Page 17 of Kidnapped Prisoner By the Bratva
I made it through the hallway undetected, my footsteps soundless against the floor. The mansion was unusually quiet, and for some reason, I thought I could make out. Again, stupid.
Anyway, as expected, I didn’t make it down the stairs before getting caught by the two guards assigned to me.
While they escorted me back to my room, our eyes met; he was seated in the living room, gazing up at me. I realized then that if the guards hadn’t stopped me when they did, I would’ve still run into him downstairs. Either way, I was never going to make it past the living room.
He didn’t say anything, and even this morning, when I went downstairs to have breakfast, he still didn’t mention the incident from last night. But why? Why didn’t he speak about it? I expected some form of confrontation and threats from him.
But once again, I was wrong.
Now, I couldn’t help but wonder what he was up to. His silence and calmness were both fascinating and quite disturbingat the same time. The man was unpredictable, unreadable, and that only confirmed just how dangerous he was.
I should stop provoking him since he was just as unstable as he was unreadable. But I couldn’t sit back and watch my life go down the drain over something that wasn’t entirely my fault.
Yes, that’s the spirit. You should confront him and demand your freedom,said the voice of courage.
Confront him? I think that’s a really bad word choice. And an even worse plan,the voice of fear chipped in.
Don’t be such a wuss.
I’m just looking out for us so we don’t end up dead. Or worse, as dog food.
If he wanted us dead, we’d be dead already. He’s fascinated by Wren’s bravery. Can’t you see that?
Bravery?the voice of fear snickered.There’s a fine line between that and stupidity.
I drew a deep, long breath and shut my eyes, allowing the voices to fade to the back of my mind. The last thing I’d do was give in to fear. No. I would rather listen to the voice that encouraged me to stand up for myself even in difficult times.
The truth was, I was afraid, afraid for my life every single day. But I couldn’t afford to let that fear dictate my actions. I shouldn’t be here, and the sooner he realized that, the better.
I glanced over at the wall clock. It was almost eight in the evening. He should be having dinner by now based on my observations. Without thinking twice, I rolled out of bed and walked out of the room. The hallway seemed to go on forever as I hurried down it.
That small voice was screaming at the back of my mind not to make this reckless move of confronting my jailer. But I didn’t listen. My mind was made, and I had a bunch of things to say to him.
I rushed down the staircase, which was curved like a serpent against the wall, my footsteps pounding against the red carpet. As I neared the dining room, the delicious aroma of red wine sauce, seared steak, and truffle wafted through the air, teasing my senses.
I hadn’t had dinner yet—had refused to eat—and now, after smelling this rich scent of fine food, my stomach growled. However, that wasn’t why I was here.
The long oak table stretched almost the length of the dining room, and he sat at the end of it, dressed in a black suit. His dark hair gleamed in the chandelier’s soft light as he ate in silence, the occasional sound of silverware punctuating the air.
His fork and knife carved into the steak, his movements slow and measured. Next to him stood the tall man from yesterday, with cold grey eyes and a build like Arnold Schwarzenegger inThe Terminator.
His eyes narrowed at me, his expression blank and nearly as unreadable as his boss’s. He leaned in, whispering something in my jailer’s ear, probably informing him of my arrival.
The boss lifted his eyes first, then his head followed as he chewed lazily.
“We need to talk,” I said, my voice bold and audacious, arms across my chest.
He arched his brows but said nothing; instead, he took another bite of his steak.
“Did you hear me?”
“You should know your place, shutterbug,” the big guy said, his voice low and deep.
“I just want an audience,” I said, shifting my gaze to him, my tone dropping to something a little more disrespectful. “And you’re not the one I’m talking to.”
His face twisted into a scowl, brows furrowing with deep creases lining his forehead. “Are you so eager to die that you’relooking for someone to end your life?” His voice was calm but filled with venom and disdain.
A cold prickle crawled over my skin, a warning not to push too hard or I just might run out of luck. I locked my jaw and swallowed hard. “Like I said…I wasn’t talking to you.”
