Page 14 of Kidnapped & Bred By The BRATVA
Curiosity prickles. I push it wider.
The air inside is cooler, tinged with the faint, lingering scent of polish and old paper. Moonlight filters through tall windows draped in heavy curtains, silvering the outlines of furniture. At the center of the room, silent and solemn, sits a grand piano.
My breath catches.
For a moment I just stare at it, black and gleaming, its keys waiting like teeth in the dim light. Memories flood me. Endless afternoons bent over ivory keys, tutors correcting my posture, my father standing in the doorway reminding me that no husband would tolerate mistakes. Music was never mine. It was another box to tick, another way to make me “accomplished.”
And yet, seeing the piano here, abandoned and dusty with disuse, something inside me stirs.
I drift forward, my fingertips brushing the smooth lid. The silence of the room is thick, expectant, as though it’s been waiting for someone to wake it. My heart pounds as I lift thecover, exposing the keys. A few are yellowed, some chipped, but most still gleam faintly in the moonlight.
I sit, the bench creaking beneath me. My hands hover uncertainly, trembling.
What if someone hears?
What if Roman hears?
I almost push the lid back down, but then I remember the way he looked at me like I wasn’t a pawn, like I was something so much more than that. My fingers lower before I can stop myself.
The first note is soft, hesitant, echoing through the empty room. The sound hangs in the air, fragile, like a secret I’ve confessed aloud. My chest tightens.
I try another, then another, the beginnings of a melody I haven’t played in years. My fingers stumble, clumsy from disuse, but the notes come anyway. Quiet. Imperfect. Real.
I close my eyes.
For a few stolen moments, I’m not the girl in the gown, not the bride kidnapped at the altar. I’m just a woman at a piano, breathing life into something that was always supposed to belong to someone else but now, finally, belongs to me.
The melody falters when emotion clogs my throat. I press my palms to the keys, letting the discordant clash ring out before falling back into silence.
Tears sting my eyes. I don’t even know if they’re from grief or relief.
A floorboard creaks in the hallway. My heart leaps into my throat, panic surging. I slam the lid shut and stand so fast the bench tips backward.
But no one comes.
The hall remains empty and still, only shadows moving in the moonlight.
I press a hand to my chest, willing my pulse to slow. My cheeks burn with embarrassment, even though no one caught me. It feels illicit, that small act of rebellion, like taking back something I wasn’t meant to have.
When I finally leave the music room, I pull the door shut behind me, sealing in the faint echo of my notes.
The mansion feels different now. Still vast, still full of secrets, but not entirely hostile.
I make my way back to Roman’s suite when the sound of hushed whispers and soothing lullabies float down the corridor. I head towards the sound taking me further away from Roman’s rooms, until a glow just beyond a doorway catches my attention. It’s a library, full of books and old leather chairs.
A beautiful young woman glances up when I push the door open, her blond hair tied up messily, a book balanced on her knee. She’s nursing a newborn, her glow undeniable, though her gaze is sharp. She smiles when she sees me. “You must be Olivia. I’m Clara.”
Her tone isn’t cold. It isn’t pitying either. Just… warm and kind.
I nod, clutching the frame of the sitting-room door. “Yes. I—” I falter, unsure how to explain. Bride. Kidnapped. Stolen bride. Not really a bride at all.
Clara doesn’t make me. She sets her book aside and gestures to the sofa. “Come sit. The men will be gone for hours yet.”
The others trickle in as if summoned. I’m introduced to Sarah, quieter, her eyes downcast but kind. Isabella, more confident, sharp-tongued in a way that makes me flinch at first until I realize it isn’t aimed at me. Finally, Rachel introduces herselfwith a nod and a wink handing me a cup of chamomile tea. They circle me with questions, not cruel or prying, but curious.
Do I like Roman’s suite? Do I like to read? Have I ever been to Paris? Their voices braid together until I almost forget I’m the outsider. For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m sitting among women who understand what it means to be like me. Only more than that. To beclaimed, not politely courted, not handed over like an asset, but taken, possessed by men who were strangers and yet somehow exactly what we needed.
It makes me feel less alone.
