Page 18 of Bratva Hostage

That night, I sneak out of my room after midnight, wearing soft slippers to dampen my footsteps. Most of theguards in this wing tend to cluster near the main stairwell. I can slip through the side halls without drawing much attention if I time it right.

I make my way to the door Irina uses and press my ear against the wood. Silence. No footsteps, no voices. A thrill zips through me. I try the handle anyway, just in case. Locked. As expected.

I glance down the corridor, wondering if I can pick the lock. I’ve never done anything like that before, but maybe I can figure it out. If I get a closer look at the mechanism, I might find a hairpin or small tool. I’d need time to practice, though. For now, I back away and note that the door sits in a recessed section of the wall, hidden from direct line of sight. That’s good. If I’m quiet, no one will catch me crouching there with a lockpick.

Then, I move on, creeping through the lesser-used parts of the estate. It’s a maze of hallways and closed doors. I can see why Dimitri feels confident keeping me here. The building is massive, and the guards know it better than I do. But I’m a fast learner.

When I push open a door that leads to a small landing, I hear a faint whir of electrical equipment in a closet. That must be where the routers are all set up. I climb a narrow flight of steps to a short hallway. Another locked door greets me, so I turn around and head back.

On my return trip, I spot a light in a side corridor. Doors line the hallway, each with a small plaque. I suspect these might be personal rooms for some of the Barkov men. A dull thud, like fists striking something solid, reaches my ears. I follow the sound.

At the end of the hall, I find a set of double doors that are slightly ajar. Inside, a single fixture illuminates the room, and aquick look around makes it clear it’s a training area. Mats cover the floor, and equipment lines the walls. The dull thud is Dimitri slamming his fists into a heavy bag.

I freeze, torn between fleeing and staying. If he catches me, he’ll question why I’m roaming at this hour. But the sight of him, shirtless and sweating, makes my legs refuse to move.

He pivots to strike the bag with a kick, and the muscles in his torso ripple. Beads of moisture trail down his abdomen, tracing the grooves of his six-pack. He grunts and attacks again. Every punch makes him flex. I watch, enraptured, and a strange heat spreads through me.

Good God, he’s gorgeous.

His hair hangs in sweaty clumps. His body radiates power. And the sight of him, focused and lethal, makes my breath catch. I should walk away, but I can’t.

I hang back in the shadows, peering through the gap in the doors. Dimitri’s face is set in concentration. His fists connect again, and the bag swings from the chain above. He moves with a fluid power that’s almost mesmerizing.

I swallow against the sudden dryness in my mouth and step back, pressing myself against the wall so I’m not visible. The bag thumps again, and I can’t resist peeking around the corner. He’s lost in his own world, focusing on the next punch, the next strike.

A stray thought creeps in, reminding me of that kiss. I can almost recall the taste of him on my lips, the heat of his body. Watching him now, shirtless, sweat glistening on defined abs and broad shoulders, I feel a stirring of something I despise myself for feeling. He’s my captor, the man who insists I stay locked in this fortress, yet here I am, enraptured by the sight of him.

I study the tattoos on his arms. Some are Cyrillic words; others I can’t decipher. I wonder how many of those marks carry stories of violence or loyalty. Every inch of his body looks carved by years of discipline and control. My cheeks burn at the realization that I’m standing here, practically drooling over the enemy.

He lets out a low grunt and swings again, ending with a final strike that sends the bag lurching. Then he steps back and rolls his shoulders and stretches his neck. I watch him grab a towel from the bench before wiping his face and torso. He looks different without that tailored suit—less polished, more dangerous. The rigid lines of his body reflect a life spent perfecting the art of force.

I don’t want to be drawn to him, but I can’t deny the pull. Maybe it’s the sense of unpredictability, or maybe I’m just starved for any human connection that isn’t condescending or manipulative.

Jesus, I need to leave before I make a fool of myself.

I inch away from the doorway, planning to backtrack through the hall. That’s when Dimitri swings around. His gaze sweeps the room, searching. I flatten my body against the wall, praying I’m hidden. If he looks this way, I’ll have no excuse. I clamp a hand over my mouth to stifle any sound.

He watches for a moment, inspecting the space. The entire corridor feels too still. I fear he can hear my heartbeat. Finally, he turns back to the bench, toweling off his arms. Relief washes over me, but I don’t move yet. I wait until he goes back to the bag to adjust its chain, then I step carefully away.

Every step feels like stepping on broken glass. I keep my eyes trained on the floor, making sure I don’t bump into anything that could give me away. When I reach the corner,I risk one more glance. He’s refocusing on the bag, and then he lands a careful punch. I take my chance and slip down the hallway.

I follow my original path, reversing each turn until I reach a corridor I recognize. The staff quarters are two flights up, which means my own room is three flights in the opposite direction. I spend the next several minutes avoiding patrolling guards. Each time I spot one, I duck behind a door or slip into a dark corner. My heart never calms.

Eventually, I reach my room. My breathing comes in shallow bursts as I close the door behind me. I lean against it, letting my nerves settle. The whole exploration weighs on my mind. I discovered a hidden passage that might lead to an exit, but it’s locked tight.

I drop onto my bed, curling my legs beneath me. A flood of emotions overtakes me—determination to escape, guilt over feeling any sort of attraction to the man who’s holding me here, and a growing awareness that he’s not as one-dimensional as I want him to be.

But none of that changes my plan. I still need to escape. I don’t care how shirtless, sweaty, or unexpectedly human Dimitri appears; he’s keeping me from my freedom. For now, I’ll focus on that locked passage and maybe pick up some lockpicking tips from discreet internet sources on the phone Watley gave me. My father’s men taught me a few questionable skills when I was younger, so I might be able to figure this out.

Tomorrow, I’ll see if I can get a closer look at that door and maybe snag Irina’s key. I’ll need to pick the right moment to avoid suspicion. The men are watchful, especially Dimitri, but their routines are starting to feel predictable.

If I can’t pry that door open, I’ll find another route. One way or another, I’ll free myself from this place. I don’t belong to Dimitri Barkov, no matter how much my body seems to disagree with that fact.

Chapter 7 - Dimitri

I’m halfway through reviewing last night’s security footage when my phone vibrates for the tenth time this hour, and every muscle in my body tightens with annoyance. Cecily’s endless defiance is wearing on my nerves, and I can’t focus on anything else. I glance at the screen, see Maksim’s name, and consider ignoring it. Then I throw the file onto the desk and pick up the call.

“What?” I snap as I pinch the bridge of my nose.

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