Eventually we reach what I can only describe as an actual castle, and he carries me inside, setting me down barefoot on cold marble tile.
The first floor is full of men—playing cards, drinking, a few practicing their draw against a wall target.
Then they see him. And every single conversation dies at once.
Chairs scrape back. Cards get set down mid-hand. The silence stretches out, every single face in the room turning toward us.
I feel every set of eyes drag over me, and I've never wanted to disappear into a floor more in my entire life.
His eyes never leave mine. "This woman right here is the reason your pakhan breathes. If your pakhan has a heart, it's her, and it's currently walking around outside his body." I feel my skin go hot. How is he giving me so much power even though my bound arms make it clear I’m a hostage?
"You will respect her the way you respect this family's name. You will fear disappointing her the same way you fear disappointing me. Because whatever happens to her, happens to me. There is no difference anymore."
An older man near the front lowers himself to one knee first, fist pressed to his chest. Then the man beside him. Then it moves through the room like a wave, until every single man on that floor is kneeling in front of me with their heads bowed.
I don’t like this at all. I’m just a normal human being, nothing special. There’s no need for any of this.
"Yes. Kneel," Slava says, even though there’s no need—they're already down. "This is your pakhanessa. Your loyalty belongs to her now. You protect her with your life, same as you'd protect mine."
A chorus of "Da, Pakhan," rings out.
I shift on my feet with my wrists still bound in red silk, surrounded by an army that just swore its life to a woman who didn't agree to any of this.
And all I can think, watching thirty grown men bow their heads to me like I'm something holy, is:
How exactly am I supposed to get out of this?
Chapter nine
Nora
Two days later, I'm still here. And I'm dying of boredom.
That wouldn't be a problem if I hadn't put a touch ban on Slava. Because every single time he touches me, I forget everything short of my own name and his. That's not exactly ideal when I'm supposed to be figuring out how to survive this whole situation and get out of it in one piece.
Tomorrow's a work day, and I can't miss it. How the hell do I convince Slava to let me out of this gorgeous, terrifying dungeon?
In his defense, he's let me roam the entire place with zero restrictions. Which is very clearly how I ended up walking straight into what appears to be his torture room at eight a.m. this morning.
Who exactly volunteers to gut people that early?
I shove the thought down before it makes me gag on the pancake still in my mouth. The visuals I've now got burned in the back of my brain are worse than any horror movie I've ever paid to watch.
"Can you pass me the honey, please?" I ask the girl across the table.
I used to think I was a social butterfly, right up until I got here. I've had breakfast with these same women two mornings ina row now and I still don't know a single one of their names, or what any of them actually do for the Bratva.
They're not rude to me. They just refuse to engage, in the most polite way physically possible.
This whole ordeal is rewriting everything I thought I knew about myself.
The girl I asked, and the two beside her, all reach for the honey jar at once. My brows pull together as they seem to freeze mid-motion—one lets go so another can grab it, only for a third to mistake that as her cue to grab it instead. Within seconds they're just grabbing at each other's hands over a bottle of honey, concerningly close to a slap fight.
Great. I've somehow gotten Bratva women to fight each other over freaking honey.
I stand, lean across the table, and just take it myself.
They flinch. All three of them.
