Page 17 of Bound By the Bratva

Sleep doesn’t come easy. I toss. I turn. I clench my teeth until my jaw aches. When it does come, it brings him. Not Rolan now—Rolan then, six years ago. The weekend I sold myself to save my father’s life.

At the time, I thought he was a pig. He was smug, forceful, and crude. But when I search the memory, it won’t stay simple. He was clean in a way that didn’t fit the stories I told myself about men like him. He was polished, from his cufflinks to the quiet way he moved through a room.

There was something strangely gentle in the way he placed his hands on me—not gentle in purpose, but in method. He didn’t slam or bruise or shout. There was no violence, no overt cruelty. Only control and power, exercised without apology.

I waketo the sound of a spoon clinking softly against ceramic. My body is sore, stretched and aching in places I don’t want to acknowledge. The sheets carry the smell of starch and expensive detergent, crisp against skin that feels used. He’s not in the bed beside me, and for a brief, naive second, I think maybe he left. That maybe it’s over. That I can dress and slip out before I have to see him again.

But then I hear his voice. He asks if I want coffee.

When I open the door, he’s standing at the sideboard in front of a small French press, wearing nothing but his boxers that hug his tight ass. His shirt is gone, and his back is bare—broad, muscular, heavily tattooed. Bare feet planted on the tile. Steam curls from the spout as he pours. He doesn’t glance over his shoulder when he speaks again. He finishes filling both cups like this is ordinary. Like it’s not the aftermath of what he did to me.

"Milk? Sugar?" he says. The words are soft, almost gentle. There’s no mockery in his tone, no smugness. Just that steady, disarming calm. He could be a hotel guest offering breakfast to a date instead of a man who paid to use my body.

I don’t answer him. I cross the room and take the cup he hands me. My fingers shake so hard I nearly spill it, but I hold on. I sit across from him at the table and stare at the steam until it fades.

He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t reach for me. He simply drinks his own coffee without looking at me directly, hisexpression unreadable. For those ten minutes, he behaves like a gentleman. Not a monster. And that’s what makes it worse.

I wakeand I’m sweating, tangled in the sheets after wrestling that dream. My hands shake as I shove the blanket off. I press my fingers to my lips and curse myself.

That night should be something I forget. Something I bury under layers of shame and silence. But when I close my eyes, I still feel his mouth on my skin, his hands pinning me open, the sound of my own breath catching as pleasure coursed through me. My body still wants him. It remembers the rhythm, the pressure, the surrender. And my mind, weak and traitorous, keeps bringing it back in dreams and memories, like it meant something it shouldn’t.

The track feels different tonight.The routine is the same—the buzz of lights, the rhythm of bets placed, the endless clinking of glasses—but everything beneath it feels off. My body moves through it, but my mind drags like it's walking underwater. I didn't sleep for more than an hour, maybe two. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face, heard the way he said my name, felt the ghost of his hands.

The noise feels deafening. The lights burn hotter. The faces I pass are the same regulars, the same drunks, the same women laughing too hard at things they don't think are funny. But each sound cuts through me. Each laugh feels like it’s aimed directly at the rawness under my skin.

I move through it all pretending I belong—balancing trays, smiling at men I don’t trust, echoing rehearsed lines. But none ofit lands right tonight. I feel detached from my own body, like I’m watching someone else perform the routine.

Every step I take reminds me of last night. The fabric of my uniform feels tighter against my skin. Every time someone brushes past me, I flinch before I catch myself. But I keep working and try to convince myself that nothing happened to me. That I didn't sell my soul to the devil and let him bind me to him even more tightly.

I can't want him at all—not after what I let him take from me.

I carry a tray past the bar, eyes forward. I know he’s here. I can feel him before I see him. But he doesn't look at me once. He walks past with two men in dark suits, gives orders, checks receipts, and never breaks stride. After he's passed through, I suck in a breath of relief and hardly notice the way a customer pinches my ass.

"All in good fun" he grunts, but I refill his drink like the robot I am tonight.

I tell myself I’m relieved that Rolan is ignoring me. I lie to myself in my head, and that lie tastes bitter. But the first time I catch him watching me from the second-floor balcony, my knees lock. My heart leaps into my throat. I lose count of the drinks on my tray, and he turns away a second later.

I don’t know what I feel. My chest tightens when I see him, my mouth goes dry, and still, something low in my stomach coils in recognition. It isn't just anger, though that's there. It's not just shame, even if it's thick and clinging. It's something more dangerous—an ache, a hunger I can’t justify. The feelings twist together, knotted so tightly I can’t tell them apart.

It would be easier if he summoned me, if he barked my name or gave another order, but he does nothing. Says nothing. I feel invisible.

And that scares me more than anything. Because if he doesn’t want me now, I don’t know where that leaves me or when—out of nowhere—he will summon me again. Rolan is unreadable, unpredictable, and unbearably, unimaginably uncontrollable.

Around midnight, I see him again near the stables, talking to one of the floor bosses. Mitzi stumbles as she rounds the corner, laughing too loudly, brushing Rolan’s arm. He gently pushes her away, but her fingers dig in as she stumbles backward, eyes wide. She tries to steady herself as his glare lands on her right before her ass hits the ground.

He doesn’t raise his voice at her but it's clear, even at a distance, that he is rejecting her openly. She stands, brushes off her skirt, then hugs herself and ducks her chin as she walks away quickly.

I stare after her, my hands curled into fists at my sides. She’s not the first woman he's done that to and she won’t be the last. I wish he'd have done that with me—well, part of me does, anyway. That he'd have taken one look at me and told me to fuck off entirely.

Of course, I wouldn't have Nikolai at all, and that little boy holds the key to my heart. My head dips in remorse as I even consider what that would mean for me, never having fucked Rolan and never having gotten pregnant… I shudder as I remember what Rolan is and who he’s always been.

Not a savior. Not a man who made me feel something. Just a monster with manners. A devil who smiles.

My legs move on their own. I duck into the back stairwell and sit on the lowest step, breathing through my nose. I pound my fists into my thighs, and the ache helps me focus as tears start to well up.

I need out. Not next month. Not next week. Now—before he comes to take my boy from me.

And I’m running out of time. Every shift, every night, he’s closer to owning me completely.

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