Page 15 of Kidnapped & Bred By The BRATVA
Hours slip by in laughter, seeing to babies and toddlers, and gentle conversation until the heavy slam of doors announces the brothers’ return. Clara pats my knee, her smile knowing. “He’ll be looking for you.”
I rise, nerves twisting in my stomach, and slip back upstairs.
Roman finds me waiting in his bedroom, perched at the edge of the bed. His shoulders are tight, his jaw sharp as he strides in carrying something heavy. Two black trash bags hit the floor with a dull thud.
My heart sinks.
“My things?” I ask, though I already know.
His mouth twists with something close to fury. “This is how your father sent your things. Packed up like garbage.”
The words sting sharper than I expect. I don’t cry, though. I don’t let myself. I’ve learned how to keep my face smooth, my voice even. It’s what kept me safe under my father’s roof.
But Roman isn’t fooled. He sees the flicker, the way my shoulders stiffen, the way I stare too long at the bags.
“Olivia.” His voice is rough, warning and gentle all at once.
I shake my head quickly. “It doesn’t matter. They’re just things.”
The lie tastes bitter. My life reduced to plastic sacks, dumped at the feet of the man who stole me.
Roman crosses the room in three strides, his hands seizing my waist, hauling me against him. “It matters. He doesn’t get to decide what you’re worth. He doesn’t get to treat you like trash. You hear me?”
I nod, though my throat tightens too much to speak.
“I’ll take you out as soon as the stores open, you can get anything and everything you want and need…”
I cut him off with a shake of my head. “I don’t have any money. I have no job, no allowance. My father always sent for my clothes and toiletries. How can I buy new things?”
“Olivia, you’re mine now, what’s mine is yours.” He pauses for a moment before smirking at what that means. “You are yours. I’ll have you added to my account, spend whatever you want, however you want, whenever you want.”
“But–” I try to argue.
“But nothing, Olivia. I won’t have you feeling trapped and isolated because you have no money. And if you want to work you can work for the family like Rachel does. Now, there’s something else I want from you.”
His mouth claims mine before the first tear can fall. The kiss is rough, demanding, not asking permission but giving me what I need, something stronger than the hurt, something hotter than the shame.
His lips trail down my jaw, my throat, branding me where no one can erase. His hands roaming with fierce possession.
“Mine,” he growls against my skin. “Not his. Never his. Only mine.”
The ache in my chest melts, replaced by heat that races down my spine. I clutch his shoulders, snake my hands around the back of his neck, desperate, grounding myself in his strength.
“Roman,” I gasp when his hands tear at his shirt that I put on earlier, stripping me bare in seconds.
He doesn’t slow, doesn’t let me retreat. He lifts me easily, my legs wrapping around his waist, and presses me into the wall. His cock presses hot and hard against my core, sliding against the slickness already pooling there.
“Say it,” he demands, eyes blazing. “Say who you belong to.”
“You,” I breathe, no hesitation. “I’m yours.”
He thrusts inside me in one hard stroke, filling me to the hilt. My head knocks back against the wall, my cry swallowed by his mouth.
This isn’t gentle. This isn’t slow. It’s feral, driven by the need to overwrite every insult, every dismissal, every time my father treated me like I was nothing. Roman pounds into me, each thrust a vow, each kiss a promise, each sharp sting a reminder that I’m alive.
I cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, body shattering around him again and again. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t falter, until I’m sobbing his name, begging for more.
When he finally spills inside me, roaring against my throat, I feel it down to my bones: I am his. Untouchable.
