Page 23 of Innocent Prey of the Bratva

I watch from the corner of my eye as he picks up a plate—his movements slow, deliberate. He spoons some of the foodonto it with care, not like a man used to commanding death and fear, but like someone…trying. It throws me off.

He crosses the room and stops at the foot of the bed. “Eat.”

I don’t move.

His voice hardens just slightly. “Violet.”

Still nothing.

Then he crouches down, holding the plate out like an offering. His eyes find mine, sharp but steady. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, I do.

“I want you healthy,” he says. “Thriving. I didn’t bring you here to waste away in a corner. I don’t know how long you’ll be here, but while you are, you will eat. You will sleep. You will live.”

There’s no threat in his voice—no anger. Just cold certainty. And something else, something too close to…care.

“I won’t let you die,” he adds, softer now. “I won’t let you destroy yourself just to spite me.”

For a second, I falter. There’s something frighteningly real in his words. Not softness, exactly—but conviction. Like he means every word he’s saying. Like he actually cares if I waste away in this room or not.

I don’t take the plate. But I don’t look away, either.

Kaz watches me for a long moment after I don’t take the plate. The air is thick—almost charged—and I hate that I feel it. I hate that I feel anything.

Then, without a word, he sets the plate aside and reaches with his hand instead. Picks up a small piece of roasted potato. His fingers move slowly, deliberately, as he brings it to my lips.

I glare at him. “I’m not your pet,” I snap.

“No,” he says simply, eyes locked to mine. “You’re mine.”

I don’t get the chance to argue, because his fingers brush against my mouth—lightly, like a dare—and my breath catches.

“Eat,ptichka,” he murmurs. “You’ll need your strength.”

Another Russian nickname. I still don’t know what they mean, but something about the way he says them makes my stomach twist.

My lips part, maybe out of rebellion, maybe out of resignation—I don’t even know anymore—and I let him place the food in my mouth. His fingers are warm, his skin calloused. I chew slowly, my heart pounding like I just ran a marathon instead of eating a damn potato.

He watches me like he’s memorizing every flicker of emotion on my face.

When I finish, he feeds me again—this time with a piece of grilled chicken. His knuckles graze my cheek, and I shiver despite myself.

“You’re shaking,” he says quietly.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

His voice is low and steady, but his pupils have dilated just slightly. There’s a muscle ticking in his jaw like he’s trying to control something—his breath, his thoughts, his restraint.

I wish I could say I’m unaffected. That his proximity doesn’t scramble my thoughts or that the scent of his cologne—dark wood and smoke and something I can’t place—doesn’t make me want to lean closer. But my heartbeat is in my throat, thundering too loud.

His thigh brushes mine where he kneels in front of me. His hand hovers too close to my knee.

And when he raises another bite to my mouth, his voice dips even lower.

“Good girl.”