Page 81 of Bratva Prisoner
“No more secrets,” I agree, though every syllable feels like a betrayal of everything I’ve built with Maksim.
“Swear it. Swear that you’ll come back to me willingly, and I’ll let the artist go.”
I take a deep breath and put every ounce of false sincerity I can muster into my voice. “I swear I’ll come back to you willingly if you release Diane unharmed.”
“And you’ll cut ties with Barkov?”
“I’ll cut ties with Maksim.”
“And his family?”
“And his family.” Each word feels like I’m signing my own death warrant, but Diane’s safety depends on my performance.
Troy’s smile widens like a child who’s just been promised his favorite candy. “See? That wasn’t so hard. We always did work well together when you weren’t being stubborn.”
He moves behind Diane’s chair and begins working on the ropes that bind her hands. My heart pounds as I watch him untie the knots, praying he’ll actually follow through on his promise. The moment she’s free, she yanks the tape from her mouth and scrambles away from him.
“Alyssa, don’t do this,” she pleads. “Maksim and the others can protect us. You don’t have to sacrifice yourself.”
“Yes, she does,” Troy interjects before I can respond. “Unless she wants to watch everyone she cares about disappear one by one.”
“Go,” I tell Diane as I jerk my head toward the exit. “Don’t stop, don’t look back, just go.”
“I can’t leave you here with him.” Tears stream down her face as she looks between Troy and me, clearly torn between her own safety and mine.
“You can and you will. This is my choice to make.”
Diane looks like she wants to argue, but something in my tone must convince her that debate is pointless. She gives me one last anguished look before rushing toward the warehouse exit.
“Smart girl,” Troy comments once we’re alone. “She knows when she’s beaten.”
“Let her get home safely before we continue this conversation.” I need time to prepare myself for whatever comes next, time to build the emotional walls I’ll need to survive what I’ve just agreed to. I swallow the revulsion rising in my throat and make myself meet his eyes. “I’ve missed you.”
Troy’s entire demeanor changes in that instant. The cold predator disappears, replaced by something that might almost look like affection if you didn’t know better.
“I’ve missed you, too, baby. More than you know.” His voice takes on that honeyed quality I remember from our early days together, before the mask slipped and I saw what he really was.
He moves closer, and I resist the urge to step back. If I’m going to sell this performance, I need to act like I want his attention. Troy slides his down to my arm, and his fingers close around my wrist with just enough pressure to remind me that, despite his gentle words, this isn’t really a choice.
The grip feels like a shackle, binding me to a future I never wanted.
“Come on then,” he says, already guiding me toward the warehouse exit. “Let’s go home.”
Chapter 23 - Maksim
Self-pity tastes like twelve-year-old scotch and regret, but I keep drinking it anyway.
I slouch deeper into my office chair, staring at the glass in my hand while my brain replays every mistake I made with Alyssa on an endless loop. The whiskey burns going down, though not nearly as much as the memory of her walking away from me last night. Harrison knocked an hour ago to inform me that lunch was ready, but food feels impossible when my stomach is twisted into knots.
Every room feels too large, too quiet, too empty without her laugh bouncing off the walls or her footsteps padding across the marble floors. Even the staff moves differently, like they know something vital has been extracted from Ravenshollow’s heart.
“Pathetic,” I grumble to my reflection in the window. “Absolutely fucking pathetic.”
Weeks of building something real with her, only to destroy it all in one jealous rage. Weeks of watching her bloom in my world, of seeing her integrate with my family, of falling deeper for her every single day. All of it was ruined because I couldn’t trust her judgment about a phone call. The irony would be amusing if it weren’t so devastating.
She was trying to tell me something was wrong. Looking back now, I can see all the signs I missed; the way she started pulling away after that trip to the mall, the tension in her shoulders whenever her phone rang, the fear that crept into her eyes when she thought no one was watching. But instead of asking what was troubling her, I demanded answers like some kind of interrogator.
My phone goes off with another text from Dmitri asking if I’m coming to the family meeting, but I ignore it, just as I have the previous five messages. How am I supposed to discuss business strategy when I can’t even figure out how to fix my own disasters?
