The Bratva's Captive (Wicked Doms 3)

I blink. Newlyweds? He's supposed to be my husband. Oookay.

I look to his hands. "No rings?"

He shrugs. "Rings are old-fashioned." And for some reason, whether it's the insanity of what we've gone through in such a short time or something else, but it strikes me as funny. I snort in laughter.

At first, he looks at me in surprise before he smiles at me.

"Something funny about that, angel?" He leans over and tucks a strand of wild, sooty hair behind my ear, then leans in and gives me a kiss so tender it makes tears spring to my eyes. When he pulls me to his chest, I close my eyes, giving myself this one brief moment of reprieve from the ordeals we've suffered. Just for this one tiny moment in time, I allow myself to feel what a part of me longs for—his strength and protection.

"It's just funny because you're anything but a modern man," I tell him. "In my head I sort of think of you as a Neanderthal."

His hand comes to the small of my back, pulling me close to him. "I won't deny it," he says, and then he's holding me, my arms are around his neck and his around my body. I'm so much shorter than he is, he's bending down to hold me to him.

"Up to the house," he says. "We have to move quickly."

"Alright," I say, giving myself one more second of comfort in his arms before I pull back.

I'm not sure what's going to happen next, but it feels as if the eyes of the forest are on us. Our enemies at our backs. I want to feel fucking safe. I hate how my heart races and my belly rolls in waves of nausea, not knowing what will happen next. He takes my hand and leads me to the doorway. It's the middle of the night, so I wonder if anyone's awake, but when we approach, I can see the soft yellow light of a lamp under a pulled shade. Shepherd stands by our side. Maksym points to the ground and issues a soft command. "Stay." The dog obeys.

Without a word, his eyes on mine, he raises his hand and knocks on the door.

There's the sound of rustling and someone moving inside. "Kto tam?"

Who's there?

"We need help!" Maksym shouts in Russian, his voice so urgent and powerful I shiver.

Footsteps approach the door, locks are unfastened, and the door swings open. An elderly man stands, a gun in his hand. Though advanced in age, he's tall and broad, with longish gray hair and a wizened face lined with age and wisdom.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Fire," Maksym says. He's easily a full head taller than this man, but he keeps his voice gentle and his head bowed, likely so he doesn't intimidate the man.

"Fire?" the man repeats, his eyes widening. A forest fire endangers not only us, but every house within miles. "Come in." He gestures us in and goes to get his phone. But his hands shake when he tries to dial.

"Allow me?" Maksym asks respectfully. I almost smile. He can be quite the gentleman when he wants to be.

The man nods, pointing next to the phone where emergency numbers are listed in stark black letters on white paper.

Maksym dials the Russian State Fire Service and tells them where we are. "They're on their way," he says. "Hopefully the fire hasn't spread too far yet."

The old man places the phone back on its base with shaking hands. "Please, God, no," he whispers in Russian. "We haven't had rain. Fire spreads so quickly—"

"Why don't you sit," Maksym suggests, pointing to a threadbare couch. "They're trained to handle this type of emergency. It will be okay."

I knew he had a gentle side to him. The man he's been as my captor isn't really who he is. That man was no more than a feral, rabid creature baring its teeth when threatened. But there's more to him than that. And when I think back to the man who was broken and beaten on that floor of the cell... I feel more sympathy for him than he probably deserves.

We are only human after all. Every one of us comes into this world helpless and alone and leaves this world the same. And sometimes, what the world sends our way is grievous, savage, inhuman. We are torn down. Destroyed. Broken. But sometimes... somehow... we emerge from the ashes whole.

Tragedy and brutality. Pain and loss. Life and death.

I haven't yet forgiven him for what he's done. But what he's done to me is not unforgivable.

I refuse to believe in a world devoid of forgiveness and mercy.

"I'm Boris," the man says. "What are your names?"

I look to Maksym, not sure how to respond. I don't want my hesitation to be a dead giveaway, but giving our real names is probably not the smartest response.