Page 15 of Bratva Hostage

Maksim’s expression reveals he’s not convinced. “All I’m saying is keep your eyes open. If she’s more than a pawn, we should be ready.”

I rub the back of my neck. “Fine. I’ll keep it in mind. But I’m telling you, she’s no plant. She’s too angry, too stubborn, too…real.”

Maksim and Nikolai exchange a glance, but neither argues further. Akim stands by the window, fiddling with the blinds. After a brief pause, Nikolai stands, says he needs toprepare for tomorrow’s lead, and leaves with Akim. Maksim follows soon after.

I stay behind, sinking deeper into my thoughts. My phone buzzes with a message from Aleksei, telling me about another detail that needs checking. I handle that quickly, but my focus strays back to Cecily. The memory of that kiss edges in again, filling me with heat and annoyance all at once.

She’s got me off balance, and I hate being off balance.

I decide to head to my bedroom for a while, away from prying eyes. I walk the corridor, passing staff and guards. When I reach my door, I step inside and sit behind my desk. A stack of folders awaits me, each one containing background on Thorne’s known associates. I open the top file and skim it, but my attention drifts. Thoughts of Cecily continue to push forward in my mind.

Why can’t I shake her? I swore to be a man of discipline, the kind who puts duty first, always. This attraction is unwelcome, but my body doesn’t care. Whenever I see her, I think about that mouth, that spark, the way she defied me with a kiss.

I close the folder and lean back in my chair, letting out a slow breath. If Maksim suspects she’s a spy, I need to be careful. But my gut tells me he’s wrong. She’s driven by genuine emotion, not strategy. She might be cunning in her own way, but it’s aimed at escape, not infiltration.

Still, I can’t dismiss the possibility entirely. Thorne is manipulative. He could have planted fear in her, forcing her to do something out of desperation. I remind myself to stay vigilant.

The day slips by with no new leads on Thorne. By early evening, I head downstairs to check the security feed again. Ienter the control room, confirm with the men that everything’s secure, and walk out to the hall. That’s when I spot Cecily. She stands near a tall bookshelf, running her fingers over the spines of old volumes. My pulse skyrockets despite my best efforts.

She seems to sense me behind her and turns around, steeling into something guarded. “Have you found my father yet?”

“Not yet. We’re working on it.”

“Are you sure you’re ‘working on it,’ or is that just an excuse to keep me here?”

I bite back a retort. She’s good at provoking me. “I have men investigating leads.”

She looks down at the floor and then meets my gaze again. “You make it sound like I should be grateful.”

“Do you want me to say sorry for protecting you?”

She scoffs. “No, I want you to say there’s an end in sight. I want you to treat me like a person who can make her own choices.”

I catch myself before I respond, taking a moment to think. When Seraphina asked us to rescue her sister, I expected someone battered by her father’s cruelty, someone who would cling to any safety offered. Instead, she stands here, defying me with every breath.

Most women in the Bratva obey without question. They understand that we rule, and they are expected to abide by our decisions. Seraphina is an exception, but she has been through her share of trials. Cecily, however, is a wild card, unpredictable and unwilling to bend. She’s nothing like I thought she would be, and it’s driving me insane.

“I’m doing what I think is right. You may not like it, but it’s the only way to ensure Thorne doesn’t use you against us.”

“Maybe he already has. Maybe he let me get taken. Ever thought about that?”

A pang of worry stabs through me at the memory of Maksim’s suggestion. “I considered it,” I admit. “But I don’t believe you’re working for him.”

She frowns. “Why not?”

I choose my words carefully. “You don’t seem interested in anything except leaving. A spy would ask more questions and gather additional information. You’re too angry to focus on infiltration.”

“So you trust me?”

“I trust your motives,” I reply. “Doesn’t mean I trust your decisions.”

“I’m not a child.”

I lift my shoulders in a simple shrug. “Then stop acting like one.”

A flash of rage crosses her face, painting her cheeks bright red. “Why do you treat me like I’m this fragile thing one minute, then pin me to a wall the next?”

“What happened was—”

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