Page 76 of Bratva Daddy
"Please," I begged as they forced my arm straight. "Please don't do this. I'm not crazy. I'm not sick. I just need someone to listen—"
"This is for your safety," Sanchez said, holding my arm steady as the needle approached. "You'll feel better soon."
"I'll feel nothing soon," I snarled, but the needle was already piercing my skin, sharp pain followed by burning pressure as they pushed the plunger.
The effect was almost immediate. The world started softening at the edges, like someone had thrown gauze over reality. My legs went weak, and the agents' grip changed from restraining to supporting.
"There we go," she murmured. "Just relax."
"You're making a mistake," I managed, tongue already feeling thick. "My father . . . he's playing you . . ."
They were loading me into the SUV now, hands gentle but firm. The leather seats were cold against my skin where the robe had fallen open. Someone buckled a seatbelt across my chest, and I couldn't even lift my arms to stop them.
"Alexei," I whispered, but his vehicle was long gone, just empty road where he'd been.
"He can't hurt you anymore," Sanchez said from the front seat.
I wanted to scream that he'd never hurt me, that he'd saved me, that they were delivering me back to the real monster. But my mouth wouldn't form the words anymore. The sedative was pulling me under like a riptide, and fighting it was pointless.
The last coherent thought I managed was that my father had won. He'd turned my truth into symptoms, my reality into delusions, my love into sickness. And now I was being delivered back to him, drugged and discredited, while the only person who'd ever truly seen me was heading to federal prison.
Consciousnesscamebackinslow, bleak, layers, each one heavier than the last. First the white ceiling, industrial tiles with water stains that looked like countries I'd never visit. Then the beeping—steady, mechanical, tracking my heart rate like it was data instead of feeling. The antiseptic smell hit third, sharp enough to cut through the chemical fog but not enough to clear it completely.
My wrists wouldn't move. Soft restraints held them to the bed rails, medical-grade fabric that wouldn't leave marks but wouldn't give either.
"Ah, she's awake."
The voice made my stomach lurch hard enough that the heart monitor stuttered. My father sat in an expensive chair that didn't belong in this sterile room, wearing a suit that cost more than most people's cars. His face was arranged in an expression of paternal concern that would have been convincing if I hadn't seen him practice it in mirrors before important meetings.
Behind him stood a doctor—fifty-something, kind eyes, clipboard ready. The kind of doctor who'd believe whatever story paid his bills.
"Clara, darling," Viktor said, reaching for my hand.
I tried to pull away, but the restraints held me in place.
"You're safe now," he continued, voice dripping false sympathy. "That monster can't hurt you anymore."
"Not . . . monster." The words came out slurred, tongue thick from whatever they'd pumped into me. "Love him."
Viktor exchanged a look with the doctor, perfectly choreographed concern mixed with vindication. See? their faces said. Just like I told you.
"Classic Stockholm syndrome,” Viktor said to the doctor but loud enough for me to hear. “Just as I feared. My poor daughter, thinking she loves her captor."
"Fuck . . . you." The profanity took enormous effort, but the satisfaction of seeing his mask slip for a microsecond was worth it.
The doctor made notes on his clipboard, pen scratching against paper. "Aggression toward the rescuing parent. Textbook trauma response. We'll need to adjust her medications."
"You're lying," I managed, fighting through the fog to find words that mattered. "The Kozlovs . . . you took their money . . ."
"She's having delusions," Viktor told the doctor, voice heavy with practiced sorrow. "She's created elaborate fantasies about my supposed corruption to justify her attachment to herkidnapper. It's easier for her to believe I'm evil than to accept she was victimized."
The doctor nodded like this made perfect sense, like every word from my father's mouth wasn't calculated manipulation. "These narratives are common in trauma victims. The mind creates stories to make sense of the incomprehensible."
"He’s bribed judges," I tried again, desperate. "Law enforcement, the planning dep—"
"You see how detailed the delusions are?" Viktor interrupted. "It's quite elaborate."
The doctor leaned closer, studying me like I was a specimen. "Ms. Petrov, your father is trying to help you. Fighting treatment will only make recovery harder."
