Page 94 of Bratva Bride
I climbed. Muscles screaming, palms burning from the rope, nightgown tangling in my legs. The wall seemed endless, each pull upward a monumental effort. At the top, Dmitry grabbed my arms, hauling me over. The operative caught me on the other side, and for one moment I thought we'd made it.
Then I heard it—car tires on gravel. An engine I recognized, that specific purr of Viktor's Mercedes approaching the gates.
He was back. Hours early. The meeting cut short or a trap or just the universe's cruel timing.
I turned to look—couldn't help it—and saw Viktor's car through the gate. Saw the moment he spotted us on the wall. Watched his face transform from mild annoyance to shock to pure, undiluted rage.
Ivan was pulling me down, but I saw Viktor explode from his car, heard his voice crack across the estate grounds like a whip:
"ANYA! You stop right now! You're making the biggest mistake of your—"
But Ivan had me over the wall and down the other side, and Dmitry was dragging us toward a black SUV already running, doors open like a mouth ready to swallow us. We dove inside—me shoved into the middle, Ivan beside me, the operative taking shotgun while Dmitry launched himself into the driver's seat despite his injuries.
"Go, go, GO!"
The SUV lurched forward before the doors were even closed. Through the back window, I could see the estate gates opening, guards pouring out, but we were already accelerating away.Taking turns too fast, Dmitry driving like the professional he was, putting distance between us and my father's rage.
Behind us, I thought I heard gunfire—warning shots maybe, or actual attempts to stop us. But the sounds faded as Dmitry took another corner, then another, the estate disappearing into memory.
I was out. After five days, after twenty-six years, I was out.
Viktor's voice still echoed in my ears—that threat about the biggest mistake. But wrapped in Ivan's arms, feeling the SUV carry me away from that house of horrors, I knew the truth.
The biggest mistake would have been staying.
The biggest mistake would have been believing I was worthless.
The biggest mistake would have been letting Viktor win.
Through the windshield, I could see the road stretching ahead, leading away from everything I'd known and toward something terrifying and beautiful and mine.
"You're safe," Ivan kept whispering against my hair. "You're safe, you're safe, you're safe."
I pressed my face into his chest and let myself believe it.
Chapter 19
Anya
Ihadasecret.
A big one.
The mattress dipped with Ivan's weight as he shifted in sleep, his arm tightening around my waist with unconscious possession that still made my chest tight with something between safety and disbelief.
Two months since the rescue, and I still woke expecting handcuffs or cameras or Viktor's voice cutting through the dawn. Instead, I got Ivan's breath against my neck, steady as a metronome, warm as forgiveness.
I cataloged the changes like evidence of someone else's life. My lungs expanded without counting—most of the time. Sleep came without pharmaceutical assistance three nights out of five. The other two, Ivan held me through the tremors, whispered Russian endearments until my body remembered it was safe.
Marina II sat on the nightstand, different from her predecessor but loved with the same desperate gratitude. Bluethis time, with silver stars embroidered on her fins—Ivan had commissioned her from some artisan in Brooklyn who specialized in therapeutic toys. She was softer than the original Marina, weighted in the belly for sensory comfort, her button eyes positioned to look protective rather than vacant. When anxiety crawled up my throat at 3 AM, I could press her against my chest and remember that losing things didn't mean losing everything.
The penthouse had transformed around us like a living thing learning to accommodate damaged hearts. The guest bedroom—that neutral space where I'd first hidden—was now a regression room with walls the exact shade of purple from the Maldives. Ivan had color-matched from photos, hired painters who didn't ask questions, furnished it with the same attention to detail he brought to financial spreadsheets. A reading corner with cushions deep enough to disappear into. Shelves lined with picture books and chapter books and all the stories I'd missed in a childhood spent memorizing bratva hierarchies. Art supplies organized by color because my brain needed that kind of order, that promise that chaos could be contained in labeled boxes.
Morning light filtered through the curtains—we'd replaced the blackout ones with gauze that let in sun while maintaining privacy. Another small victory in the war against isolation. My hand had drifted toward my mouth in sleep, thumb hovering near my lips but not between them. Progress measured in millimeters, in the space between wanting comfort and taking it.
Ivan stirred properly, that shift from unconscious to aware that I'd learned to recognize. His arm pulled me back against his chest, and I felt him breathe me in—this morning ritual where he confirmed I was real, present, his.
"Morning, kotyonok," he murmured, voice rough with sleep. His lips found the spot where neck met shoulder, that place that made me shiver with remembered safety.
