Page 3 of Owned & Bred by the BRATVA

Then I close the door behind me.

Clara

The door clicks shut behind him, and I stand frozen in the middle of the room, too afraid to breathe too deeply in case something inside me comes loose.

What just happened?

The silence in the bedroom presses in all at once, dense and hot and ringing in my ears like I’ve been dropped into another world. Nothing feels real. Not the scent of roses that fills the air. Not the glow of the fireplace. Not the man who just left, whose voice still echoes in my bones.

The man your father sold you to.

No. No, that can’t be true. My father is cold, yes. Controlling, yes. But he wouldn’t sell me. Would he?

I stumble backward until the backs of my knees hit the edge of the bed, and then I sit, all at once, like my body can’t hold itself upright anymore. My hands shake. My pulse is wild. There’s a roaring in my ears, like the whole room is underwater. I feel sick. I feel dizzy. I feel…

A deep, molten throb pulses low in my stomach, and I gasp. No. No, not now.

I press my thighs together, suddenly hyperaware of the damp heat building there. Of how my body reacted to him like it knew him. Like itwantedhim.

I bury my face in my hands, heart pounding. It’s the stress. It’s fear. Hormones. Confusion. This man is dangerous. He’s controlling. He spoke about me like I was an object, something purchased, something possessed. And yet…

The way he looked at me. Like he’d waited his whole life for me to walk through those gates. The way his fingers curled around my wrist like he already knew every beat of my pulse. It made something twist inside me. Tight, hot, shameful. A deep ache I’ve never felt before. And when he leaned in, when he called mebride…

I bite my lip hard, hard enough to sting, trying to pull myself back into my body. Trying to focus on anything else.

I need answers. I need to understand who Maksim Vasiliev is, what this place is and why I’m here. I need to think, but I can’t. Not with this pulsing low in my belly, not with my heart fluttering like it’s about to break through my ribs.

It’s not real. This isn’t happening. I’ll wake up and still be in my bed at home. I’ll have coffee and oatmeal and my morning vitamins and go back to reading the same books I’ve read three times over. I’ll still be safe.

Only… I wasn’t free. And this place is terrifying and wrong and unreal. But it’s not silent. Not dead. It’s not a museum of my father’s making. It’s full of…him.

And whatever that means, whatever danger it brings, it’salive.

I stand on trembling legs and walk to the wardrobe. My palms leave sweaty prints on the glossy handle. Inside is a row of carefully hung dresses. Silks. Satins. Nothing like the muted beige and gray I’m used to. These clothes look like they belong to someone who makes choices. Someone bold. Someone desired.

I shut the door again. It’s too much.

I cross the room, open another door. A bathroom. Marble counters, gleaming taps, a claw-foot tub. Everything elegant. Everything deliberate.

I walk to the window and try the latch. It doesn’t budge. I press my fingers to the glass and look out. Gardens. Forest. Sky. No road. No people. Just trees and shadows and the long driveway curling out of sight.

But there’s no point panicking again, not while I’m still alone. Not while I still have time. If he’s going to play nice, if he wants me to sit down to dinner like this is some kind of honeymoon, then I can use that. I can keep him talking. Smile. Nod. Find answers. Find an escape.

I just need to be calm.

I turn back toward the bed, forcing my breath into a slower rhythm. One step at a time. One moment at a time.

And yet, even now, with the room empty and the door shut, I swear I can still feel him.

I don’t know how long I stand there, staring at the window, hands pressed to the cold glass like I can will it to disappear. Eventually, the panic starts to dull at the edges, fading into something heavier, something slower and quieter. It’s not peace, but exhaustion, the kind that lives in your bones. I take one last look at the empty woods beyond the glass and step back.

There’s a small console table near the fireplace. On it, a book rests. A hardcover, its title embossed in gold. I pick it up without thinking, desperate to occupy my hands, my mind. The pages crack softly as I open it. Poetry. Old. Romantic. There’s an inscription on the first page in neat, slanted handwriting:For when you’re ready to be undone.

A chill runs down my spine.

I shut the book and set it down gently, like it might explode.

The room feels smaller now.

---