Page 24 of Kidnapped Prisoner By the Bratva
She bent her knees slightly, then walked away without raising her head to meet my gaze.
What the hell just happened?I wondered, watching her leave my presence with hurried footsteps. Clearly, everyone in this mansion had issues—there was a lot of crazy going on here.
I picked up my pace and continued my journey until I reached my destination. The door was slightly ajar, and through the sliver of space inches from the frame, I saw him.
He was seated on a chair, stripped from the waist up, his torso covered in tattoos and scars. A bottle of whiskey sat open on the table beside him, the harsh scent drifting faintly into the hallway. At his feet was a bowl of pink-tinged water that rippled each time blood dripped from his wounded arm.
His eyes were focused on the deep cut he was stitching with a needle. His left arm was set on the table, while his right hand worked the curved needle through his torn flesh. No wince, no grunts, nothing to indicate that he was in pain.
The table was clustered with things that had no business being there—scissors, gauze rolls, and other surgical equipment. I scanned the inside, and he seemed to be alone.
Quietly, I pushed the door open, my footsteps almost making no sound against the floor as I walked inside. The scent of aged paper mingled with the faint traces of blood, and the sharp smell of whiskey filled the air.
A towering bookshelf dominated a corner of the room, and beside it was a flat screen TV playing the CCTV footage of the entire house. I recognized my room in one of the frames—and it should disturb me to know that my every move was being watched. But after the incident last night, I thought maybe it was for the best.
He was so engrossed in his surgical work that he didn’t hear me come in. Or he did and decided to ignore me.
I cleared my throat conspicuously. “Hey.”
He didn’t look at me; he just continued stitching his arm like I wasn’t standing right there.
My eyes kept darting to his bare torso—a frame impossible to ignore. His broad shoulders and chiseled abs caught my attention, every line of him straining against the silent brutality of the movement. His tough skin glistened in the soft light, a bead of sweat trickling down his body, tracing the ridges of his abs.
I swallowed, shifting my gaze to the bookshelf, then the CCTV footage. My eyes roamed the space, anywhere but his body. At this point, I was confused, wasn’t sure what to do, and the only thing my brain could think of was how to help him finish up.
His body was hot enough to distract me. Was that really a good idea? Well, it beat standing there doing nothing.
I spotted a wooden chair somehow to my right, and without thinking twice, I dragged it toward him, its legs scraping the floor noisily. I set the chair before him and sat down, reaching out to take the needle from his hand.
I felt a strange chill run down my spine when my skin brushed against his. Our eyes locked in a split second, stirring a flutter in my chest. I blinked and looked away, adjusting in my chair as I took over stitching him up.
He stared at me in silence. And although his gaze and that ridiculously attractive body of his were distracting as fuck, I still managed to keep my cool.
The cut was deeper than I thought, but it wasn’t something that I couldn’t handle. Based on my observations, he’d already cleaned up the wound and disinfected it. All I had to do was finish stitching him up.
“I take it this isn’t your first rodeo,” I said, attempting to fill the awkward silence, fingers working their magic on his arm.
No response.
I weaved the needle and thread through his flesh with expert precision. “This isn’t my first rodeo either,” I continued, despite being ignored. “I used to stitch my father up all the time.” A scoff fell off my lips. “The old man used to get in a lot of fights back in the day. Mom got tired of nursing his wounds every now and then. That’s when I stepped in.”
He still didn’t say a word. But his gaze never left my face.
I lifted my head and faced him. “How are you so calm right now? My father was a strong man, and evenheused to wince and grunt when I patched him up.”
Still no response.
I broke eye contact and resumed working on his arm. That’s when he answered, his deep voice cutting through the silence.
“Pain and I came to an agreement a long time ago.”
I wasn’t expecting that. But okay—even though I wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or disturbed.
“You say that like it’s a good thing.”
He hesitated. “In my world, it is.”
I finished up on his arm in no time, securing the new bandage with a safety pin. “And…done.”
