Page 15 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
The room contracts around me, gold and velvet turning into bars tighter than the rusted cell below. At least the cell was honest in its cruelty. This is another kind of prison, gilded and smiling, with chains I can’t hack or break. A vow is stronger than a lock, harder to escape.
The woman doesn’t flinch. She gestures, and other women appear—maids, assistants, whatever they are—carrying hangers draped with white silks and lace gowns. They fan them across the room, an array of glittering cages masquerading as dresses.
Their hands reach for me, gentle but firm, as though they’ve done this before, as though resistance is expected and meaningless.
I stumble back until my shoulders slam against the wall. “No!” My voice cracks into a scream. My chest heaves, heart pounding against bone until I think it might break free.
Hands close on my arms, tugging me toward the wardrobe. The rustle of silk grows louder, suffocating, the smell of pressed fabric filling my nose until I gag.
Something snaps. Panic combusts into raw desperation.
I shove one of them away, hard enough she stumbles into the rack. My hands lash out blindly, knocking over a line of hangers, dresses collapsing in a tangle across the carpet. The crash of the rack echoes through the chamber like gunfire.
Before they recover, I bolt.
My bare feet slam against polished wood, carrying me through the doorway and into the hall. The cold from the stone cell still clings to my skin, but adrenaline lights me from the inside. My lungs burn, my pulse deafening in my ears.
I don’t look back. I run.
The corridors stretch endless before me, marble floors gleaming under chandelier light, oil paintings staring down with frozen, judgmental eyes. My bare feet slap the stone, stinging, but I barely register the pain. Adrenaline burns hotter, urging me forward, every step an act of desperation. My hair flies loose around my face, my breaths come in ragged gasps, each one tearing my chest open wider.
Behind me, footsteps explode into echoes—shouts, commands, the frantic cries of staff calling after me. I can’t make out the words, can’t separate Russian from English, because my heartbeat drowns everything. The corridors blur, gilded hallsrepeating like a maze, each one identical, designed to confuse. I don’t care. I just run, wild and blind.
I slam into a set of double doors, the impact rattling through my shoulders. I shove them open with all my weight, stumbling into a room thick with smoke and silence.
The air changes instantly. It reeks of cigars and vodka, of power steeped into wood and leather. Heavy curtains keep the world outside, while chandeliers glimmer low, throwing shards of light across polished surfaces. The smell of him—cologne threaded with smoke—hangs here heavier than anywhere else.
Men lounge inside, leaning against desks and chairs, glasses of vodka in hand, their laughter dying the instant they see me. Silence slices through the haze.
Every eye finds me. Their gazes drag over my bare legs, my thin shift, the panic painted across my face. I feel stripped without a single hand touching me, my humiliation scorching hotter than the cold floors underfoot. My pulse hammers against my throat, but I stand frozen, trapped in the weight of their stares.
And then his voice cuts through.
“Out.”
Just one word. It slices sharper than any blade.
Rostya sits behind his desk, posture relaxed, but power radiates from him like cold from ice. His gaze sweeps across the room once, chilled and commanding, and every man obeys instantly. They scatter, no questions, no protest, the scrape of chairs and shuffle of boots vanishing toward the door.
The heavy silence left behind feels worse.
Now it’s only him, and me.
My body is trembling, every muscle buzzing from fear and adrenaline, but fury cuts through it sharp. My throat burnswhere his fingers bruised me earlier, and still I force the words out, spitting them like venom.
“I’ll never bend to you!” I snap, my voice cracking on the edges but steady at its core. “I’ll never belong to you.”
The air thickens between us. My heart stutters, but I hold his gaze, refusing to drop my eyes. Fear claws at me, yes, but I let rage wrap around it like armor.
Rostya rises from his chair. Not fast, not dramatic. He doesn’t need theatrics. The scrape of wood against stone as he pushes back from the desk is enough to make my pulse slam harder. He moves unhurried, each step precise, deliberate, like a predator circling prey that has nowhere left to run.
He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t need to. Silence is the rope he winds around me, pulling tighter with every step. His eyes never leave mine, and the longer I meet them, the smaller I feel, like I’m shrinking under a weight I can’t fight.
Then, without warning, his body shifts. A swift, brutal motion. His boot snaps out, striking behind my knee with perfect precision.
Pain sparks, and my leg buckles. I crumple, knees slamming against the polished floor so hard the shock rattles up my spine. The sound echoes in the cavernous office, cruel punctuation to my collapse.
His shadow looms over me. His voice drops low, cruel, murmured just for me. “Look at you now.”
