Page 12 of Bratva Hostage

In that instant, a mass of confusion and desire winds through me. I hate him for keeping me here, but I need something to break through the rage. This feels like a spark in the middle of a storm, and I latch onto it for dear life.

A heartbeat later, he wrenches away from me. His chest heaves, and I see the conflict written all over his features. My pulse races so hard that I can’t form a coherent thought.

He takes a shaky step back before he declares, “That was a mistake.”

I press my lips together, trying to calm the tremor in my hands. “You’re damn right it was.”

“Don’t do that again, Cecily. I mean it.”

I want to lash out, to demand that he not act like I started this alone, but my own mind reels. I did start it, didn’t I? I kissed him. I made the first move. Heat floods my face, and I don’t trust myself to speak without shouting.

He exhales, closing his eyes for a brief moment, then strides toward the door. “Stay away from my meetings,” he says over his shoulder. “Go anywhere else in this house if you want. But not there.”

Then he’s gone.

I stand there, pinned by a wave of conflicting emotions. The space where his body was a moment ago feels far too empty. I hate that I notice. I hate that I crave another taste of that dangerous rush. I hate him for leaving me like this, confused and wanting.

When I finally manage to move, my knees feel weak. I find a chair and sink into it, pressing my hands to my temples. Anger, shame, and lingering desire tangle within my thoughts. This is the last thing I need. I’m already trapped and desperate. The idea of being attracted to the man who’s effectively holding me captive is too twisted to fathom.

Why did I kiss him?

Why did he kiss me back, even if it was just for a moment?

Why do I still feel his grip on my waist, searing my skin through my clothes?

I slam the door behind me when I reach my room. I tear off my shoes and fling them into a corner. The mirror catches my eye, and I see my reflection: flushed cheeks, eyes too bright, mouth swollen from the force of that kiss.

“I hate him,” I whisper, though I’m not entirely sure who I’m trying to convince. My skin tingles from the memory of his touch. I curse under my breath and turn away from the mirror.

That evening, after pacing my room for what feels like hours, I decide I can’t take any more of my own thoughts. I grab the secure phone Watley gave me this morning to play games on and dial Seraphina, the only number besides Dimitri’s cleared to go through. My emotions are frayed, and I need to hear my sister’s voice. She picks up on the second ring.

“Cecily?”

I drop onto the edge of the bed with the phone clutched against my ear. “Seraphina.”

She sounds relieved. “I’ve been worried. Are you okay?”

I let out a dry laugh. “Define okay.”

She sighs. “I know you hate being there, but you are safe.”

“Safe is subjective,” I mutter, twisting a loose thread on the blanket. “I feel trapped. Dimitri treats me like I’m a child who needs constant supervision.”

“Grigor told me you interrupted a meeting today. Nikolai told him.”

“I did,” I admit. “I deserve to know what they plan for me. My future isn’t theirs to decide.”

“They’re trying to protect you from our father. You know what he’s like better than anyone, Cecily.”

“Of course I know what he’s like. That doesn’t mean I want Dimitri to act like he has all the answers.”

“He’s not your enemy.”

I snort. “Are you serious?”

“I’m very serious. He’s a difficult man, but he isn’t cruel without reason.”

My temper ignites, and I stand abruptly, striding across the room. “I can’t believe you’re defending him. You’re making him sound like some misunderstood hero. He’s part of the same world as Father, Seraphina.”

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