Page 4 of Owned & Bred by the BRATVA

I walk to the door and open it, surprised that it isn’t locked. My heart kicks up again, but I ignore it. If I stay inside, I’ll unravel. I need to see the rest of this place. I need to feel like I have some say, even if it’s only in where I stand.

The hallway is quiet. Thick, dark carpet muffles my steps as I move. The walls are hung with oil paintings; landscapes, portraits, strange abstract things I don’t understand but that seem to watch me as I pass. A grandfather clock ticks softly somewhere down the corridor. It’s all so still.

I don’t know where I’m going. Every door I pass is closed, and I’m not sure which ones I’m allowed to open. But no one stops me. No alarms sound. Just that constant, creeping sensation that someone is always watching.

I turn a corner and find myself in a long gallery lined with windows on one side and sculptures on the other. Light streams in through stained glass, painting the floor in jeweled patterns. It should be beautiful. It is. But it feels… deliberate. Like someone designed this place to seduce the senses, to confuse them. It’s too much color. Too much silence. Too muchhim.

My palms are sweating again. I wipe them on my jeans and keep walking.

At the end of the corridor, there’s a heavy wooden door, slightly ajar. I pause, listening. Nothing. Slowly, I push it open.

A study. Masculine. Dark wood and black leather, bookshelves lining the walls. A decanter and glasses on a sideboard. And behind the desk—

Maksim Vasiliev.

He doesn’t look surprised to see me. If anything, he looks like he’s been expecting me, like I’ve walked directly into a trap I didn’t see being laid.

I freeze, unsure if I should turn back or step inside.

His gaze moves over me slowly, dragging like silk across skin. I feel it in every nerve, every inch of my body suddenly awake and alert. My breath shortens. My chest tightens.

“You’re not where I left you,” he says softly.

I open my mouth, then close it. What do I say? That I needed air? That I couldn’t sit there and wait for him like an obedient pet?

“I wanted to see where I am,” I reply, and even to my own ears, my voice sounds too thin.

He gestures to the room around us, a faint smile playing at his lips. “You’re in my house.”

“I didn’t agree to be here.”

His smile doesn’t fade. “You will.”

I step back. Just once. Just enough for him to notice.

He watches me like a predator deciding whether to pounce or wait.

“Do you feel it?” he asks after a moment, his tone lower now. “That pull between us?”

I swallow hard, because I do. I hate that I do. It’s there like a current in the air, like a low hum under my skin. I shake my head, refusing to admit anything, even to myself.

He stands, slow and fluid, and the room seems to shrink with the size of him.

“You’ve been kept in a cage your whole life, Clara. You don’t even know what freedom is.” His eyes burn as he steps toward me, closing the space. “But you’ll learn. And when you do, you’ll never want to leave.”

He’s close now, too close, and I feel that heat again, blooming low and dark and wicked. I want to scream. I want to run. But I also want… I don’t even know.

I do the only thing I can: I turn and flee.

Back through the gallery, down the hallway, all the way to my room. I shut the door behind me, press my back to it, and try to breathe.

I tell myself I ran because I’m smart. Because I’m scared. But the truth is, part of me is afraid not of what he’ll do but of what I’ll do if I stay.

Maksim

She ran from me.

Not out of fear. Not truly. I know what fear looks like, cold and wide-eyed and hollow. Clara didn’t look afraid. She looked overwhelmed. Frightened of the way her body betrayed her. Frightened of the fact that when I stood up, she leaned in before she realized it. And when I stepped forward, she didn't back away.

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