Page 11 of Kidnapped Prisoner By the Bratva
He gave off the vibe that said he wasn’t one of those guys to be messed with. Men like him meant business, and their commanding presence alone was enough to make the faint-hearted shit their pants.
It honestly took every ounce of strength and courage in me to stand his gaze. Being around him had instilled the fear of God in me, and my heart wouldn’t stop racing like a galloping horse.
I thought for sure that he was going to kill me, but then he mentioned the photos, and I knew instantly that this was just a big misunderstanding.
However, the problem was how to convince him that I wasn’t the spy he thought I was. He must have done his homework on me, considering the fact that he called me by name, my full name. He must have known that I was a photojournalism student with a clean record. But for some reason, he was still skeptical about letting me go.
Why?
I didn’t even get a good look at his face, so I don’t have any useful information I could give to the cops if he let me go. I had no idea where I was or how I got there—there’s no way I could lead anyone back to this place.
Wait a minute; who’s this guy anyway, and why was he so bothered about his photo being on the internet?
Oh, my God, did I expose something sinister with my shots? Was he some kind of drug dealer or a human trafficker?Shit, that would explain the whole negative aura thing and why he was so bossy.
Now, I was panicking,reallypanicking, and afraid for my life.
How the hell did I get involved with drug dealers slash human traffickers?
This is bad. This is really bad.
I felt my tear glands charging up, each sting worse than the last. But I wouldn’t shed any tears, I wouldn’t cry; it was useless because tears wouldn’t save me. Men like this weren’t moved by sympathy or emotion. They didn’t have a heart, and even if they did, it was probably made out of stone.
Crying would only make me look stupid and weak. From what I knew about his kind, they had an inherent disgust for weakness. The last thing I wanted was to trigger my jailer.
You’re a girl. Your tears might cut you some slack,said a small voice in my head.
Maybe. Maybe not,another replied.But one thing is certain: We can’t take that risk.
It’s our only shot—the only move we have left.
No, it’s not,the courageous voice said, confident and strong.Did you read his energy when he realized Wren wasn’t afraid of him? He was impressed. That means, as much as he loathes the weak, he also admires strength. That’s our only shot.
It hit me immediately that the voice was right; men like him were predators, and they fed on fear. If I could pretend to be unafraid, maybe—just maybe—I might be able to scale through this unscathed.
Really, that’s the plan? Pretend to not be scared for our life?the fearful voice asked.What if your courage pisses him off, and he decides to move up our execution timetable? What then?
I guess there’s only one way to find out.
For the record, this is a bad idea.
Maybe I was starting to lose my mind. It had only been twenty-four hours, and I was already talking to the voices in my head as if they were real people. I guess that’s one of the side effects of being trapped in complete darkness with no sound besides my heartbeat.
The front door creaked open, and I lifted my head, wondering what the man was up to this time. Did he forget something, some nerve-shattering threat maybe?
I winced and bowed my head the moment a blinding light filled the room. It was so bright it hurt my eyes, especially because I wasn’t expecting it. I felt like a vampire reacting to sunlight—that’s how intense the light was.
I thought I was blind for a moment, and the brightness was so harsh I couldn’t dare open my eyes.What the hell?
Footsteps. About two different sets came barging in, the scent of cheap cologne invading my senses. The sound of boots stomping on the floor echoed in my head, accompanied by two thick, raucous voices. They seemed to be talking to each other, not me.
Russian. That’s the language they were speaking in—I’d recognize that accent any day, any time.
One of them laughed at something the other had said as they approached me. At this point, my heart was pounding loudly in my chest, and my head was still bowed in an attempt to avoid the lights.
“Hey, get up!” one of them said to me, his voice harsh and menacing, the Russian accent evident in his tone.
Before I could even move, I felt a strong hand lift me off the floor with a single swing, gripping my arm tightly.
