Page 15 of Forced Bratva Bride

“How long will they be out?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady and failing completely.

I should have told her the truth that it was probably just a circuit breaker, easily fixed. Instead, a cruel impulse made me say, “Could be days. Last time the power went out here, the basement was in the dark for nearly a week.” I watched her face crumple, feeling a glimmer of satisfaction at breaking through her stubborn silence.

Then, I turned off the light from my phone. “If you aren’t willing to speak,” I said, standing from the bed. “Then I might as well leave.”

I felt the bed shake as she jumped off of it. “No… No, please…” she whimpered.

Shegrabbedmyhand in the dark, pulling it toward her.

Then she started to shake. It no longer felt like a performance of a woman acting frightened. She was trembling uncontrollably, and her breath came in sharp, painful gasps.

“The closets,” she rumbled. “I can’t do this. Not again. When I was bad, there would be no light for hours in there… if Father thought I deserved it. Don’t leave me here. Please.Please.”

I turned on the light on my phone once again and saw her eyes had welled with tears. A weird guilt crumbled my resolve. Making her this afraid by something she was truly triggered by wasn't part of my interrogation strategy. This wasn't useful.

“They'd tell me the monsters could smell fear,” she continued, her eyes now on the light from my phone. “That if I cried, they'd come for me. That the darkness was a punishment, and I had to learn to—” She broke off, her breathing coming too fast now.

“Stop,” I said, stepping closer. “There are no monsters here.”

She whimpered with a trembling lower lip, then looked up at me with defiance, but I could see she was masking an embarrassment. “I know that,” she said, jutting out her chin. “But still…don’t.”

It was a simple ask. Bring back the lights, or don’t leave her here. Her eyes trailed to where her hand held mine, and she removed hers as though she’d been burned. The look she gave me though, a pure plea for something as basic as light, made me pause.

I ran my hand through my hair, feeling the skin still simmering where she had touched me. I had interrogated dozens of people in this basement, but this wasn't an interrogation. This was a kind of torture I hadn't intended, and she was a woman.

I had never questioned or tortured a woman before, and if I left her here, I knew I would be crossing an internal boundary I couldn’t make peace with.

Her breathing had become erratic. I could see her chest heaving, struggling to draw air.

“Fuck,” I muttered, making a decision that I knew would probably come back to haunt me. I took her hand on impulse. “Come on. We're leaving.”

She didn't move, frozen in the grip of her panic. I gently tugged at her hand, forcing her to look at me.

“Come. Now,” I insisted, knowing if I didn’t get her out now, she could be on her way to a full-blown panic attack, and this was no place to treat one should it arrive.

“I'm taking you upstairs,” I said, keeping my voice steady, neutral. “Away from the dark. Understand?”

Her only response was to nod. I could see her tears silently drip down her face as she stumbled by my side, fearful of the dark, up the narrow basement stairs, I navigated by flashlight.

We reached the top and I swung the doors open, bringing with it some light. She rushed out of the door into the kitchen, taking deep breaths as she joyfully took in the light, as though the darkness had crushed the air from her lungs.

In that moment, I knew I made the right call bringing her up. Had she remained down there, she would have gone mad from fear. I needed answers, but no one knew where she was, which meant I had all the time in the world to get them. I didn’t need to damage her in the process.

She turned to me then with a silent question in her eyes. “From now on, you’ll stay in the guest room,” I explained as I gripped her arm gently and walked her through the house.

***

I let her enter her bedroom first, before following. She immediately went to the bed and lay down, curling into herself. Her panic seemed to be receding.

“There’s water at your bedside. The maids will come in the mornings to clean, and they’ll bring you your meals. Feel free to call the housekeeping using that phone,” I pointed at the intercom.

She didn’t respond, nor did she lift her head. Her fear was replaced by wariness and the return of her earlier silence.

“There are no power cuts here,” I said, stepping back toward the door to give her space. “There's a bathroom through that door. Clean clothes in the wardrobe.”

Her eyes, still wet with tears, moved from my face to the door and back, calculating.

“Don't,” I warned, reading her thoughts. “The door will be locked from the outside. The windows don’t open and can’t be broken. This room is more comfortable than the basement, but it's still a cell.”

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