Page 1 of Owned & Bred by the BRATVA

Clara

My bags are already waiting by the front door when I come down the stairs. Two matching suitcases, glossy and quiet like everything else in this house. Perfectly arranged, untouched, soulless. I pause at the last step, toes curling into the plush carpet, a soft unease wrapping around my shoulders. The air is too still. My father said he’d be here to see me off, to say goodbye before I left for Europe, but the foyer is empty. Just the bags, the polished floor, and the driver in a dark suit standing beside the door with his hands folded like he’s waiting at a funeral.

He nods to me as I step closer, his expression unreadable. “Miss Donahue. The car is ready.”

I force a smile, murmuring a thank-you that barely makes it past my lips. My voice feels out of place in this echoing silence. For a moment, I just stand there, looking back at the grand staircase, the chandelier, the gilded mirrors that reflect nothing of who I am. This house has always been more like a museum than a home. Luxurious, controlled, and sealed off from the rest of the world. Every minute of my life, every meal, every book, every conversation has been curated under the guise of protection. My father’s favorite word. A girl like you can’t be too careful. Men only want one thing. Don’t trust anyone. Stay close. Stay safe. Obedience, cloaked as love.

But this is supposed to be my chance. A fresh start. New experiences. Freedom. Art school, galleries, long walks in old cities with no one watching. That’s what he promised.

The driver leads me to a sleek black car idling outside. I step in without hesitation, already dreaming of cobbled streets and paint-stained fingers. The door shuts with a muted click that sounds too final. As we pull away from the estate, I don’t look back. I want to believe I’m leaving this place behind for good.

Hours pass. I nap, wake up, lose track of time. The city slips away, replaced by countryside and endless stretches of road, the occasional distant barn, trees crowding the horizon. I sit up straighter and glance around, realizing I haven’t seen a single sign pointing toward an airport. My stomach gives a strange lurch.

“Excuse me?” I lean forward slightly, trying to catch the driver’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Are we headed to the airport?”

No answer. He keeps his gaze fixed on the road.

I try again, louder. “Where are we going?”

Still nothing.

A thread of unease winds through my chest, pulling tighter with every passing mile. The trees grow denser, the road narrower. Then, without warning, we turn onto a private lane flanked by stone pillars and a massive iron gate. The kind that doesn’t just keep people out. It keeps them in. There are cameras on both sides, discreet but watching.

My heart starts to pound. “This isn’t the airport,” I say, voice thinner now.

The driver finally speaks. “You’ll be safe here, miss.”

Safe. That word again.

The gates open slowly, almost reverently. The estate beyond is vast, stately, and eerily quiet. A long drive curves through manicured gardens and shadowed trees. At the top of a stone staircase stands a man. Waiting.

The car rolls to a stop, and everything inside me stills.

He’s tall. Towering. Perhaps closer to forty than he is thirty. His presence hits before his features register. He’s dressed in a black suit, perfectly tailored, hands behind his back like he owns not just this house, but the world that spins around it. When I finally meet his eyes, my breath catches. They’re dark, unreadable, and fixed on me with a focus that feels like I’m being unwrapped.

Something flickers in my chest, sharp and hot. It travels lower, blooming unexpectedly in my belly, between my thighs. I shift in my seat, startled by the sudden ache I can’t explain. It’s not fear, not exactly.

The door opens. I step out, and the air hits me, crisp, pine-scented, alive with something electric. Every hair on my body lifts. He hasn’t moved. He just stands there, watching me like he already knows what I taste like.

“Clara Donahue,” he says, voice smooth as velvet and rough as gravel all at once. “Welcome home.”

Home. The word slams into me like a stone. I blink, heart hammering. “I—I think there’s been a mistake,” I say, my voice wobbling. “I’m supposed to be going to—”

“There’s no mistake.” He starts to descend the steps slowly, each one echoing like a warning bell.

I stumble back instinctively, but the ground beneath my feet feels unsure. He’s moving closer now, the sheer size of him swallowing the space between us. I can’t seem to breathe right. My skin is too tight. My pulse is too loud.

“Who are you?” I manage, though the words barely rise above a whisper.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just studies me with that same unreadable gaze, like he’s evaluating something much deeper than appearances. When he speaks again, it’s with quiet certainty. “My name is Maksim Vasiliev, and I’m the man who’s going to take very good care of you.”

I start to retreat, but my heel catches the edge of a step, and I lose balance. Before I can fall, his hand is on me, hot, firm, fingers closing around my wrist with practiced ease. The contact sends a jolt through me so intense I gasp. My knees threaten to buckle. I’m frozen, blinking up at him, confused by the rush of heat coursing through me.

His thumb strokes just once along the delicate skin of my inner wrist. My body responds instantly, traitorously. Every nerve feels exposed. My breath hitches. I know he feels it too, my reaction, my shameful longing, for something I can’t even name yet.

He doesn’t say anything more.

He doesn’t have to.

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