Page 49 of Forced Bratva Hostage

My thoughts are frozen, and I’m staring blankly ahead of me as the streetlights flash past us. I don’t understand what just happened.

Why would Van be shooting at me?

Why wouldn’t he be trying to rescue me?

Why in the world would he try and kill me?

A cold sweat breaks out over my skin when I realize how close I just came to dying.

By the time we reach the cabin in the woods, the shock has softened, and I’m left with a hollow feeling of fear and confusion.

“Tia?” he says my name gently.

I turn towards him, only now realizing that we didn’t speak for the entire drive here. He reaches his hand out to guide me out of the car. “We’ll be safe here for tonight,” he says, leading me towards the cabin.

While he moves around, turning soft lighting on and throwing wood into the fireplace, I stand like a dumbstruck idiot, doing nothing. I can’t get my body to work. There is a heavy weight holding me in place.

When the fire is casting an orange, glowing light through the living room area, he leads me to the sofa and sits me down.

“Are you okay?” he asks, brushing his hand over my cheek.

I nod, but my brows knot together. “That was Van.”

“I know,” he says.

“Why did he try and shoot me?”

“I thought maybe you’d be able to tell me?”

I shake my head, shifting closer to Andrei, desperate to feel safe.

He wraps his arm around my shoulders and holds me against his side.

“He was going to kill me. I almost died,” I mutter to myself.

“You’re okay, Tia. No one can find you here,” he whispers against my hair.

For a long time, we sit in silence, staring at the flames as they lick away at the wooden logs, which turn to glowing embers. My heart slowly returns to its normal pace, and my breathing evens out.

“Was Van with your brother?” Andrei asks, shifting slightly so that he can look at me.

“No, no one else was there.”

“Why would your brother want you dead, Tia?” The question is so blunt it shoots pain into my heart.

“He wouldn’t,” I stammer, defensive and hurt. Boris doesn’t want me dead. No. It can’t be.

“Did he ever try and hurt you before?”

“Itwasn’tBoris—it was Van…” My words trail off as a memory surfaces from long ago.

I’m a young girl, standing in the passage outside my father’s office, and he’s angry with Boris; his voice is low, but he’s lecturing my half-brother. I remember thinking I shouldn’t be listening, but I couldn’t leave, I was too curious.

You had better take care of your sister, be nice to her and make sure no harm comes to her. Otherwise, you’ll get nothing from me. Do you understand, Boris? You’ll get nothing.

My father’s words loop in my head.

What does that mean?

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