Page 11 of Forced Bratva Bride

I had never been in such a situation before, but remembered watching a TV show once where a prisoner escaped by picking a lock. Not that I knew how to do that, but I prayed and hoped I could figure it out.

With trembling fingers, I straightened out the pin and started to work on the lock of the cell door. Tens of minutes passed in a blur as I tried to break past the mechanism, but nothing worked and at last impatience took over. With desperate fury to get out, I jammed the pin a little too hard. To my horror, the pin broke off in the lock.

“Shit,” I cursed, and quickly extracted the stuck bit. I had lost a pin and was nowhere closer to escaping.

I went back and slumped down onto the thin mattress, fighting back tears of frustration. There was nothing else I could do. I had tried everything but clearly had no useful skills to help me out of such a situation. I felt angry at the world, at my brothers who spent a lifetime protecting me, but never taught me how to save myself.

***

I woke up the next morning to the sound of the food slot opening. I sprang out of bed, to my feet, adrenaline rushing through my veins.

I walked over to the tray, where it had been put, and dropped the contents on the floor.

The guard glanced at the food, then at me, eyes narrowing.

“Not hungry?”

“I don't eat poison,” I spat.

He shrugged, before walking off. “Starve then. Boss says to feed you, not make you eat.”

Before he could turn to leave, I angled the tray in my hands to slip out through the bars. If I could knock him out by the cell, perhaps I could reach over and grab his keys.

To my shock, he dodged with practiced ease, grabbed my wrist, and twisted until I dropped the tray with a clatter.

“Nice try, princess,” he said with a whistle. “I’ll make sure to tell the kitchen you’re to not have a tray, or any cutlery starting tomorrow.”

And then, he walked out with his hands in his pockets. His pockets.

And I was out of any and all ideas.

I screamed in frustration, kicking the wall until my foot throbbed. The water they'd left remained untouched as well. Thirst clawed at my throat, but paranoia kept me from drinking. For all I knew, they'd drugged it to make me compliant for... whatever they had planned.

***

Hours passed in miserable monotony. I had no sense of time and tried to sleep, but my churning mind conspired against rest, and for all I knew, it might still have been daylight outside. Instead, I returned to examining the door lock and then squatted down to see if I could break through the food slot instead.

I was on my knees, hopelessly feeling the lock's exterior with another pin from my hair when I heard footsteps.

“Interesting approach,” my captor said as I looked up to see him appear into view, towering over me. “Though I've yet to meet anyone who can pick a prison-grade lock with a hairpin.”

I got to my feet and dusted the dirt off me. His eyes traveled the length of my cell before they met mine. Those same, piercing brown whiskey eyes.

“You could just let me go,” I suggested, affecting a casual tone I didn't feel. “Save us both the trouble.”

His lips quirked—not quite a smile, more like an acknowledgment of an amusing but futile effort. “I see you've been refusing meals.”

“I'm not stupid enough to eat something you've given me.”

“If I wanted to kill you, Larissa, I wouldn’t waste food in the process. The hunger strike is unnecessary. Drop the act.”

My temper flared. “Act? You kidnap me, throw me in this hole, and have the audacity to accuse me of acting?”

“You know what you did.” His voice remained level, conversational almost. “And I will get to the why. The innocent routine is wasted on me.”

“It’s not an act,” I protested, crossing my arms in front of me. “And you know what? You’ve given me so much time in here—”

“It’s been less than a day,” he clarified.

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