Page 14 of Innocent Prey of the Bratva

Tears prick at my eyes, and I wipe them away furiously. I won’t cry. I won’t. But the moment my back hits the bed frame, the dam breaks. I bury my face in my hands and sob—quietly, helplessly, terrified.

Because I don’t know how to get out of this.

And I don’t know if anyone will even come looking.

Chapter 4 – Kaz

The screen glows in front of me, cold and quiet. The footage plays in real time—no sound, just grainy night vision. Violet is curled in the bed, knees to her chest, face buried in the pillow. Still trembling.

I know I shouldn’t be watching.

But I can’t stop.

There are five other camera feeds open in smaller windows on my monitor—garage, hallway, front gate, perimeter sensors. But the only one I’m really watching is hers.

Violet.

She’s sobbing into the sheets, thinking she’s alone. Thinking no one can see her like this. And fuck me—I hate how it makes something twist in my chest.

She’s scared out of her mind. That’s obvious. I told her to rest, but how the hell can someone rest after being dragged into a stranger’s mansion and locked in a goddamn room?

It was necessary. That’s what I told myself.

But now…now I can’t stop staring.

She tosses again, restlessly. Wipes her eyes. Tries to get comfortable.

Then I notice it.

Her hand—clutching something at her throat. A chain.

She keeps holding it. Even when she’s half-asleep. Even when she jolts awake again in a panic, gasping like she’s still being chased.

It’s a reflex. A comfort.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, narrowing my eyes on the screen. I’ve had that same damn feed open for almost four hours now. And still—I can’t pull myself away.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I’ve seen women cry before. Beg. Break.

But this? This is different.

I’m not supposed to care.

But the way she curls into herself, like she’s trying to disappear…it’s not weakness. It’s the kind of grief you carry alone. The kind of fear that doesn’t come from just tonight—it’s deeper. Older.

I grit my teeth and lean back, dragging a hand over my jaw.

I shouldn’t go to her. I want to, yes—but I know exactly what that would turn into. I know what I’d do if I walked through that door, saw her tear-streaked face, smelled her fear and skin.

And she’s vulnerable right now. Sad. Broken open. It would be wrong. So I stay seated. Watching. Still pretending this is just business.

Still lying to myself.

I’ve always been attracted to her, but I let the distance grow wide because she’s not about this life. But now she’s here, and I’m too stubborn to let her walk away.

I clench my fists and tear my eyes away from the monitor. Every instinct in me screams to stay, to keep watching, to convince myself that I’m doing this for control—for security.