Page 32 of Bratva Hostage

One of the men, presumably an ally from another Bratva cell, steps forward. “This was a bold move,” he says to Dimitri, ignoring me. “Thorne must be beside himself.”

“He’ll learn,” Dimitri replies, eyes locked on the man. “We protect our own.”

I glance away, stifling the urge to roll my eyes. After a few more minutes of obligatory conversation, Dimitri clears his throat and steers me toward the exit. We step outside the dining hall, and he guides me through a side corridor, presumably to avoid the main crowd. I don’t object. My skin feels too hot, and I’m suffocating under the weight of all those stares and this stupid dress. Once we’re in a quieter section, I pull my arm free from his hold.

“Don’t touch me,” I insist.

“We’ll retire upstairs for the night. Tomorrow, you can see Seraphina.”

The mention of my sister hits a raw nerve. I’ve been desperate to see her, to confirm she’s truly safe. Part of the reason I tolerated this entire fiasco was the promise that I could be with her after the ceremony. “When?” I demand. “Tomorrow morning? Afternoon? Or will you push it back indefinitely?”

“Afternoon,” he answers. “We’ll arrange proper security.”

“Fine. But don’t think that makes this marriage any less of a prison.”

He inclines his head. “Understood.”

I follow him through winding corridors, all of them guarded. We reach a staircase that leads to a more private wing. My pulse picks up, anticipating whatever confrontation might happen next. For all I know, he’ll insist on sharing a room from now on, which sounds like something between heaven and hell all at once.

He opens a door—his door, it seems—and gestures for me to enter. I linger in the hallway for a moment, considering whether I can refuse. Then I roll my shoulders back and march inside. The space is large, dominated by a heavy wooden bed with carved posts. There’s a wardrobe, an armchair, and a desk piled with folders I assume contain Bratva business. A pair of tall windows are covered with thick drapes. The only personal touch is a small framed photo of Dimitri with his brothers, presumably taken a few years ago.

He closes the door behind us. I tense, ready for a verbal spar or something worse.

He moves to the wardrobe and shrugs off his jacket before draping it on a wooden hanger. He says nothing, as if he wants me to speak first. I stand my ground by the door, refusing to show any hint of nervousness. This man has my head in chaos, and I hate it.

He turns around and locks eyes with me. “You can stay here tonight,” he begins, “or I can have a separate room prepared nearby. I’m aware this situation is forced on you, but nothing else will be.”

I bark out a humorless laugh. “Didn’t expect you to offer me an out. Are you going soft?”

“It’s not an out. I’m still your husband, and you’re still my wife. I’m simply acknowledging that you’re angry.”

“Angry doesn’t even cover it.”

His gaze slides over my wedding dress, and I see a hint of something there. Desire, or maybe a sense of possession. It twists inside me, drawing out my own unwanted reaction to his presence. He’s gorgeous, there’s no denying that. Ruthless in ways that make my heart pound, but undeniably captivating. I’m furious that my body reacts to him. I want to blame the stress, the high emotions of the day, anything but the truth: I’m drawn to him.

He breaks the silence. “I’ll call a staff member. She can help you change, or show you to a different suite that is close enough to avoid drawing suspicion.”

“Stop,” I blurt. “You just made me your wife. You can’t pretend this doesn’t matter. You can’t push me off to another room like an afterthought.” I barely recognize the venom in my tone.

“I’m trying to be considerate.”

“You dragged me in front of your entire clan and forced me to take a vow. Now you’re acting like a gentleman?” I step within a few feet of him. “Which one is the real Dimitri? The man who kills to protect me or the man who locked me in a cage to begin with?”

“They’re the same. I do what’s necessary.”

That answer enrages me more than anything else. A part of me wants to scratch him, to pound my fists against that stoic chest until he shows some real emotion.

He strides around the bed, closing the distance in a heartbeat. My pulse skyrockets. Part of me wants him to see how furious I am. Another part, twisted and treacherous, wants to seeif he’ll take me in his arms. It’s insane. I hate him. I want him. The push and pull tears me up inside.

He stops close enough that I could reach out and push him away. But something about his presence keeps me rooted in place. We lock eyes, and my breathing quickens. For a moment, I think he’s going to crush his mouth to mine, proving that he owns me now. Instead, he steps back, controlling whatever impulse just flickered in his eyes.

Silence settles between us, thick and loaded. Then, I release a snarl of frustration. “I can’t do this.”

He dips his head. “I understand.”

I throw my arms in the air. “No, you don’t. I need to get out of here. I can’t breathe with you watching me, acting like you’re trying to be a gentleman when we both know you’re not.”

He doesn’t block me. “Then go. Take whatever room you want in this wing. Tomorrow, you see your sister. That’s all I can offer.”

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