Page 11 of Kidnapped & Bred By The BRATVA
“Then we protect her. As one of us.”
The others echo it; a silent pact forged in blood and vodka. And I know, with absolute certainty, that no matter what storms come, alliances, enemies, even her own father, Olivia is untouchable.
Because she belongs to me.
Olivia
When I wake up, the room is dark except for the glow of a lamp on the nightstand. Heavy curtains blot out the world, muffling sound, enclosing me in a cocoon that feels both safe and dangerous.
The sheets are tangled around me, still warm with his scent. A thread of something raw, something that clings to my skin, my hair, even my breath.
For a moment I wonder if it was a dream. The church, the kidnap, his mouth on mine, his body driving me to pieces. But the soreness between my thighs, the ache in muscles I never knew I had, is proof enough. It happened. All of it.
And I don’t regret a second.
The door clicks open, and my head jerks up. Roman fills the frame, his broad body cutting a silhouette against the hallway light. He shuts the door behind him with a finality that makes my pulse quicken.
He’s stripped down now, just black trousers, his chest bare, tattoos curling over his skin. Ink spreads across his arms, down his ribs, across his shoulders. Not pretty designs. Not delicate art. They’re bold, sharp, a language all their own.
My breath hitches. “You’re covered in them.”
He glances down at himself, then back at me, his mouth curving in something that isn’t quite a smile. “Each one is a story. A truth I wanted burned into me so I never forget.”
I pull the sheet tighter around me, though it’s not modesty that makes me do it. It’s nerves. Curiosity. The intensity of his gaze. “Tell me.”
He moves closer, each step heavy, deliberate. When he sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dips, tipping me toward him. He doesn’t touch me, not yet, but the heat of his body radiates into mine.
“This one,” he says, dragging his finger across a snarling wolf inked on his bicep. “For rage. I was thirteen when I earned it. Too young, but no one stopped me. My father said I was born with a beast in me, and he was right.”
His tone is flat, but the muscle in his jaw jumps.
I hesitate, then ask softly, “And the scar?”
His head tilts, eyes catching mine. For a long beat he says nothing, and I wonder if I’ve gone too far. But then he exhales, sharp and rough, and his hand lifts to trace the pale line across his cheek.
“My father again. He cut me during a fight. Thought he’d break me.” His eyes burn with a fury that isn’t gone, even years later. “He didn’t.”
The words hang heavy in the air. My chest aches at the thought of a boy, barely grown, standing against a man like him. “What happened?”
“I killed him.” The words are delivered without hesitation, without shame. “Rage against rage. We were the same. Only one of us was ever going to walk away.”
A shiver runs through me, but it isn’t fear. It’s something more complicated. Respect for the man he is, sorrow for the boy he was.
“And your mother?” I whisper.
His gaze hardens. “She left. Packed her things the same night. She doted on him, loved him even after he split my face wide open. When he was gone, she couldn’t look at me without seeing him, seeing what I did. It’s better for us this way. By then Maksim and I had been taking on more of the business anyway, so we just carried on. Our mother keeps in touch, visits from time to time…”
The sheet slips from my hands, forgotten, as I reach for him. My fingers brush the edge of the scar, tentative, reverent. His whole body tenses, like he’s bracing for recoil, but I don’t pull back.
“It doesn’t make you like him,” I murmur. “It makes you stronger.”
Something flickers in his eyes, something that unsettles me because it looks like pain. He covers my hand with his, dwarfing it completely. His skin is hot, calloused, grounding.
“You don’t know me, Olivia.”
I swallow, my voice trembling. “But I want to.”
The silence stretches, thick with things unspoken. He studies me, searching for cracks, for weakness, maybe for lies. Whatever he sees must be enough, because his shoulders ease, just slightly.
