Page 7 of BRATVA'S Avenging Bride
Katherine
The penthouse smells like clean leather and expensive cologne and something darker I can't name. Old money, maybe. Or blood that's been scrubbed clean so many times that the scent just lingers in the walls.
I stand in the center of the living room and turn in a slow circle, cataloging exits.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Locked, probably bulletproof. One door leading to what looks like a kitchen. Another to a hallway. The elevator we came up in requires a fingerprint.
Three ways out. All of them blocked.
Different cage. Same bars.
"You're doing it again." Matvey's voice comes from behind me, lazy and amused.
I don't turn around. "Doing what?"
"Looking for escape routes."
"Can you blame me?"
"No." The word is simple, honest. "But you won't find one. This building has security on every floor. Cameras in every hallway. And even if you made it to the street, where would you go?"
Nowhere. He knows it. I know it.
I hate that he's right.
"So what?" I finally turn to face him. He's leaning against the wall, jacket off, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There's a white bandage wrapped around his palm where my knife cut him. He didn't even flinch when it happened. Just bled and smiled like pain was a language he spoke fluently. "I'm your prisoner?"
"You're my guest."
"Guests can leave."
"When they aren't wanted by the police for arson and murder." He pushes off the wall and crosses to the bar, pouring two glasses of something clear. "You're safe here, Katherine. That's more than you had six hours ago."
Safe. The word tastes wrong in my mouth.
I've never been safe. Not in the group home where the older kids stole my things and the adults looked the other way. Not in the club where Boris's smile promised violence and Abram's hands promised worse. Not in the burning building I set alight because I was so tired of being afraid.
Safety is a lie men tell you right before they lock the door.
Matvey holds out one of the glasses. "Drink. You look like you need it."
"I don't want alcohol."
"It's vodka. The best money can buy. Costs more than your rent."
"I don't have rent anymore. I'm homeless." I take the glass anyway because my hands need something to hold that isn't a weapon. The liquid burns going down, but it's a good burn. Clean. "Thanks for reminding me."
"You're not homeless. You're here."
"For how long?"
He considers this, swirling his own drink. "As long as it takes."
"For what?"
"For the heat to die down. For the investigation to close. For you to stop looking at me like I'm going to hurt you."
"You're Bratva." I spit the word like it's poison. "Hurting people is what you do."
