Page 11 of Chased & Bred by the BRATVA
“I want them found.”
“I’ll get Aleksei on it,” Roman says, knowing he is the best man for the job.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. “When we find them, I want them brought here. Alive. I want them to see my face before I carve it into the backs of their fucking eyelids.”
Roman lets out a low whistle. “You’re in deep.”
“I was the second she looked at me and didn’t run.”
“She did run,” Maksim points out.
I smile. “Only when I told her to.”
There’s silence. Maksim taps his fingers once against the table before speaking again. “We’ll need the name of the club to check the cameras from the exterior. The car she described is a match to a crew that’s been sniffing around the outer districts. Low-level freelancers. Not connected. Not smart. Probably grabbing girls too drunk to remember their names.”
“They’re a liability to whoever they’re affiliated with,” Roman adds. And he is right. I wonder if the organisation they work for even knows of their extra-curricular activities.
I leave the room with blood humming in my veins.
It’ll take time to track them, but not much. Aleksei moves fast when he knows one of us is on edge, and Maksim has no tolerance for any man who touches women without consent. I know how this ends. I can already smell their sweat, taste their fear.
But right now, I need something else.
I need her.
I climb the stairs two at a time, my boots thudding against the polished wood. I turn the corner and pause outside my bedroom door. I can hear her inside, soft footsteps, the rustle of fabric. She’s not afraid. I would hear it. She’s settling in.
Claiming space.
I knock once before I open the door.
Rachel is standing near the window, barefoot, wrapped in one of my old sweaters. It swallows her frame, making her look even softer than she is, but there’s still a sharpness in her posture. Her spine straight, her eyes steady.
She turns when she hears me, and fuck, my chest goes tight.
There’s no fear in her gaze.
Just questions.
“I thought maybe you’d left,” she says quietly.
“I did,” I reply. “But not for long.”
She studies me. “You always walk around with that look on your face after you’ve been gone an hour?”
I arch a brow. “What look is that?”
“Like someone’s already dead. You’re just waiting to bury them.”
I can’t help it, I laugh. It’s low, rough, honest.
She doesn’t flinch at the sound.
“You’re not wrong,” I admit. “I was getting answers.”
Her expression shifts. She crosses her arms, suddenly uncertain. “About me?”
“About the men who picked you up.”
