Page 30 of Bound By the Bratva

The early light slips through the sheer curtains, and my breath fogs slightly in the cool air. I sit up slowly, rubbing at my face with both hands. I wait for the rush of panic, for the spike of disorientation that usually comes first thing. It never arrives, and that absence alone unsettles me. I'm adjusting to this place and I shouldn't be.

There’s a tray on the side table. The porridge is still warm, the tea steeped strong beside it. Bread and jam rest on a small plate, and half of an apple, peeled, sliced, and fanned out, crowns the corner. Everything is arranged neatly. I stare at the display as though it's a trick, something meant to disarm me. Itlooks domestic, even thoughtful. I wonder if it's Mara's doing or if Rolan had some say in it. He's been more civil this week.

I eat quickly and dress in the clothes laid out for me—jeans and a soft gray sweater that fits a little too well. When I step into the hallway, no guards flank the door. There is no one watching my every move. Somewhere below, I hear laughter echo up through the stillness.

It’s Nikolai’s voice, high and bright, full of joy that does not match the walls he is surrounded by. The sound pulls me downstairs, tracking his voice through the ornate halls. Every echo of his voice bounces against marble and stone like a memory trying to escape.

He’s in the sitting room with one of Rolan’s guards, a young one I don’t recognize. They are building something with wooden blocks, an elaborate fortress balanced carefully near the edge of the carpet. Cushions have been pulled off the couch to form makeshift barricades. The room, all polished wood and velvet curtains, feels unexpectedly soft with my son in it.

Nikolai’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes bright with focus. He laughs so hard he nearly topples the entire structure. The guard catches the top layer before it falls, his large hand moving with surprising care as he steadies the tower.

"Try it again,malysh," the man says, handing Nikolai another block with a gentle smile. His movements are careful, respectful. Not the kind of callousness I expected from someone under Rolan’s command.

Nikolai grins up at him with eyes full of mischief and pride. "I want to make a jail next. For bad guys."

The guard nods as he holds a new block. "We’ll need strong walls for that, maybe even two layers."

I stand leaning against the door frame as I watch them. My son is happy. There is no sign of fear or trauma on his face, no shadow in his eyes. He looks safe in a place that should never feelsafe. I should be grateful for his peace. I should feel relief that he is unharmed. But all I feel is dread blooming in my chest. Dread that I’m letting this place slowly redefine what normal looks like for us.

But just around the corner, I hear voices and I don't like what I'm hearing. I slip out, moving that way, and stop just around the corner, frozen by the low, gritty timbre of their voices. They’re not whispering. They’re not even trying to lower their tones.

"They dragged him out of the safehouse while it was still burning," one of the men says, his voice rough, maybe mid-thirties, with a regional accent. "Didn’t even wait for it to cool. Hands melted to the steel. Had to pry them off."

The other lets out a low grunt. "Rolan told them to make it an example. You torch our shipment, we torch your men." They chuckle in low, sinister tones. There’s a sharp knock against the ground that makes me jolt, but I stay there listening.

"Should’ve burned the building with the whole crew inside. Would’ve sent a better message."

"Don’t think he wanted a large body count. He just wanted to make them sweat."

The first one snorts. "Fear’s a leash. You gotta tighten it before they chew through."

The second adds, "Still, I wouldn’t have wasted bullets. They were begging to be drowned."

I feel the bile rise in my throat. I glance back at Nikolai. He’s only a few feet from them. Well within earshot. He’s not paying attention—yet—but it only takes a second for a phrase to stick.

I storm back into the room and the shift in energy is instant. Nikolai looks up in surprise, and the guard seems confused. I walk straight to Nikolai, who stares at me with wide eyes.

"Come on,kotyonok," I say, keeping my voice steady as I take his hand. "Let’s go find breakfast."

He blinks, surprised but agreeable, standing quickly and clutching my fingers. But he glances back a few times at his tower and I see the disappointment in his expression.

As I pass the guards, I don’t stop walking, but I speak just loud enough to be heard.

"If I ever hear you talking about burning men alive where my son can hear it again, I’ll make sure you get to test the fire yourselves." Neither of them says a word to me, but I hear their chuckling as I leave earshot.

In the dining room, I help Nikolai into one of the high-backed chairs and settle into the one beside him. The scents of warm bread and citrus tea rise from the tray laid out for him. I butter his toast and slice his eggs while he chatters about the tower he was building. I nod and murmur encouragement, but my hands tremble slightly when I lift my own cup.

He finishes quickly, wiping his mouth on the cloth napkin, and hops down from his chair. "I’m going to finish my fortress," he says, already turning toward the hallway, but before I can protest, he is gone, zipping toward the parlor while I sigh in defeat.

I sip my drink, but the instant he disappears beyond the archway, I set the cup down and stand. My chest tightens with dread as I think of how this place threatens to pervert his innocence.Batyawas a bad enough example for my son. Rolan's crew takes "bad example" to an entirely different dimension.

I push away from the table and rise, heading down the hall with quickening steps. The hallway is quiet now. The guards are gone, but as I near the sitting room, I hear a voice again—but this time, just one. It's deep and warm and I recognize it as I round the corner and freeze in place.

Nikolai is perched on Rolan’s knee, tiny fingers toying with the edge of Rolan’s sleeve. Rolan sits comfortably in one of the armchairs by the fire, one hand resting lightly on Nikolai’s back,the other gesturing as he speaks. His voice is comforting and friendly as if he wants every word to sink in.

"Do you know why I brought you here, Nikolai?" Rolan asks. His tone is almost fatherly.

My son looks up at him with wide eyes. "Because Mama said we were going on a trip."

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