Page 13 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
I jolt upright, a scream punching up my throat, but it never makes it out. Figures flood the room—masked, dressed in black, moving with a speed that steals all the oxygen from my chest. Hands grab my arms, pinning me back before I can kick or twist.
Another figure blocks the doorway. My body reacts before my brain can, legs thrashing, shoulder wrenching against the grip that holds me.
The scream tears free this time, raw and wild, but it’s swallowed before it can reach the hallway. A gloved hand clamps over my mouth, hot air seeping in through fabric. I bite down, hard, teeth sinking into leather, but another hand shoves my head sideways, and something cold presses against my nose and lips.
A chemical sweetness invades my mouth, cloying and heavy. I choke against it, lungs rebelling, but the world narrows too quickly. My heartbeat is everywhere—throbbing in my temples, hammering in my chest, vibrating through my fingertips. My last sight before the black swallows me is that gloved hand and the endless, suffocating dark behind it.
When consciousness slams back, it comes in pieces.
The first is smell. Cedar. Expensive cologne. Richer than anything that’s ever existed in my little apartment, so thick it clings to the back of my throat.
The second is texture. Sheets softer than silk, cool against bare skin. A mattress that doesn’t creak when I shift.
The third is weight. My own limbs feel heavy, like I’m moving underwater. My head swims, thoughts slow to assemble themselves.
I open my eyes to a ceiling lost in shadow, tall enough to make the room feel endless. When I push up onto my elbows, theblanket slides down my shoulders, heavy and plush, the kind of fabric that doesn’t exist outside luxury hotels and dreams.
Panic spikes.
I shove the blanket away and stagger upright, legs unsteady. The bedroom is vast, walls paneled in dark wood, curtains drawn over windows so tall I could stand on the sill and still not reach the top. A fireplace sits unlit across from the bed, the mantel carved with intricate detail.
Everything gleams. Polished wood, gilded trim, a rug so thick my toes sink into it.
It’s not comfort. It’s a cage with better furniture.
I stumble to the nearest window, yank the curtains open with shaking hands. Cold moonlight washes in, silvering the walls. Outside, there’s no city skyline. No neon. I see high stone walls and the black sprawl of an estate that stretches further than I can see. Trees rise at the edges, their branches clawing at the sky. The air is too still, too isolated.
My chest squeezes.
I tug at the latch. It doesn’t budge. The glass doesn’t even rattle when I slam my palm against it. A prison disguised as a mansion.
I back away, one step, then another, until the backs of my knees hit the bed. I sink down hard, clutching the blanket around my shoulders like it’s the only thing tethering me. My breath comes ragged.
I try to piece together how far I’ve been taken, how many hours passed between the gloved hand and this moment. My phone’s gone. My bag, my keys—gone.
Did anyone even see them take me?
A hollow laugh slips out, thin and bitter. Of course not. In this city, people look away. No one asks questions.
I pull the blanket tighter, digging my fingers into the fabric until my knuckles ache. My mind runs circles, chasing the same useless thoughts.Who sent them? Why me? Did someone know what I saw?
The memory of his voice threads through the panic, low and even:“Stay where you are.”
My stomach drops.
It has to be him. Dimitri Sharov.
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, try to shove the image of him away, but it clings. The way he looked at me when the door swung wider. Calm. Calculating. Dangerous.
A sound cuts through my spiraling. Footsteps. The kind of steps that don’t need to rush, because whoever’s making them already owns the space. They draw closer, each one a nail hammered into my chest. I freeze on the bed, blanket bunched around me, staring at the door as if I can will it to stay shut.
The knob shifts.
Whatever comes next, there’s no pretending I imagined any of it.
I catch a hint of him before I see the whole figure: the scent, sharp and familiar, cedar layered over something darker. My stomach knots.
When he finally steps through, there’s no mistaking him. Dimitri Sharov. He’s tall and tailored, his presence heavy enough to make the walls feel closer. His eyes sweep the room once, then land on me, and they don’t move.
