Page 11 of Innocent Prey of the Bratva

I writhe, the ropes biting into my skin.

A sharp pain explodes in the back of my head—something hard slams against me—and then everything goes black.

***

I wake up slowly, my head throbbing like I’ve been hit with a sledgehammer. Everything is too bright at first, too white. When I try to sit up, my limbs scream in protest.

Where the hell—?

My eyes adjust.

This…isn’t my apartment.

Far from it.

I’m on a massive bed—satin sheets, too soft pillows, the scent of something expensive and masculine lingering in the air. The floors are gleaming marble, the walls sleek and white with subtle gold trim. Thick silk curtains spill down from the massive windows across the room, sunlight bleeding through them in streaks.

There’s only one door across the room. It looks heavy, and it has no visible handle. Wherever I am, it’s not just expensive. It’s a cage.

Panic prickles beneath my skin as I push off the bed and pad toward the window, desperate for a glimpse of the outside world—anything to tell me where I’ve been taken.

I barely touch the curtain before the door swings open behind me. I freeze when I hear footsteps. Heavy, confident. Then a voice I don’t recognize but instantly know.

I turn and meet the same pair of icy blue eyes that have tormented me since last night. Those icy blue eyes I saw through the flash of my camera that night.

It’s him.

The man from the alley.

The one who pulled the trigger.

The one who saw me.

And now, he’s here—inches away—and I’m completely at his mercy. He steps inside like he owns the air in the room. I won’t be surprised.

“Hello, Violet,” he rumbles. “My name is Kaz. Welcome to my home. Did you sleep comfortably?”

He’s impeccably dressed in a dark shirt, slacks that fit like they were tailored straight onto his body, and shoes that don’t make a sound against the marble. There’s a quiet kind of power in the way he moves—like he doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone. His icy blue eyes lock on mine, unreadable…but not empty. There’s something beneath the surface.

I’m usually good at reading people, but I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

He doesn’t come close. Just stands there, watching me like I’m a puzzle he intends to solve piece by piece.

Even as my heart hammers with rage and fear, I feel it—that strange, sharp pull.

God help me.

Because despite the stress coursing through my veins, despite the fury burning under my skin, I can’t lie to myself: He’s devastatingly attractive. The kind of handsome that doesn’t try too hard because it doesn’t have to. There’s something about the confidence he carries like a second skin—something magnetic.

And under any other circumstances…hell, I might’ve flirted with him. Might’ve smiled and teased and leaned a little closer just to see how he’d react.

But this isn’t normal.

This isn’t cute.

This man kidnapped me.

And no matter how infuriatingly desirable his presence is—how much my body reacts before my mind can shut it down—I won’t forget that.