Page 6 of Bratva Hostage

My feet sink into the rug as I move to the table. “Where am I?”

“The Barkov estate.”

“Where’s Dimitri?”

“In a meeting.”

“Then tell him I want to see my sister. Now.”

The man gives a stiff nod and steps out, leaving me alone with the tray. I lift the lid and find eggs, toast, and fruit—simple enough to look safe. It smells tempting, but I only nibble a corner of the toast. It’s all I can stomach right now.

I cross to the window, where thick drapes block any clear view of the grounds. When I slide the fabric aside, I see an expanse of green, neatly trimmed hedges, and a tall fence in the distance—a fortress disguised as a mansion—luxury and danger, side by side.

I remember the moment Dimitri’s men led me out of the warehouse. How Dimitri kept his hand on my arm, guiding me to a black SUV as if I had no say in the matter. He’s tall, with lean muscle and effortless control, built for action, not excess. With a broad chest and defined arms, he possesses a kind of strength that doesn’t need to be flaunted to be felt. His dark brown hair is cropped short, framing a face that looks like it was carved from stone—strong jaw, hard mouth, and pale gray eyes that miss nothing. He moves with a sense of purpose. He has a destination. Me.

My heart races just thinking about him. The man is dangerous. Every fiber in me knows that. It was obvious in the way he handled his pistol. And the fact that he’s one of the most good-looking men I’ve ever seen doesn’t matter. Not a bit. He’s not the type of man a woman should notice, not unless she’s prepared to face the consequences.

He never offered an apology for the violence, never said a word about my father’s men left bleeding on the floor. In his world, that was routine.

A slow anger builds in my chest. My father’s thirst for destruction and the Barkovs’ savage response are two sides of the same twisted coin, and I’m caught in the middle. Before I can determine my next move, the door opens again. This time, it’s Dimitri.

I glare at him. “Where’s Seraphina? I assumed when you took me here, I’d get to see her.”

“She’s secure.”

I stand now and stomp closer to him. “I want to see her.”

“Not possible.”

“That’s not your call to make.”

“You’re right. It’s Aleksei’s, and he’s made it. Your father is at large, and I have no doubt his men will track you here. Seraphina is in a safehouse with Grigor watching over her. I won’t compromise that location by letting you wander wherever you please.”

My next breath comes out more like a growl than an exhale. “You’re just as controlling as he is. All this talk about ‘safety’ is merely another chain.”

“I’m nothing like your father. He used you like a chest piece. I’m trying to protect you.”

“Protect me?” I screech as I point at the door. “Then let me go. You said you rescued me from him, so I should be free.”

“If I let you walk out, Thorne will scoop you up again. You know it.”

He’s right, but I refuse to concede. “Maybe you want me here to hold over his head.”

“Do you honestly believe your sister would tolerate that? She asked us to find you because she wants you safe.”

“Safe from him or safe for you?” My voice rises, and I jab my finger into his chest. “I’ve seen how you operate. You’re not some benevolent savior.”

The man doesn’t even blink at me as I poke him a third time. He just watches me as though my tantrum is a mildly interesting television program. Jesus. Doesn’t anything rattle him?

He takes my wrist, stopping the next jab. The grip isn’t painful. I could pull free if I tried. He doesn’t even tighten his fingers, but the sheer strength behind the hand makes the point. If he wants, he could snap the bone. I feel his rough skin, the power there. It’s not like the violence my father’s thugs displayed, but it’s no less deadly.

“Someone will come by to take you on a brief tour of the estate,” he explains. “I assume you’d rather not be cooped up here all day.”

He waits, but when I don’t respond, he leaves without another word. My anger makes my cheeks burn. That man’s arrogance makes me want to throw something, and I’m not the hot-headed type.

I stride over to the door and test the handle. Locked from the outside. Naturally. I clench my teeth and pace the room. Is this really any different from my father’s hideouts? New prison, same bars. I’m not so naive as to believe the Barkovs do anything out of pure goodwill. Not even if my sister is technically one of them now.

The hours seem to crawl by, but eventually, there’s another knock, and after a click, a different man steps in. He’s older than Dimitri, with graying hair. “I’m Mr. Watley, the Barkovs’ butler. If you’d be so kind as to follow me, I’ve been asked to show you around, Miss Thorne.”

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