Page 102 of Innocent Prey of the Bratva
And I left.
I left him.
I told him I didn’t trust him. I threw his love back in his face. And now I’m here—nothing more than a prize for the highest bidder.
Tears sting my eyes, but I force them back. I can’t fall apart. Not now. Not when I’ve never needed to survive more, so I can give him the apology he deserves.
I start screaming.
Not a panicked whimper. Not a cry for help.
I scream with rage, with fury, with the unbearable weight of regret clawing its way up my throat. My voice rips through the cold silence of the room like a blade.
“You disgusting coward!” I spit, my voice hoarse already. “You think locking me up and selling me like cattle makes you powerful? You’re nothing! Just a spineless dog doing someone else’s dirty work!”
He watches me from the corner of the room, arms folded, smirking like I’m some amusing show.
“You’re sick!” I shout again. “You and everyone behind this—Arina, all of you—rot in hell, all of you! Kaz is coming for me! You hear me? You’re all dead the second he finds out where I am!”
He rolls his eyes, finally stepping forward with something in his hand. A syringe.
“No—get the fuck away from me!”
I thrash, yanking against the chain on my ankle, grabbing the metal chair beside me, throwing it in his direction. It clatters against the wall, missing him by inches, but he doesn’t even flinch.
“Don’t touch me!” I scream, backing up, nails clawing at the walls, at the ground, at anything. “You inject me, and I swear—I swear I will kill you the moment I wake up—”
“Shut up,” he mutters, grabbing my arm roughly.
“No!” I struggle, kick, twist my body like a wild thing, but his grip is iron.
“Stop fighting—”
“Go to hell!”
Then it comes. A sting. A sharp prick in my upper arm.
I scream again and try to jerk away, but my body is already starting to betray me. My limbs go heavy, my vision blurring at the edges. Before the blackness swallows me, I feel the sharp slap of his hand across my face.
Then, nothing.
***
I don’t know how long I’ve been out. The world is hazy and spinning and slow. My limbs are lead. My skin is damp and cold. I feel like I’m floating—until I’m not.
A splash of ice-cold water slaps me in the face.
I gasp, sputtering, blinking hard against the sting. The light above me is sharp, white, and blinding. I can’t see anything beyond it—just shadows, movement, the echo of boots on concrete.
I try to lift my head, but my neck won’t cooperate. My knees wobble beneath me. Someone grabs my arm and yanks me upright. My body screams, but I’m too weak to fight it.
“She’s awake,” a man says. I can’t see him, but I hear the sneer in his voice. “Barely.”
“Get her steady,” another one mutters. “The clients are already here and waiting in the next room.”
Clients?
Something coils in my stomach.
