Page 6 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
“Where are you taking me?” My voice cracks, wild with panic. “You can’t do this. Do you know who I am?”
Silence.
I thrash against the binds, wrists scraping raw, plastic cutting deeper. “Let me go! You’ve made a mistake. I didn’t—”
Still nothing. Only the low rumble of the engine, the shuffle of armored bodies around me.
My throat burns. “I’ll pay you. Whatever you’re getting, I’ll double it. Triple. You don’t have to—”
A voice cuts through, low and sharp, Russian curling hard around consonants I don’t understand. Just a few words, muttered like an afterthought, but the tone slices me open. Cold. Certain. Not a man bluffing for effect.
Ice floods my veins.
I sink back, heart hammering, lungs shrinking. My mind whirls, desperate to cling to reason. Was it the job last night? That anonymous message, the obscene payout, the system that felt too large, too clean. Did I cross someone untouchable? Was it bait?
Denial claws in first. It’s too soon. No one could’ve traced me, not that fast. My encryption is airtight. I was careful. I’ve always been careful.
Then anger, burning hot through the cracks. They’re wrong. They think I’m someone else. They don’t know who they’ve taken.
The fire fizzles quick, replaced by terror. Deep down, I know. This isn’t random. This isn’t mistaken identity. They came for me, and they know exactly what I’ve done.
The blindfold digs into my skin, fabric rasping every time I move. My wrists throb from the ties, circulation cut off until my hands buzz with numbness. The SUV jolts over uneven pavement, nausea curling low in my stomach. I try to count turns, track speed, measure the time in heartbeats, but everything bleeds together. Minutes, miles, I can’t tell. Exhaustion licks at the edges, pulling me down.
I force myself to focus, to gather scraps like I would behind a keyboard. Data. Clues.
The language, it was Russian. Professional, though I couldn’t understand the words themselves.
The silence of the others was disciplined. No nervous chatter, no hesitation. Precision even in their stillness.
The smell of expensive leather, sharp cologne undercut with smoke. Not the stink of amateurs. These men are owned, commanded.
Even blind, even bound, my brain claws for patterns, details, anything to hold on to. It’s instinct, the part of me that refuses to go blank, but data doesn’t soften the truth.
I’m in their hands now. Whoever they are, they came prepared.
The SUV slows, the growl of its engine dropping to a low, deliberate purr. My stomach lurches with the shift, nausea swelling as the tires crunch over gravel.
The air feels thicker here, quieter, except for the faint groan of iron gates parting. Their hinges scream before clanging shut again, the sound reverberating like a lock snapping shut on a cage.
Muffled voices drift in from outside, deep and commanding, their Russian tones sharp even through the closed doors. Orders, maybe. Warnings. The kind of voices men obey without hesitation.
The vehicle jerks to a halt. Hands seize me, dragging me out into the night. Cold air smacks my skin, heavy with the scent of rain-soaked stone and something acrid underneath; oil, smoke, wealth. The blindfold is yanked away, and light slams into my eyes.
I flinch hard, tears stinging as the world bursts back in too bright, too sharp. For a moment, I can’t see. The afterimage of the SUV headlights burns into my retinas, white blotches swimming. Then slowly, the scene bleeds into focus.
An estate opens before me, sprawling and terrible. The architecture rises in looming slabs of stone, old and immovable, the kind of building meant to outlive centuries and intimidate anyone who approaches. Wrought-iron gates gleam behind us, spikes catching the floodlights, a barrier as final as prison bars.
Gardens stretch along the drive, manicured hedges sculpted into perfection, every line precise. But the symmetry suffocates, more a display of dominance than beauty. The air itself tastes expensive—polished, refined—but edged with menace, like perfume over blood.
Guards stand along the drive, motionless, statues dressed in tailored black. Their eyes never shift, but I feel them all the same, heavy and unrelenting. Cars glitter under the lights, sleek and gleaming, luxury lined up like trophies. The wealth radiates, but so does danger. It’s a kingdom carved out of both.
My knees nearly give out. The realization crashes in hard, stealing the air from my lungs. This isn’t random. This isn’t about money, or trafficking, or being in the wrong place. I’ve been delivered directly to someone powerful enough to send men into my home, rip me from my world, and bring me here.
Last night’s job flashes through me again—encrypted files, impossible payout, the thrill of cracking open a fortress that should’ve been unbreakable. It hadn’t been harmless. It hadn’t been anonymous. It had been bait, or worse, a trap I walked into with my eyes wide shut.
Fear drags at me, heavy and paralyzing. I want to move, to run, to fight… but my body rebels, legs quivering as though they might buckle beneath me. The binds still bite into my wrists, anchoring me, forcing me to stand there exposed.
Movement at the front doors catches my gaze. A silhouette emerges, blurred against the brilliance of floodlights. Tall. Straight-backed. Waiting. The presence radiates control, a weight pressing down even from a distance. I can’t see the face, but I don’t need to. Power clings to him like a second skin.
