark. Pain blooms in waves, my body begging me to slow down, to collapse, to breathe.
I don’t.
My steps echo. Too loud, too fast, like a signal flare screaming through the silence.
My heart thunders in my chest, drowning everything else out. I can’t hear if someone’s behind me. I can’t afford to care. The hallway twists slightly ahead, dipping into shadow. I round the corner, eyes scanning, searching for anything that looks like an exit—an opening, a weakness, something other.
The overhead lights flicker once, then again. A soft pulse, like the building itself is deciding whether to keep holding me in place.
I pass more doors. A mop bucket. A slatted vent too small to crawl through. One camera, suspended from the ceiling, the lens cracked. I don’t know if it’s recording. I don’t know if he is watching. I just keep going.
Each step feels like it might be the last. Every footfall heavier than the one before. My shoulder slams into the wall as I lose traction, skin scraping, balance tipping for a breathless second. I right myself, shove off the concrete, and run harder.
I’m not fast enough, but if I’m quick, maybe I can get out of here.
Then, at the far end of the hallway, faint light spills from beneath one of the doors.
The door is open.
The light is warm—amber-gold, soft, familiar. My body surges toward it before my mind even catches up. I grit my teeth and force myself forward, ignoring the pain in my side, the way my legs are starting to give out beneath me. My fingers twitch like they want to fold into fists, but I need them open. I need them ready.
My shoes slap water where it’s pooled in seams along the floor. My breathing’s too loud now. Desperate.
I reach the door.
Fingers curl around the handle—cold steel, worn smooth by use. I hesitate for half a second. Not because I want to, but because I have to.
Is this it? Is this escape, or is this where he’s waiting? Is this what hewants?
I shove the thought down and wrench the door open.
“You really thought I wouldn’t notice?” The voice cuts through the dark like a blade, a hint of laughter around the edges.
I freeze.
My hand still clutches the door handle, the glow of whatever lies beyond spilling over my shoes, brushing the walls,but it’s meaningless now. My breath catches. I spin, and there he is.
He steps out of the shadows like he’s been waiting there all along. No hurry in his stride. No surprise in his expression. His coat drips rainwater onto the floor, slow and steady. His eyes gleam under the flickering lights.
He’s calm, but there’s an amusement in his eyes I can’t deny.
I run.
It’s not a decision, I just move. My body acts before I can think. Three steps. That’s all I get. My foot slips in a puddle as I push toward the light again, toward the maybe-safety on the other side of that door.
His hand closes around my arm like iron.
