Page 56 of Kidnapped Prisoner By the Bratva
“It smells like something died in here,” she said, burying her nose in her elbow.
“Maybe something did die,” I answered, walking inside.
“Great,” she murmured under her breath.
Dirt covered every surface of the room, and pale sheets were hanging over the furniture. Cobwebs clung to all objects in the room, from the smallest to the largest. Not a single item was spared.
“When did you say the last time you were here was?” she asked, seeing the amount of work that needed to be done.
“I didn’t,” I answered, setting the duffel bag on the nearest table.
Her shoes clicked against the wooden floor as she strolled over to the kitchen. I stood in the middle of the room, rolling up the sleeves of my shirt, ready to get to work.
The sound of running water caught my attention, and I turned toward the kitchen where she was standing by the sink.
She looked at me and said teasingly, “Huh. Would you look at that? Guess someone paid the water bill.”
I chuckled lightly. At least the plumbing was still alive. Now, we could rule out the water supply from the list of our problems. That’s a good thing.
She flicked the light switch off and on multiple times, but it didn’t come up. “Power’s out.”
“Don’t worry, there’s a backup generator out back,” I said, nodding toward the yard.
For a moment, she stared at my rolled-up sleeves, then said, “You might wanna lose the shirt. Unless you plan on trashing it after the cleanup.”
I paused, eyebrows knitting together. “Trashing it? This is one of my favorite shirts.” I glanced down at it.
“Then take it off,” she said, shedding her jean jacket.
A quiet scoff escaped my lips, and I did as she suggested, stripping myself from the waist upward. Her eyes lingered on my body for a while before she blinked and cleared her throat.
“Why don’t we start?” she asked, looking at the mess around.
We spent the next hour or so cleaning up the cabin. The tension between us completely wore off as we worked together to fix this place. She did the sweeping, and I did the heavy lifting. Every now and then, she’d make a silly joke—some were funny, some weren’t—but at least she kept the conversation going.
With each passing minute, I felt our connection deepen, and our bond grew stronger. I hadn’t done any domestic chores in decades. But today, I was a plumber, fixing pipes, and an electrician, fixing the lightbulbs, wires, and cables.
It took a few attempts to finally kick-start the backup generator after long minutes of struggle and swearing at the damn thing.
She stuck her head out the window and yelled, “Hey, genius! We’ve got power. You can stop cursing at it now!”
I headed back inside, brushing dirt off my hands. By now, the place was almost livable; the furniture was clean, the floor was mopped, and the air smelled better than before with faint traces of the fresh flowers outside. The windows were wide open, and a cool breeze drifted into the room.
Wren was crouched before an old black-and-white TV, frowning at the knobs. She looked confused, unsure of what button to push. Her hand smacked the side of the TV as she murmured some curse words.
When she noticed me, she stopped and stared at me. “The damn thing won’t work. How do you even turn it on?”
I let out a soft chuckle and approached, then flicked a switch she’d overlooked. The screen buzzed to life in a wash of static.
“Oh. I…I didn’t realize that was there.” She cleared her throat, a bit embarrassed.
“Of course you didn’t. You Gen-Zs aren’t used to stuff like this,” I teased, resting my hand on top of the TV.
She laughed, and her eyes lit up with mirth. “How ironic, coming from a man who almost lost a fight to a generator.”
“That thing back there is old,” I said, my tone mild and defensive.
She raised her eyebrows. “So is the TV, Grandpa.”
