Page 9 of Kidnapped Prisoner By the Bratva
I clenched my jaw, lifting my head to face him when he halted in front of me. His imposing height made me feel relatively small in his presence, but I didn’t want him to see the fear in my gaze.
He observed me for a moment, his eyes roaming my body—not in a creepy, perverted way—but like he was studying me. Despite my fear, I refused to look away. However, in a split second, my eyes flickered behind him, narrowing at the dimly lit hallway behind the door.
Contemptuously, he clicked his tongue, his deep, husky voice cutting through the silence. “Wren Maddox, you have caused me quite a bit of trouble.”
At this point, my brain went blank. He knew my name. Shit. This wasn’t some random kidnapping; it was planned and carefully executed. I’d been someone’s target this entire time. And what did he mean that I caused him a bit of trouble?
I swallowed hard.
That can’t be good.
Chapter 4 – Val
I sat reclined in my chair, eyes fixed on the live footage playing on my laptop’s screen. My little guest, the petite blonde, sat curled up at a corner, her eyes catching the light in an unnatural glimmer.
To her, the room was pitch black, but with the aid of the camera’s night vision, I could see everything in grainy shades of grey. She looked around, confused and afraid, her shoulders moving uncomfortably as she tried to struggle with the zip ties that bound her wrists.
Honestly, I expected her to have freaked out by now already. But she didn’t. She just sat there, observing the darkness in silence. Most people would have already started screaming for help. Not this one.
Interesting.
At first, I thought she was just an ordinary, innocent college girl with a knack for taking pictures. However, seeing how calm she was in the face of danger, I couldn’t help but reconsider and re-evaluate her status.
Why was she fearless? Was she working for someone?
That kind of composure wasn’t taught in colleges, and that sparked my curiosity. The room was dark enough to make her lose her mind, yet this “photographer” didn’t fret.
Yes, she did panic at the beginning, but not in the way that I expected her to. Not to mention how quickly she adapted to the dark. Damn, that was impressive, intriguing, and very suspicious.
Two things: either she wasn’t who the record said she was, or she was just an ordinary girl with an incredible amount of emotional intelligence. Whichever the case, little Miss Lois Lane had piqued my curiosity.
I dragged on my Cuban cigar, savoring the taste on my tongue as I got out of my chair and headed out. Down the basement, through the hallway dimly lit with flickering lights, I strolled, quiet and composed.
I paused before the closed door, entered the code, and pushed it open, the hallway lights spilling into the dark room. She lifted her head slowly, and when I met her gaze, I saw the fear simmering beneath the surface, the fear she tried to hide.
My footsteps were slow and deliberate, with one hand in my pocket and my face shrouded in the shadows. She locked her jaw, her chest rising and falling with even breaths. Her composure said she wasn’t afraid, but her amber eyes betrayed her.
“You, Wren Maddox, have caused me quite a bit of trouble,” I said, watching her closely.
Her breath hitched, and she swallowed, fear flashing across her gaze. However, her reply was a stark contrast to the terror on her face. “I’m the one in chains for no reason, locked up in a dark room like an animal.”
My eyes squinted; I couldn’t help but be a little impressed by her bravery. Most people cowered at my feet in situations like this. Not this golden blonde.
“I see you have a sharp tongue,” I said, dragging on my cigar.
She swallowed again and tightened her jaw, as if summoning all the courage that she could muster. “Are you going to kill me?” Her voice shook slightly, but this pesky little damsel still held my gaze.
A faint smirk tugged at the corners of my mouth. “Depends on your cooperation.”
She knitted her brows together, a glint of confusion flickering in her gaze. “Cooperation?”
“Who sent you?” I asked, hitting the nail on the head.
She paused, brows arched. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”
“I won’t ask you again.” I crouched in front of her. “Who…sent…you?”
She looked into my eyes, and in hers, all I saw was bewilderment—like she had no idea what I was talking about.
