Page 4 of Forced Bratva Hostage (Dubrov Bratva #15)

The door closes, and I stir awake, roused by the sound of his quiet footsteps on the wooden floor of this musty cabin.

It smells like old wood and damp forest.

I don’t really want to admit it, but I kind of like the smell. If I close my eyes and ignore the handcuffs cutting into my wrists, I imagine this is what camping might smell like. Earth and nature.

I’m exhausted, right down to my bones. My head is aching, my throat is sore, and I’m thirty and tired and hungry and cold and annoyed. Every muscle is sore because of the weird positions I had to sleep in with my hands locked against this shelf.

I can’t believe this asshole left me like this.

Stupidly, I kicked the blankets off last night, almost as soon as he left. And I’ve been freezing cold all night, which didn’t help me get any decent sleep. Not that I was expecting to get any.

Rolling onto my back, I realize my dress is all the way up around my waist, and I groan loudly. That asshole got a full show this morning.

My eyes drift to the tiny window. From the mattress on the floor I have a view of the sky. It’s starting to glow with pale pink and baby blue tints as the sun slowly creeps into the sky.

It’s really pretty.

From my bedroom back at the estate, I can see a road and a big hill far in the distance. The sky isn’t always clear—not like this—because we are right on the edge of the city.

In the morning, the air sometimes smells like traffic, sometimes like the ocean, but never like the forest. Never like this.

I roll onto my tummy and crawl forward, dragging the cuffs up the shelves and standing so that I can pull my dress down. It’s awkward and difficult, but I manage.

Then I lean with my back against the wall and sigh loudly.

I need to pee.

And I’m not using that fucking bucket.

I hate having to ask for help, but right now I have no choice.

“Hello,” I shout into the cabin, rolling my eyes to try and dispel my annoyance. “Hey, Mr. Asshole Kidnapper—I have to pee,” I shout again.

The door pushes open, and he’s standing there, his face void of emotion as he silently stares at me in the dim morning light.

“I have to pee.”

He glances at the bucket, not saying a word.

“Oh, come on, you cannot be serious about that,” I huff. There is no way I am peeing in a bucket. Not a chance. And then what—he’s going to clean it out and bring it back? No. Not happening.

The mischievous smile that slowly spreads across his lips makes my heart skip.

Fuck.

He’s actually fucking gorgeous.

I wasn’t paying attention last night.

But damn, this man is fucking sexy. His blonde hair is long enough to be messy, tousled around by his hand as he obviously tried to brush it out of his eyes.

Even in the low light, I can see how green his eyes are, piercing and full of mystery. There is a dark tattoo on the side of his neck, framing his jaw and running down, out of sight beneath his shirt.

I bite my bottom lip and scrunch my nose up. I should not be perving my kidnapper. There are psychiatric diagnosis for people who end up attracted to their kidnappers. Hell no.

But still, my eyes roam his broad shoulders, the solid, sculpted muscles pressing against the tight black T-shirt he’s wearing.

I huff out a sharp breath.

“Just take these stupid things off my wrists so that I can go to the bathroom like a normal person,” I demand.

He tilts his head to the side, deciding.

Impatience gets the better of me and I kick the mattress, hurting my foot, but pretending I’m fine.

“Dammit, weirdo, have you got some kind of pee fetish? Are you going to give yourself a golden shower or something when you take the bucket away?”

He sneers and narrows his eyes at me.

“If you try anything, I’ll make sure you regret it. I haven’t finished making my coffee yet, and I’m in no mood to deal with you yet.”

“Oh gee, thanks for offering me some, too,” I snap.

To my relief, the asshole steps forward, pulling a key from his pocket. He slips it into the handcuffs and unclips one side, setting me free, but leaving me with a heavy steel bracelet on my left hand.

He steps aside, gesturing for me to walk.

In my head, I calculate my chances, but remembering how easily he tossed me around last night, I know they aren’t good.

He lifts me, with one freaking arm, and doesn’t even bat an eye over it.

I can’t win in a battle of strength, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try and outsmart him.

Men like him are dumb animals.

Brutal idiots with one-track minds.

As I walk, I start limping, just slightly.

When I’m sure I have his attention as he follows me towards the bathroom, I bend over, rubbing my ankle, putting on a little show.

“I think I sprained it,” I say weakly, glancing at him over my shoulder and pouting.

He says nothing.

His cold stare spikes into me.

“If you possibly have some painkillers for me…” I murmur, trying to make puppy eyes at him.

Still, he says nothing.

His stoic disinterest pisses me off. I end up pouting for real and storming into the bathroom in a huff. Reaching behind me, I slam the door with as much effort as I can muster to ensure it makes a really loud noise.

In the bathroom, I pee. I wasn’t faking that. I’ve been holding it for over an hour, and it was interfering with the minimal sleep I got.

Sighing in relief, I sit on the toilet and look around the dreary bathroom. It’s such a boy bathroom. Bland and boring and empty.

After I’m done, I take a good look at myself in the mirror. Sheesh, my hair is everywhere. My mascara is blotched beneath my eyes, and my cheeks are red.

No wonder my pouting didn’t work. I look like a clown.

Using the corner of a towel, I wipe the makeup clean and do my best to look presentable. It’s not that I care about looking good for him, but if I’m going to charm him, I need to look cute.

I have no elastic for my hair; it got lost at some point last night, so I braid it over my shoulder and try to twist the end so it doesn’t come loose.

Okay.

I can do this.

He’s just a man.

Men are easy and predictable. I think . I haven’t had any experience with them at all because my brother never let me date anyone.

But at the same time, I’m not an idiot. I’m not blind.

I see the way every single one of the guards watches me and Van.

That creepy fucking sicko. His gaze always makes me want to gag. I know what he’s thinking.

Men like women to be weak and helpless. All I need to do is play the little damsel in distress and it will melt this guy’s willpower to a puddle of nothing. Then I can escape.

Before I open the bathroom door, I get into character. It’s showtime.

He’s still standing there, waiting for me as I step into the hall.

“Thank you. I honestly appreciate you being kind enough to let me use the bathroom,” I say, keeping my voice innocent and quiet. No more shouting, no more cursing.

As I walk past him, I stumble a little and fall against him, pressing my body against his. Briefly, I’m distracted. My hand drifts over his chest, and I get a taste of just how sculpted his stomach is. Holy fuck.

Wow.

Um.

Focus, Tia.

“Sorry,” I whisper, looking up at him with wide eyes and a little pout. “My foot is hurting. I-I didn’t mean to—" My fingers spread across his chest, and I bite my lower lip.

The guy reaches down and grabs my hand, tugging me away from his perfect, masculine, Adonis body. I gasp as he moves me roughly away from him, pushing my back up against the wall as he towers over me.

“Nice try, little bunny. Do you think I’m stupid? That wasn’t even good acting. You can’t switch from the gutter mouth you had last night to a sweet little angel in a matter of thirty seconds and expect me to fall for it.” His body is hot against mine, his lips inches from my face.

I could stand on my tiptoes and kiss him.

For some reason, that is all I can think about right now.

Dammit.

He pushes away from me, and with his massive hand gripping my wrist, he drags me past the bedroom into the living room area, shoves me onto the sofa, and snaps the other end of the cuffs closed over the leg of a coffee table, the carved out design stopping me from slipping away.

Eyeing the table, I pull my mouth to the side.

“Um. I could just pick this table up and leave,” I say in disbelief.

He shrugs.

“Go for it. Barefoot, running through the forest carrying a coffee table that weighs maybe forty, fifty pounds, in a dress that hardly covers your ass—I’d be interested to see how far you get.”

I can’t hide my disdain as I glare at him with hatred. He shows no emotion at all, and in this moment, his coldness reminds me of Boris.

Is this how all men are? Selfish, emotionless, cold, miserable, dickheads?

Is my entire life going to be like this—being pushed and pulled to fit into whatever role a man needs from me? Like a tool, a puzzle piece in someone else’s plan? It’s clear that’s all I am to this guy. I’m a means to an end. He said it himself.

He’s bossy, arrogant, and clearly doesn’t give a shit about me.

Letting out a heavy sigh, I flop sideways against the sofa, because it’s the only way I can get comfortable with one wrist attached to a stupid table.

I watch him as he wanders over to the kitchen area, making himself a coffee, not bothering to offer me one.

I refuse to beg him for anything. Not even coffee.

His phone rings, and with his back towards me, he answers it, and I listen to the one-sided conversation.

“That’s good news. Yes. Yes, I’ll send the location. Now is good.”

He slides the phone back into his pocket.

“Uber eats?” I sass. “I don’t like pineapple on my pizza.”

While he paces around the cabin, I amuse myself, trying to push his buttons. I talk about nothing and everything, yapping on without pausing. Every now and then, he glances at me, but nothing is working. Does this guy have an infinite amount of patience or something? Is that his superpower?

A car pulls up outside, the wheels scrunching against dirt. I sit up, tense and focused.

“Who is it?” I blurt out.

“A surprise,” he murmurs without inflection.

I don’t know what I was expecting, sitting tensely on the edge of the sofa, but a priest was not it. There is another man standing behind him.

“Door-to-door exorcisms?” I ask. “I don’t think you should do it. Whatever is possessing you might be the only personality you’ll ever have.”

He ignores me, but the priest is constantly glancing my way.

“Ready?” the man asks.

“Andrei, I wasn’t aware she wasn’t exactly willing—"

“The witness says otherwise. Let’s get this done.” Andrei snaps.

Andrei.

The asshole has a name.

The man who has been referred to as the witness walks in with a smirk on his face. “From what I see this evening, she is more than willing. If anyone has any questions afterwards, she looked rather happy about it.”

“Thanks, man.” Andrei nods towards the guy.

“Hey, you paid me enough for this favor.” He chuckles.

Andrei leans over me, the scent of his skin teasing me for a moment, and he undoes the cuff from the table and snaps it onto his wrist.

“What’s going on?” I ask, terrified, slowly realizing exactly what is going on. “You can’t be serious. I’m not marrying you. Why would you want to get married? I don’t even know you. This is—no—you cannot be serious—"

Andrei drags me towards the edge of the kitchen counter, where the priest has set up some papers and is standing, fidgeting and nervous.

“Andrei? Andrei, come on, no—" I plead.

“You can begin.” He ignores me and speaks to the priest.

The witness leans casually against the wall, watching this scene unfold.

To my horror, the guy starts reciting vows.

Panic bolts through me, and I’m kicking and twisting and fighting again. I try and spin towards Andrei so that I can knee him right where it’ll hurt the most, but he’s fast, and each movement is controlled and smooth. Effortless. It’s like he can see every choice I make before I make it.

Andrei locks his arm around my waist and drags me close to him so that my back is pinned against his chest. We are both facing the priest. I can’t even move. My eyes are wide and horrified, and the priest is staring at me with the same tension in his.

“Come on. Get it done—we really don’t need all the formalities.” Andrei huffs, annoyed.