Page 5 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #14)

Consciousness drips in slow.

Heavy, murky. Like surfacing through molasses. My head throbs in rhythm with my pulse, and my wrists—God, my wrists ache. A raw, deep throb radiates from where the rope bit into them. I shift slightly, and the chair beneath me scrapes faintly against the concrete.

The room stays dim. A single overhead bulb casts long shadows across the floor, swaying just enough to distort the space.

There’s a sound… low, steady. A hum, maybe mechanical, vibrating faintly through the soles of my feet.

It isn’t loud, but it’s constant, almost like the room itself is breathing.

I keep my eyes closed for a moment longer, cataloguing everything.

Chair: metal, cold, slightly uneven. Bolted down? No—just heavy.

Walls: too far to reach, but the echo says concrete. Industrial.

Footsteps: distant. Slow. Not close enough to panic over. That man hasn’t returned for me yet.

My breath is shallow, controlled. I’m not calm, but I’m here. I’m thinking. That has to count for something.

When I finally open my eyes, the chair tilts slightly as I straighten. My wrists tug against the rope out of reflex—and something shifts. Not pain. Something else. The rope feels… looser.

My heartbeat slams into my throat.

I freeze. Is it a mistake? Did he forget to retie it after checking?

It could be a test or a trap, but I don’t care. I won’t sit here and wait to be decided on.

I angle my hands, trying not to move my arms too much. The rope is coarse and burns as I twist against it, but there’s give. The knot isn’t tight. Maybe it never was. Maybe I’d been too disoriented to notice before.

My fingers work at it slowly, carefully. Breath held tight in my chest, shoulders still. Sweat gathers at my brow, sliding hot down my temple. My arms tremble from the effort.

A creak echoes from the hallway. I stop breathing.

Silence. Then nothing.

I move again.

Every scrape of rope on skin feels too loud, like I’m shouting into the walls. My lungs squeeze tighter with every breath. This is hope. It hurts more than the fear.

I feel it first. The slip.

A tug, a twist—and my right wrist slides free.

Thank God. Time to go.

I bolt from the chair.

My legs buckle at first, blood rushing too fast, muscles stiff from hours of stillness, but I catch myself against the floor with one trembling hand and push up. My knees scream, but I move anyway. No hesitation. No looking back.

I can’t look back.

The door to the room is slightly ajar. I don’t know if it was left that way or if I was too out of it to notice earlier, but I don’t stop to think about it. I slip through the opening, shoulders brushing cold metal, and find myself in a corridor.

Long. Gray. Empty.

It stretches ahead of me like something out of a nightmare—too clean, too quiet.

Industrial tile beneath my feet. Harsh fluorescents buzzing overhead.

The air smells like metal and something faintly chemical, like antiseptic that never fully fades.

Every door I pass is closed. Steel and unmarked, bolted shut or padlocked.

I try one at random, but it doesn’t budge.

A trap, part of me whispers. He’s behind one of these doors. Watching. Waiting.

I don’t stop. Can’t stop.

The soles of my shoes slap wet against the floor as I run.

I count each breath, ragged and sharp. My lungs are already burning.

Every rib throbs with a deep, aching bruise—the memory of his grip, the way he slammed me against the wall before everything went dark.

Pain blooms in waves, my body begging me to slow down, to collapse, to breathe.

I don’t.

My steps echo. Too loud, too fast, like a signal flare screaming through the silence.

My heart thunders in my chest, drowning everything else out.

I can’t hear if someone’s behind me. I can’t afford to care.

The hallway twists slightly ahead, dipping into shadow.

I round the corner, eyes scanning, searching for anything that looks like an exit—an opening, a weakness, something other.

The overhead lights flicker once, then again. A soft pulse, like the building itself is deciding whether to keep holding me in place.

I pass more doors. A mop bucket. A slatted vent too small to crawl through. One camera, suspended from the ceiling, the lens cracked. I don’t know if it’s recording. I don’t know if he is watching. I just keep going.

Each step feels like it might be the last. Every footfall heavier than the one before. My shoulder slams into the wall as I lose traction, skin scraping, balance tipping for a breathless second. I right myself, shove off the concrete, and run harder.

I’m not fast enough, but if I’m quick, maybe I can get out of here.

Then, at the far end of the hallway, faint light spills from beneath one of the doors.

The door is open.

The light is warm—amber-gold, soft, familiar.

My body surges toward it before my mind even catches up.

I grit my teeth and force myself forward, ignoring the pain in my side, the way my legs are starting to give out beneath me.

My fingers twitch like they want to fold into fists, but I need them open. I need them ready.

My shoes slap water where it’s pooled in seams along the floor. My breathing’s too loud now. Desperate.

I reach the door.

Fingers curl around the handle—cold steel, worn smooth by use. I hesitate for half a second. Not because I want to, but because I have to.

Is this it? Is this escape, or is this where he’s waiting? Is this what he wants ?

I shove the thought down and wrench the door open.

“You really thought I wouldn’t notice?” The voice cuts through the dark like a blade, a hint of laughter around the edges.

I freeze.

My hand still clutches the door handle, the glow of whatever lies beyond spilling over my shoes, brushing the walls, but it’s meaningless now. My breath catches. I spin, and there he is.

He steps out of the shadows like he’s been waiting there all along. No hurry in his stride. No surprise in his expression. His coat drips rainwater onto the floor, slow and steady. His eyes gleam under the flickering lights.

He’s calm, but there’s an amusement in his eyes I can’t deny.

I run.

It’s not a decision, I just move. My body acts before I can think. Three steps. That’s all I get. My foot slips in a puddle as I push toward the light again, toward the maybe-safety on the other side of that door.

His hand closes around my arm like iron.

He yanks me back, spins me fast enough that the hallway tilts. Then his weight crashes into me, slamming my back into the wall with a dull, echoing thud. Pain blossoms down my spine. My legs fold under me, but I don’t fall, and he pins me there with ease, like it costs him nothing.

A sound punches from my throat, half gasp, half sob.

His forearm presses across my chest, just below my throat. Heavy. Controlled. Not choking, but I feel it. The warning in his grip. The heat of his body pressed too close. The concrete behind me feels colder now, like the walls are part of the trap.

He leans in slightly, head tilted, watching me like I’m something breakable. Like he’s considering it.

“I like when they run,” he says, voice low enough that I feel it in my bones.

I bare my teeth. “Go to hell.”

He smiles faintly, not amused. “You’re not the first to think you could outsmart me.”

I shove against him, hands slapping at his chest, but it’s like trying to move a wall. My arms ache, and every inhale is sharp around the pressure of his arm.

“Hope’s a funny thing,” he laughs. “It always dies ugly.”

The rage in me builds hot and fast. I want to scream. I want to spit in his face. My vision blurs with fury, not tears. My whole body trembles from it, but I’m trapped.

His breath ghosts across my cheek, impossibly close. The wall digs into my spine. There’s nowhere left to run.

He leans in close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek, and something shifts.

It starts low. A flicker, buried beneath the fear and the rage. Heat blooms in my chest, crawling up my throat, flushing my face in a way I can’t explain and don’t want to name. My breath hitches. My pulse skips. It’s wrong. It’s so wrong, but it’s there.

My body betrays me.

Goose bumps race across my arms, the hairs at the back of my neck standing on end. A tremor slides through me, not just from the cold or the pressure of his arm. This is different. Hotter. More confusing. My chest rises too fast, lungs fighting for rhythm, and his eyes—God, his eyes see it.

Of course he does.

He watches me like he’s been waiting for this. His gaze narrows, scanning every inch of my face, studying the flush in my cheeks, the quiver at the edge of my mouth. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t taunt. His expression stays cold, precise.

I try to turn my head, to look away, to hide the truth written across my skin, but he doesn’t let me.

His hand comes up, fingers sliding beneath my chin. He tilts my face back toward him with a touch that’s disturbingly gentle. His fingers are warm, steady, the skin rough against mine.

I hate that I don’t flinch.

“You’ve never been touched,” he says, like the realization has only just hit.

Flat. Clinical. Not a question. A diagnosis.

He says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s written into the way I hold myself. Into the way I freeze under pressure and tremble under his hands. He names it like he’s peeling away a secret I didn’t even know I was keeping.

My lips part. I mean to say something. Deny it. Call him a liar. Scream.

Nothing comes out. My silence answers for me.

Something changes in his gaze.

It’s subtle, but I feel it before I see it.

His smirk fades—not into softness, but into something heavier.

Something darker. A stillness settles over him, the kind that coils beneath the surface like a predator crouched before the pounce.

Every part of him stills except his eyes, and those keep moving—tracking me, drinking me in like I’m not just prey but something worth keeping.

He doesn’t look like he wants to kill me; he looks like he wants to own me.

“You’re beautiful when you’re scared,” he murmurs.

The words slide over my skin like ice. My stomach twists.

“That’s what makes you interesting.”

His thumb strokes beneath my jaw once. He looks curious, like he’s handling something rare and delicate. Something he’s about to dismantle just to see how it works.

“They scream the same at the end,” he continues, voice lower now, almost thoughtful. “It’s the ones who start whole that are more satisfying to ruin.”

My blood goes cold.

This isn’t about silencing me. It’s not about punishment for what I saw, or fear that I might tell someone. This is about me. About what I represent. About the fact that I walked in untouched, unshaped, and now—he wants to mold the rest.

I realize that if I scream, it won’t save me. It’ll excite him.

The thought sends a jolt through me, and I try—desperately—to blank my expression.

To retreat behind my eyes. I press my lips together.

I tell myself to breathe slowly. To be nothing.

But my body betrays me again. A tremor rolls down my spine.

My throat bobs with the swallow I can’t hold back.

My skin is hot, flushed, my breath shallow and unsteady.

He sees all of it.

His hand slides from my chin to my throat again. His palm just rests there—warm and solid, thumb brushing the hollow of my throat. I feel his pulse through his skin, steady and sure. His grip isn’t tight, but the promise is there. He could cut me off at any second.

He won’t. Not now. This is control. Power, without even needing force.

My skin tingles under his touch. My body is still trembling, still locked in fear, but something else lives under it. Something shameful and low, burning in the pit of my stomach. I hate him. I do. Every breath he takes near me makes my skin crawl.

A part of me—some deep, hidden, wrong part—wants to know what comes next.

His gaze drops to my mouth, then returns to my eyes.

“I could ruin you right now,” he says softly.

We both know he’s right.

He smiles, the kind of smile someone gives a gift they didn’t expect to enjoy unwrapping—curious at first, then pleased. Possessive. Like he’s savoring the anticipation more than the act itself.

It’s the understanding that stops me cold. The realization that he’s made up his mind.

Whatever game he was playing before, whatever hesitation had flickered in him earlier, it’s gone now. The decision is settled in his eyes, carved in the way his mouth curves, in the weight of his hand on my throat. I’m not a problem anymore. I’m a choice.

Something he’s going to take his time with.

His thumb strokes my skin once more, slow and firm, as if he wants to memorize the shape of me before he carves it into something new. I try not to move. Try not to breathe.

It doesn’t matter.

“You’re going to give me something no one else has.”