Hunted By The Bratva Beast: A Bratva Stalker/Captive Romance, Jagger Cole [good books to read for 12 year olds .txt] 📗

think you may steal my beer? You think it is for you? No, you little bitch. It is for me to drown out the disappointment of having a little fucking whore like you under my roof!”

I shriek as he hits me with the belt again, and again, and a third time. I try and block it out—to numb it all by retreating inside. But when he stops, and I hear his low grunt, a worse fear takes hold.

He hasn’t yet. But he’s threatened; promised, actually. The beatings are awful. Being starved for days when I drop a bite of food stings. But I know there’s a worse torture a man can inflict on a woman, or a girl. When I was in the orphanage years ago, before Dima and Bogdan took me, I heard other girls talking about it.

I don’t want that. I don’t even fully understand what “it” is, but I know I’ll take the beatings over it. So when I hear him pause, I know what I have to do.

“I do not have to hit, you know,” Bogdan slurs. “Maybe you and me, Nina… we can learn to be friends, yes? We can be good friends. Close friends…”

I feel him reach for me, and I whirl. I know it’s suicidal, but I do it anyways. I spit in his face, and then I smile at his red-faced fury.

“Da, it was me. I drank some, and I poured the rest of them down the—”

His fist slams into my mouth. I fall back on the bed, blinded by pain, the taste of blood in my mouth. He snarls and lurches to his feet. The belt rises, and I curl into a ball before it comes slicing down on me.

I close down. I shut out the world around me, numbing all of it as the belt rains down again and again. He hits me until he grows bored. And then with a final curse my way, he turns and staggers out of the room.

My body shakes. My back feels like it’s on fire. But I stare out the small, dirty window of the room, and I know this will not be my life. I don’t know how, but I know it. I will not die in this place, by Bogdan’s hand.

Someday, somehow, I’m getting out of here.

Present:

I tremble under the soft cotton sheets, sinking into the deep, cozy bed. My pulse thuds in my ears—both in fear, and in excitement. The wheels turn and grind in my head, and my body is still trying to figure out if it should be fleeing the state, or unbelievably turned on.

But through all of the chaos, there’s one reality that I know without any doubts: somehow, he’s alive.

Just that part alone should terrify me. It shouldn’t matter that I’ve been fantasizing about the gorgeous beast of a man who tried to take me almost non-stop. In fact, that should make it worse. The fantasy has come back from the dead to haunt me. Or to hunt me.

I shiver under the covers, panting heavily in the darkness. My gun is in my hand. I’ve triple checked the doors and windows.

Like that stopped him before, I think to myself.

He was in here. He was in my fucking home. Actually, fuck that, he was in the bathroom while I was fucking showering.

I keep saying it over and over, like a mantra. And yet still, the fear I know I should be feeling just isn’t coming. I’m concerned. I’m worried. And yes, maybe I’m scared. But I’m not terrified, and that should scare the shit out of me.

That should tell me exactly how broken I am. A man who I shot, while he was shooting up my family’s party and while he was trying to kidnap me, is somehow not dead. Not dead, breaking into my home while I’m naked and vulnerable in the shower, and writing “soon” on my goddamn bathroom mirror. I should be peeing myself. I should be sobbing in terror on the phone with Viktor, begging for help.

Instead, I’m in bed. And what started to feel like fear is quickly turning into something else—and it’s something shameful.

It’s turning into excitement.

He didn’t hurt me. He could have; he could have done whatever he wanted to me, actually. I wasn’t armed in the bathroom, and he’s huge, and strong as a bear. But he didn’t touch me. He didn’t even let me know he was here. He broke in, wrote his message, and left.

Great. I haven’t been fantasizing about a murderous psycho who tried to kill my family and abduct me. I’ve just been fantasizing about a guy who breaks in, watches me shower, writes creepy messages on my mirror, and leaves.

Much better. Good job, self.

I try. I try so hard to be repulsed by the events of the night. I try so hard to be terrified, or to feel the abject fear I should be feeling. But none of it happens. And the more I think about what happened, the more excited I get.

He saw me. I blush when I replay the scene through his eyes. He was in here—in my home. He was in my bedroom, where I sleep, to get to the bathroom. And then he was in there, with me naked, wet, and utterly at his mercy. It was steamy, but my shower door is glass. And he certainly saw me; all of me.

I blush when the thought makes me wet. I scrunch my face up, desperately trying to conjure up the opposite feeling. But it still won’t happen. All I can possibly think about is what might have happened next, and it has me hopelessly turned on.

I squirm beneath the sheets. Lust surges in my core, and I tremble when I feel the heat pool between my thighs. My panties grow wet. My skin tingles. I close my eyes and imagine the hulking beast from the party ripping the door away and stepping into the shower stall with me.