The Bratva's Captive (Wicked Doms 3)

"And your role?" I ask him while he butters toast.

He raises a curious brow. I want to confirm my suspicion.

"My role?" he repeats.

"What is your position in the Bratva?"

He holds my gaze for several long seconds before he responds. "Brodyaga," he finally says with a grim smile. "Does that mean anything to you?"

I shake my head.

"Main strike force," he says. "I'm the man who gets answers. I'm the man who sees to the ultimate punishment for crimes against the brotherhood." He wants to intimidate me, and I have to admit, it works. Ultimate punishment for crimes against the brotherhood. That means he's the executioner.

"And yet you sleep well at night," I taunt him, knowing full well he doesn't. I must be a fool. Not one minute ago, he held me over his knee while he gave me the spanking of my life.

His eyes darken in anger, and I immediately know I've said too much. "Be quiet," he clips. "You may only open your mouth to eat."

I'm starving, so I obey, greedily taking the buttered toast he puts in my mouth. I chew and swallow. It's delicious, but being hand-fed is messy business, and I'm soon covered in crumbs. I want to wipe my mouth with a napkin and maintain a little dignity, but he said I've lost that privilege.

Damn my stupid impulses.

He follows the toast with some eggs and fruit. The messiest of the lot is the sips of tepid tea he helps me slurp. I don't realize until he's done feeding me that he's let his own food grow cold while he fed me. In silence, he quickly eats an enormous plate of food, drinks two cups of coffee, then sits back in his chair, content.

"You'll remain cuffed for the remainder of the day," he says. "I will dress you and bring you in for interrogation in front of my brothers. We have no doubt by now your father has realized you've been abducted, but he doesn't yet know who's orchestrated your abduction."

"Who has?" I ask him, but his only response is a predictable scowl.

"It isn't fair," I tell him. It isn't, and I think I have a right to state my case. "I did nothing. I know nothing about my father's doings."

"Nothing?" he asks with a curious raise of his brow. "Is that true?"

It isn't entirely true. I've snooped around and found out things I shouldn't know. I don't know exactly what he does, but I know enough. I've witnessed the way he punishes his enemies. He has a cell-like room in the basement of the family chapel on our estate. Unlit, dismal, dank, he's taken prisoners there before. I once even visited one in the dead of night. I chose deliberate ignorance, bringing no light, so I wouldn't have to see the evidence of torture, then left almost as quickly as I came. I don't like to think of what he'd do to me if he caught me interfering.

And they killed that man.

"I know a little," I tell him. "But I've done nothing to you."

"In this battle of life or death, that doesn't matter."

But it does, and he knows it.

"I'm innocent," I insist.

"Are any of us really innocent?" he responds with a mirthless smile. "It's time for you to get dressed, now," he says. "Let's go."

He stands, takes my arm, and marches me toward the bathroom. For a moment, I panic. He's coming with me? I don't like that at all.

"I can dress myself," I tell him, but he only chuckles and ignores me. When we reach the bathroom, he unfastens the handcuffs and holds one finger up in warning.

"Don't you dare," he tells me. "You've seen what happens when you strike me. Do so again, and your punishment will be far more severe."

I nod, subdued by the memory of how helpless I felt over his knee. I won't defy him. Not now, anyway.

I step into the shower, surprised to find it’s been outfitted with all the amenities I could need. I scrub my body with body wash, wash my hair, shave my legs, and when I'm done, I stand under the hot stream of water for a moment of reprieve, but the steaming hot water stings my aching, punished skin.

Who are these people? What do they want with me? How will I escape? There are too many questions and too few answers. I'll observe whatever I can and comply while I observe.

He's waiting for me when I'm done, of course, holding a towel for me to step into. Again, the intimacy of the situation makes me uncomfortable, and I don't meet his eyes. I reach for the towel, but he shakes his head, insisting on towel drying me himself. The hot water, the soft towel, it almost feels luxurious. But I know better.

He leads me out of the bathroom and fastens the cuffs on my wrists once more. He sits me at the table where we ate breakfast, while he goes to take his own shower. Without bothering to give me a backward glance, he strips to his boxers, and I let myself observe every detail of his nearly naked form. A large, muscular man, his shoulders, back, and arms are covered in intricate, detailed tattoos. There are too many for me to count, too many for me to even get details. When he turns around with his back to me, I get a view of his back, also completely covered in tattoos. Fine dark hair covers his powerful arms, even his most casual movements emphasizing the hard ridges of his muscles, the veins in his arms on display. A generous smattering of dark hair covers his chest.