Page 13 of Savage Bratva King

Through a door at the end of the corridor, and we climb a spiral staircase. The air gets warmer the higher we climb, and I swear that I can already taste the sweet smell of wet grass and sunshine even though there’s still no sign of a window. Then another corridor. This one has plush ivory carpets on the floor—who in their right mind has ivory carpets?—and creamy, silk-covered walls. No kids in this house, that’s for sure.

There are no pictures on the walls. Nothing that will give me a hint about who my captor really is. Then, the witch enters a room and stands aside, waiting for me to follow her. I guess this is it.

Deep breath.

I find myself in an enormous dining room. A huge, polished table is in the center of the room, but my eyes are instinctively drawn to the floor-to-ceiling windows draped in sheer voile and the daylight streaming through them. Like a dehydrated nomad in the desert, I stare at the rays of sunshine and fill my lungs with air, and that shot of vitamin D is better than caffeine any day.

Someone clears their throat, and I’m jolted back to the moment.

A man in an expensive dark suit is seated at the far end of the dining table. His jet-black hair is slicked back highlighting angular cheekbones, a strong jawline, and amber eyes. He wears a platinum wristwatch, and I’d bet every cent in my bank account that his shoes are so shiny I could see my reflection in them. Everything about him screams money loud and clear, and I’ve grown up around wealth. But this…

He looks me up and down, his eyes finally settling on mine. “Kind of you to join us, Gianna.”

Us?

I notice the other woman sitting at the table and do a double take. She could almost pass for the witch, only she’s softer, her face framed by fat, round curls, and no visible tattoos. A man stands in the far corner of the room, hands behind his back, eyes hidden by black wraparound shades. Very intimidating.

“I’m hungry,” I say, pleasantly surprised by how steady my voice sounds. “I thought a place like this would probably offer a decent breakfast.”

Beside me, I sense the witch flexing her fingers. My captor catches her eye and gives a barely perceptible shake of his head.

“Sit,” he orders in his rich baritone voice.

I could sit as far away from him as possible, but instead, I take the seat closest to him, his expensive cologne wafting my way, his eyes following my every move. So, I give him something to watch. I reach for a slice of toast from a silver rack and shove half of it into my mouth.

“You really should provide a kettle and some coffee sachets in the rooms.” I make sure to speak with my mouth full. “Maybe some biscuits, you know, to satisfy the guests between meals.”

The dark-haired woman sitting across the table from me flinches. What? Have they never heard anyone talk back to their boss before?

I swallow hard. My mouth is dry as driftwood, and I fill my cup with steaming coffee. Holding the cup to my nose, I breath in the aroma and study my captor from beneath lowered lashes.

There is something immediately striking about him. I mean, he’s classically handsome, obviously tall and definitely broad-shouldered, but with those amber eyes… I can’t look away. My pulse races away with a mind of its own, and I swallow a mouthful of coffee that is so hot it scalds my tongue, but I need the distraction.

He studies me coolly, giving nothing away. “I will remember that for futureguests.”

“Do you make a habit of drugging women on airplanes and locking them up in your basement? There must be a name for that kind of fetish, but I can’t think of it off the top of my head.” That’s it, just keep talking, Gi, I tell myself. He’ll be sure to let me go when I start to get on his nerves.

His plate is empty, I notice.

“What’s the matter, not hungry?” I help myself to another slice of toast and load it up with crispy bacon and maple syrup. I can’t remember the last thing I ate and I’m suddenly ravenous. Being held prisoner will do that to you.

Somewhere behind me, the witch must be baring her fanged teeth because he motions for her to be still.

“Are you going to tell me your name, or did I sleep through the introductions?” I ask.

His eyes flash. I mean, they literally flash, and a shiver of something—fear, excitement, a warning to myself to rein it in—travels down my spine. I honestly never knew flashing eyes was a thing until this moment and I’m stunned into silence, which doesn’t happen often.

“Leonid Ivanov.”

Another shiver passes through me, and my fork stops midway to my mouth. Leonid Ivanov. Even the way he says his own name is like a kiss of sunshine on a summer day.

Until I remind myself that this asshole had me drugged on an airplane, and fuck knows how I even got here. Did he not read the memo that you can’t just go around doing that to innocent people?

“Why am I here?” My voice cracks like it thinks I should probably stop with the runaway dialogue right about now.

“Because I want you here.”

“When can I go home?”

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