Page 30 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

Behind bars.

“What is this?” I demand, spinning back to him. “Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?”

He steps inside the cell, and the space shrinks instantly under the weight of his presence.

“You know damn well who I am and why I’m doing this,” he says slowly.

I swallow roughly. “I told you, I don’t know you.”

Then a cold, dead expression takes over his handsome face. Dark stubble covers the jawline of a Hollywood heartthrob.

“You better get to know me,” he says, leaning in. “I’m your husband.”

Chapter 8

Sandrine

Everything bends sideways.

“What?” I back up until I trip and my ass hits the poured concrete floor. “No. No, that’s not possible.”

Someone would have told me. Someone would have called him after my accident.

For a moment, I just sit there on the floor, my breath shallow, my mind scrambling to catch up to a reality that makes no sense. God, is this a dream? No, this would be a nightmare.

I open my mouth to argue again, but the man holds out his hand to the guard. “Keys.”

The guard immediately passes them over.

The man turns back toward me, his face unreadable in the dim light of the cell. For one insane second, I think he’s changing his mind. Letting me go. I get to my feet to run after him.

Instead, he catches my wrist. I flinch automatically, but his grip tightens just enough to still me.

“You’re not wearing these in here,” he says.

The key slides into the handcuffs with a sharp click. One side falls away, then the other, the metal dropping heavily against the concrete floor.

Relief rushes through my aching wrists so suddenly it almost hurts. Red marks show up on my skin. His gaze flicks to my hands, but he’s all cold edges and dark control seconds later.

“Get some sleep, dorogaya,” he says with no emotion. “Tomorrow will be easier if you stop fighting me.”

He leaves the cell without another word, his massive form now standing in the shadowy corridor. The cell door, made up of bars, closes with a metallic slam that reverberates through my chest.

The man steps away, his head down. The sound of his footsteps fades into the underground silence. I rub my sore wrists as panic crawls slowly up my spine.

I grip the bars hard enough to rattle them. But nothing happens. There’s no give. There’s no weakness. Glancing down, I see the tremor in my hands is back. I’m surprised everything hasn’t completely shut down. I feel like my disability is challenging me, and I’m winning this time.

I’m holding on.

Turning slowly, I take in the cell. There’s a narrow cot with a pillow and two folded blankets. Even the metal toilet bolted to the cinderblocks next to a tiny sink has a bit of a sparkle.

I wrap my arms around myself and grapple with what he told me.

He’s my husband. I’m his wife. He’s been looking for me for five years.

God, this is nuts.

Footsteps approach again, softer this time. A pleasant scent of perfume cuts through the damp concrete smell of this subterranean hell.