Page 41 of Innocent Prey of the Bratva

The silence stretches. I don’t break it. I won’t.

“I thought dinner might help,” he says finally. “Maybe we could talk.”

I let out a laugh—sharp, humorless. “Talk? About what? The weather? My imprisonment?”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t rise to the bait.

“You said you were a literature major,” he says instead. “What’s your favorite book?”

I give him a look that could cut steel. “You don’t get to ask me things like that, Kazimir.”

“I’m trying, Violet.”

“Well, don’t,” I snap. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Another pause. It drags, thick and slow. I can feel him watching me, but I refuse to meet his gaze. I push the food around on my plate. My appetite left me the night I was thrown into the back of a car and blindfolded.

He leans forward, voice softer. “You hate me. I can live with that. But starving yourself won’t make this better.”

“I’m not starving,” I mutter. “I’m just not hungry.”

His voice sharpens. “Why are you being like this, Violet?”

I finally snap. “Like what, Kaz? Like someone you kidnapped? Like someone who wants her life back?”

He slams his glass down. “You act like I haven’t given you comfort. Safety. Like I haven’t been—”

“Been what?” I cut him off. “My captor? My twisted benefactor? You think dressing me in silk and feeding me dinner erases the fact that I’m your prisoner?”

He shoots to his feet, his voice rising like thunder. “I never meant for this to happen—”

“Oh, spare me,” I snap. “You chose this. You chose to take me. You chose to watch me like some sick voyeur.”

He’s growling now, jaw tight. “You think I’m obsessed?”

“Aren’t you?” I fire back.

“Yes,” he snarls. “Yes, I’m obsessed. But not the way you think. You have no idea how deep this runs, Violet. I didn’t plan this. I didn’t expect you to burn through my fucking mind like a fever—”

I don’t let him finish. I grab the wine glass and throw it in his face. The liquid splashes across his skin, staining his shirt deep red.

“You’re a psycho,” I spit.

He doesn’t flinch.

Instead, he lunges forward and grabs my wrist, yanking me flush against his chest. My breath stutters. His hand is tight, but not painful—firm like a wall I can’t push through. My heart thunders.

His voice drops to a dangerous murmur, all fury and fire. “Then tell me why you’re trembling.”

My lips part. I can’t speak. I can’t breathe.

“Every time I touch you,” he continues, gaze burning into mine, “you start shaking. Why,solnyshko? What are you so afraid of?”

His Russian nickname coils around my neck like a leash.

I swallow hard, pulse hammering. My fingers twitch against the silk of his shirt. The heat of him. The scent. His nearness. It makes me dizzy. I stay frozen in his grip, our bodies so close I can feel the rise and fall of his chest. The pulse in my throat flutters wildly, and my lips move before my mind can catch up.

“I’ve never done this before,” I whisper.