Page 12 of Bound By the Bratva

My first step into the room feels like any other night, any other table I'm waiting, but what I see makes me freeze in place, caught mid-step. My breath catches. The tray tilts slightly in my grip before I steady it, arms tense with instinct.

Rolan Vetrov leans back on a low leather couch, one leg stretched out, one hand draped along the backrest. His jacket is off, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. A tumbler of something dark sits untouched beside him on a table that probably costs more than my rent. The lights in here are dimmed low, blue shadows pooling at the edges of the room. One of the wall sconces flickers softly behind him, casting a dull glow that halos the back of his head in gold.

I don't move. My lungs squeeze tight with the pressure of panic I’m trying to swallow. The sound of the door clickingclosed behind me hasn’t even fully registered yet, but the instinct to turn and dart out of here does. Why does this man make me have this conflicted response? The urge to run and the desire to stay put, all in the same breath…

He doesn't speak. Instead, he sits motionless, watching me with that calculating stillness that makes it hard to breathe. He doesn’t need to say anything to me to make me want to piss myself. The silence is deliberately drawn out like an invisible rope pulling me close. Everything about this moment is staged. I wonder how much he paid that other waitress to shift this shit to me. I wonder if he hurt Mitzi just so I could be called in…

I stand frozen just inside the doorway, pulse stuttering in my throat like a drum out of rhythm. He isn’t a guest at this lounge and this isn’t a mistake. He called for me, specifically.

"Lock the door," Rolan says. He watches me, waiting. The words curl out of his mouth with a stream of smoke from a cigarette tucked between two fingers on his left hand.

His voice scrapes down my spine like the edge of a blade. I don’t move, so he stands. There’s no rush to his movements, only smooth, deliberate motion. Every step he takes closes the distance between us until I feel his shadow stretch over mine. He reaches around me, takes the tray from my hands, and sets it on the table. Then he clicks the door lock behind me.

I step back. My heel hits the edge of the rug and nearly folds under me, but I catch myself before I fall.

"I don't work up here," I tell him. My throat is dry and each word catches. My eyes flick to the drinks—whiskey, vodka, a small bottle of mineral water. The crystal glasses are lined in a perfect row, pristine and waiting. There are no mixers to soften the taste, no garnish to distract from it. Everything on the tray is just what he likes—strong, simple, and undiluted.

I glance toward the door, calculating—not distance, but likelihood. If I reach for it, will he stop me with a word, a hand,or just a look? He doesn’t need to chase anyone. He closes options without moving, and I can already feel mine slipping away. He probably has thirty men on speed dial. I'd never get through the back door to the club.

"You do now." Rolan turns and faces me fully. He takes his time, moving like a man who’s in complete control and knows it. He’s drawing out the moment, making sure I absorb every inch of it. Every inch of him.

"The track is mine, Anya," he says. "Which means you're mine too."

His eyes don’t leave mine. He's daring me to challenge him or run away. This sickening fucking game is cruel. He doesn't understand what it does to my mind.

I take another step back and feel the wall behind me. The room isn’t big enough to put distance between us. The couch, the bar cart, the wide glass windows with the blinds half-drawn—it all feels too tight. Too controlled.

"Let me go," I say. My voice sounds thin in the air. "I have tables downstairs." I force myself to hold his gaze, even as the walls around me seem to close in.

He doesn’t move. "I made you an offer once. You accepted. So…" His hands stay at his sides, but I can feel the memory pressing between us like a ghost.

"That was a long time ago," I mutter, "and I've changed." I straighten my spine, forcing myself to stand taller. I try to inject more confidence into my voice than I feel. The ache in my jaw reminds me of how long I’ve been clenching it, how long I’ve been holding everything in.

"You're here now. Working for me. Still trying to pay off your father’s debt. Still pretending like you have a choice." The low rumble of his voice almost vibrates my chest as he steps toward me. My heart is pounding like the hooves of the horses outside on the track under glowing lights and I'd almost think thosegalloping thoroughbreds have the right idea if I didn't know better.

"I'm not working here for him." The lie rolls off my tongue, but I wince as I bite my lip.

"Anya, please…" The words spill from him with surgical precision. He tilts his head slightly, as if laying out facts no one can argue with. "I know your father is in a mess again. I know why you're here." His tone never rises but it still slices cleanly through the last of my resistance.

I keep my hands at my sides, even though they want to shake. Even when my knees threaten to buckle. I brace myself without looking like I’m bracing. I’ve learned to do that.

He steps closer. I don’t flinch. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me shrink. My breath comes in shallow bursts, but I stay rooted in place.

"You want the truth?" he asks.

I don't answer. My lips press together in a tight line. If I speak, I’ll crack open. So I focus on a spot over his shoulder where a neon beer sign flickers and dig my nails into my palms.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded slip of paper. He unfolds it slowly, deliberately, and drops it onto the tray. I see it and know instantly it's a cashier's check, though I can't see to whom it's made out.

"After all the hours you put in, all the tips you scrape together, I know you'll never pay off what he owes."

He stands perfectly still after speaking. He watches me absorb the number on the paper without blinking. He wants to see the exact moment it sinks in. My chest tightens like a vise as I see that number—?15,000,000 is a fuck ton of money. Two fuck tons, exactly, and one third of whatBatyaowes those evil men. It's more than triple what I'd be able to pay in five years' time.

"I can clear some of it," Rolan says. "Tonight."

He lifts a glass from the tray but doesn’t drink. He just holds it, waiting. The air between us grows warm under tension, a taut string he’s pulling tighter with every second.

My stomach turns. Acid curls up the back of my throat. I take yet another small step back just to breathe and realize I'm pressed fully against the wall now. "What?" I mutter, but I can't look him in the eye now. I can't even take my eyes off that check.

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