Page 2 of Ruthless Bratva's Forced Virgin
Well, Sofia was right, wasn’t she?
As I tried to disappear into the crowd, my phone buzzed. I thought about keeping my pace and ignoring the phone until I got home. But I looked anyway.
It was a text that read:
End of week. Last warning. You know what happens next.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket. And that was when someone grabbed my left arm. I was stopped so fast I nearly stumbled. He was broad-shouldered and unhurried, dressed in a dark jacket that did nothing to hide the particular kind of stillness that came with men who had done this many times before. Behind me, I heard the second set of footsteps close the distance.
“Elena.” The man in front of me said my name the way people said the names of things they owned. Flat. Possessive. “You’ve been avoiding our calls.”
“I’ve been working.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. I was acutely aware of the second man at my back now, close enough that I could hear him breathe. “I’ll have something by the weekend—”
“The debt has doubled.” He said it conversationally. As though we were discussing the weather. “You understand what that means, yes? Every week you run, it doubles again. At some point, there is no number you can reach.”
I couldn’t exactly say why I half-rolled my eyes but I did.
He smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Here is the thing,Lenochka(Little Lena). Petrov might not be so interested in the number.” He tilted his head toward me slightly, and something in his expression shifted— a casual cruelty surfacing beneath the pleasantry. “But there are other ways to settle what you owe. No one said you couldn’t work it off on other ways. You’re a pretty girl.”
I’d be lying if I said such dirty proposition was entirely new to me. I was a showgirl, after all. Men, both drunk and sober, had made all sorts of stupid suggestions to me in that regard. But did that make me feel any less cheap? Absolutely not. Especially considering the fact that it was coming from these rascals.
“No,” I spat, utterly disgusted. The word came out sharp and shaking. I took a step back and collided with the second man, who grabbed my arm hard enough to bruise.
“Easy,” the second one said close to my ear. “Nobody wants trouble.”
I didn’t think. I scratched. I twisted, dragged my nails down the back of his hand, felt him hiss and tighten his grip, and I shoved with everything I had. It bought me about three feet and a second of confusion before the first man caught my other wrist and yanked me sideways, and then we were at the mouth of the alley.
I screamed. Not for anyone in particular, it was just instinctive noise tearing out of my throat. The first man swore and clamped a hand over my mouth. My bag hit the pavement. I bit down on his palm and he jerked back, and I got one free swing that connected with nothing useful before the second man grabbed and lifted me off the floor. The black car I sighted idling on thecurb made my insides shake with the cold realization that this wasn’t business as usual. It wasn’t a scare tactic.
This is an abduction.
This is where it ends. I’ll be at their disposal. And I won’t even have a say in what happens next.
The car door opened and, almost immediately, the man holding the door opened fell to the floor.
As I watched in shock, the arms around me loosened. Not because the man holding me decided to be kind but because someone smacked the side of his head.
I hit the pavement on my feet by pure reflex and spun around. That was when I saw the man who had delivered the halting blow.
He was tall. No, not just that, he was broad. His suit was as dark as the aura his expression gave off. The kind of stillness that wasn’t calm but control. The kind that came from certainty that he was the most dangerous thing in any room he walked into.
He said something low in Russian.
The man with the raised hands went white.
They left. More like ran after trying to salvage their pride with threats as they passed me. And then it was just me and Mr. Dark and Dangerous in the alley behind the club. I was at a loss for what to do
He turned around.
His eyes were the first thing I registered. Light grey, pale as winter sky, set beneath dark brows in a face that was all sharp angles and quiet severity. His dark hair was swept back from his face, faint silver threading the temples. He was dressed like the senior staff that regular customers had no reason to meet at the bank.
“You’re hurt,” he said.
His voice was deep. And… dark.
Is it possible for one’s voice to be dark? Sofia’s weird descriptions are rubbing off on me, damn.
I looked down at my wrist, which was already bruising, the marks of fingers dark against my skin. My bag was still on the pavement behind me. I became aware that I was still shaking.
