Page 37 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

After making the turns, I reach a staircase. My legs go so weak that they collapse under my weight.

“No. No!” I yell, terrified of stairs.

Kirill’s large hands catch me. “I got you.” He lifts me up and carries me up the stairs like I weigh nothing.

“Stop it. Let me go!”

At the top, he puts me down, but keeps a hand on my arm. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I don’t believe you.” I can still feel the heat of him without him touching me.

“Then believe me.” The woman from earlier is there. Ksenia. “You’re safe here. I promise you.”

I don’t believe her either. I can’t. Not when every instinct in my body is screaming that I’ve been taken somewhere I don’t belong.

Not that I can run. I’m cornered, and my best option is to get behind a closed door. Away from these people.

“This way.” Kirill guides me down another hallway. Against all reason, following this man feels safer than standing there alone. “This is our wing,” he announces over his shoulder.

“Our wing?” I repeat above a whisper.

“The residence,” he says, clearing his throat.

Residence.

“Is this a home?”

Kirill makes eye contact with Ksenia, who was following us.

“It’s our home.” Kirill opens a set of double doors and ushers me inside. “This is your bedroom.”

It’s not what I expected. It isn’t another cell, and it’s not a cold, sterile room I had at Lakeshore either.

It’s two rooms, really. A small sitting room with a plush blue sofa and a gold wing-backed chair angled toward a flat-screen television over a fireplace.

A desk sits adjacent to a bookcase. There’s a tall window behind it with heavily embroidered drapes and dangling tassels. They are drawn back just enough to reveal the faint glow of a street light.

Is it night?

I lost track of time. I had an appointment this afternoon. We left Marlowe at… I forget. We stopped for ice cream because we had time. Then this man jumped out of a car and stole me from my life.

And brought me to a mansion.

“Sit,” Kirill says, gesturing to the sofa.

“Do you want me to stay?” Ksenia asks me as an offer of comfort.

“Are you going to hurt me?” I ask Kirill.

“No,” he says right away.

“You can leave,” I tell the woman. “But keep the door open, please.”

“Be patient, Kirill,” his sister says, her voice a warning.

I lower myself onto the sofa, my body feeling so heavy as the weight of everything crashes in all at once.

Kirill folds himself into the chair across from me, his movements controlled as if he’s forcing himself into a state of restraint.