Page 7 of Bratva Hostage

I follow him out, if for no other reason than that I’m going stir-crazy in this room. The estate is exactly what I expected—too polished, too perfect. Everything is curated, from the art on the walls to the perfectly arranged furniture. The design is meant to impress and intimidate, and it succeeds.

The guards stand at doorways and along the perimeter. Their presence is as much a part of the décor as the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Some wear suits, while others are dressed casually, but they all share the same demeanor—watchful, armed, and ready.

This is not a home. It is a fortress.

The older man leads me past a dining hall with an impossibly long table, a sitting room with a marble fireplace, and a library filled with books I doubt most of these men have ever touched. Everything is immaculate, without a speck of dust or a cushion out of place.

“This way.” Watley gestures toward another corridor.

I keep moving, memorizing every exit and possible escape route. Cameras sit at key points, barely noticeable but there. The windows are large, but the thick curtains suggest they are meant for show, not function. I can already tell they won’t open easily.

I file away every detail because, at some point, I will need them.

At the far end of the hall, we stop at a set of double doors. He nods toward them. “This leads to the gardens. You may walk the grounds during daylight, but security will be present at all times.”

In other words, I am allowed outside, but I will never be alone.

I push open the doors and step out onto the porch.

The estate’s grounds are just as fussy as the view from my room suggested. The lawns are trimmed to perfection, and the hedges have been shaped down to the last detail. Stone paths curve through flower beds that look like something out of a magazine. If I were anywhere else, I might have admired it.

A few guards stand near the gate, and when I move, their focus shifts toward me. One stands by the main path, and another loiters near the tall iron fence. Their stance may be casual, but it is not careless.

I stroll toward a stone bench near a fountain, and as I do, I take my time. If they plan to watch me, then I will let them. I refuse to pace the bars of this cage like a restless prisoner. This place was designed to keep people in just as much as it was meant to keep threats out.

Movement near the entrance of the house draws my attention, and when I glance up, I see Dimitri standing on the steps, just watching me.

I force myself to look away first. I refuse to let him think he affects me, even though awareness prickles at the back of my neck like an unwelcome guest. I hate the way he carries himself, how his presence shifts the entire energy of a space. I hate the way he looks at me, as if he has already decided I belong here.

I take a slow breath, steadying myself, and rise from the bench. That is enough exploring for now.

As I walk back toward the house, I keep my chin high and my expression blank, and Dimitri’s gaze follows me the entire way inside.

The older man leads me back to my room, and after he nods once, he disappears down the hall. The walls feel closer now. The locked doors, the guards, the invisible barriers—everything presses in at once until I’m gasping for air.

I need to get out of here.

Not just for me. For Seraphina.

I don’t believe for a second that she’ssafejust because the Barkovs say she is. She’s in asafehouse, which means she’s still a target. And I don’t trust these men to protect her.

My frustration builds until I have to stop moving. I press my hands against my temples, trying to keep my thoughts from spiraling. Before I can regain control, a knock sounds at the door. I whirl around, and it opens just enough for Watley to step inside. He carries something small in his hand, and as he approaches, he holds it out.

“A call for you, Miss Thorne.”

I stare at the phone, and when I realize what he’s saying, my heart hammers against my ribcage. “From who?”

“Your sister. Mr. Barkov asked that I connect you with her for a moment.”

A part of me wonders about Dimitri’s sudden generosity, but the desire to hear Seraphina’s voice drowns out any doubts. I snatch the phone from his hand, and when I see Seraphina’s name on the screen, my breath catches in my throat.

“Seraphina.”

“Oh my god.” Her voice is saturated with relief. “Cecily. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

I let out a shaky breath. “I’m fine.” My fingers tighten around the phone. “Where are you? Tell me where you are, and I’ll come to you.”

“Cecily…you can’t.”

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