Page 22 of The Bratva’s Captive Flame

"No."

"Isabela."

"You don't own me." Her chin comes up, her hands curling into fists on the towel which strategically covers her. "I'm not your⁠—"

"My what." I tilt my head, watching her search for the word. "Say it. Finish the sentence and tell me what you think I want from you, since you're so certain you've got me figured out."

"I don't know what you want." Her voice trembles, anger and exhaustion mixing in. "I don't fucking know!" Her body is tense as I walk toward her, but she blubbers on. "Look, things are fucked up. I should not have touched you or let you touch me." Her hand runs through her still-damp hair. "And we should not have had sex. I was overwhelmed because you saved me and then we have this chemistry and…"

Her eyes sweep up to where I glower down at her, so close I could snatch her up if she tried to run. I've run out of patience for the long way around. "Get in the fucking bed," I growl.

"No…" she snips, looking away.

She comes off the floor with a sharp sound of protest, twisting against me, her hands shoving at my chest as I pick her up and haul her back to the mattress. "Put me down—Demin, I swear⁠—"

"You'll hurt yourself fighting me, and you'll hurt me, and I'm already bleeding, so can you calm the fuck down?" I carry her to the bed and set her down, keeping a hand on her so she can't bolt. "Lie down."

I'm too fucking tired for this nonsense. I just want rest.

"Let go of me."

"Lie down, and I'll let go."

She fights me for a while longer, landing a few hits that I'll feel in the morning. But I take them and hold on without hurting her until the fight starts to drain out of her. Her struggles slow. Her breathing turns ragged, then evens. At some point, the anger in her gives way to bone-deep exhaustion, the simple, animal need of a body that's been awake too long.

I pull her in where she feels good against my chest, and she lets me breathe her in. It's been a long time since I held a woman while I slept. I haven't missed it until just this moment, and I decide I never want to go without it again just as easily as I decided the moment I slid into her that she belongs to me.

"This isn't me agreeing to anything," she mumbles into my chest. The anger is still there woven through her tone, but she's not raising her voice.

"I know."

"I still hate you."

"I know that too."

She's asleep before she can argue the point, not yet seeing what I already do. She thinks this is a fight she's going to win, that I'll come to my senses, hand her father back, send the two of them off to some quiet life, and forget I ever pulled her out of a crate. She's wrong. Whatever started on that plane has already decided itself in me, settled in deep in my gut until it has started driving me and my choices.

She belongs to me. She just doesn't know it yet.

And I've never in my life walked away from something that's mine.

13

ISABELA

Mishka walks with his hand wrapped around my elbow like I'm going to run away or something, but where would I go? Everything I ever had is back in Madrid, and I wouldn’t return there if someone paid me. My father is my life now, my only concern. Hearing that he is refusing food and water until he sees me has worried me. I slept, but only a few hours.

When Demin rose to go do more work, I was wide awake. Now, mid-afternoon, I've finally convinced his men to let me see my father. We stalk toward the room where they're keeping him and I can't help but linger on what happened last night. We could have all died—I could've died. But Demin…

"He's in there," Mishka says, giving me a gentle push. Much nicer than any of Solano's men, but not exactly the most hospitable thing to do.

I creep forward, pushing the unlocked door open, and see another one of Demin's guards standing in the room next to a window.

"Papa."

He's propped up against the pillows of a large four-poster bed. He's so weak and thin, though I'm sure that was from the past week of not eating since I left him. There's an IV line taped to the back of his hand, so the doctor got that much into him, at least. His eyes find me and fill with tears, and he reaches out with the hand that isn't tethered.

"Mija," he almost whimpers in Spanish. All of our conversations are in Spanish. He barely knows a lick of English and no German. "Oh, Mija, you're alive."