Kidnapped Innocent Prisoner of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #20)

Chapter One - Seraphina

Izzy hooks her arm through mine, leaning in close, the scent of her floral perfume overwhelming in the crush of bodies.

I can tell she’s in her element; her laugh is brighter, her shoulders thrown back, already scanning the crowd for someone interesting.

She looks perfect for this world—hair in soft waves, lips painted dark, mask edged in gold.

My own mask is simpler, black velvet, a little too snug at the temples. I can already feel the elastic digging a line above my ear.

The room hums with money. Real money. I can feel it in the way people move, slow and languid, certain the party will never end. Every glance is a calculation.

I try to slip behind Izzy as we move further inside, letting her absorb the attention. Her dress catches the light, emerald silk rippling with each step, and I’m just the friend tagging along, invisible if I try hard enough.

Someone bumps my shoulder. It’s a man in a tuxedo, drink already half gone. He mutters an apology, but his eyes skip right past me. I’m not the kind of woman these people notice. Not tonight. Not ever.

Izzy disappears into a knot of guests, all laughter and champagne flutes, and for a second, panic flickers in my chest. I catch a glimpse of myself in a wall mirror: hair scraped up, skin ghost-pale in the overhead light, black mask stark against my face.

I look like I’m hiding something. Maybe I am.

I tug at the hem of my dress, trying to remember why I let Izzy talk me into this.

There’s a tray of drinks circling the edge of the ballroom. I take a glass, more for something to do with my hands than any real desire for champagne. The flute is cold against my palm, condensation slick between my fingers.

A string quartet plays from the mezzanine, something old and lush.

Couples swirl across the marble, steps smooth and practiced.

I can pick out the regulars; people who grew up in rooms like this, who know how to glide instead of walk.

My shoes pinch harder with every step, the band digging into the soft skin just above my heel. I force myself to keep moving.

My gaze keeps drifting toward the far end of the hall, where the crowd is thickest. I’m not sure what I’m looking for—an exit, maybe. A place to breathe. Then I feel it, a prickle along the back of my neck. Someone watching. The feeling lingers, electric and unwelcome.

I drain my champagne in two gulps, letting the burn ground me. The orchestra’s song is ending; applause crackles like static. I scan the crowd for Izzy, but she’s vanished again, swallowed up by sequins and laughter.

I’m alone, mask tight, nerves singing. I can still feel those eyes on me, steady and unblinking, from somewhere just out of sight.

Izzy loops back, latching on to my wrist with sticky-sweet fingers. “Come on, Sera, don’t lurk. You look like you’re casing the joint.”

I manage a smile. “Maybe I am. Feels weird being here.”

She rolls her eyes, tugging me into a cluster of strangers.

There are two women, one man, all dripping in diamonds and silk.

Names spiral past my ears: Madeline, Dimitri, something hyphenated that’s lost the second it’s spoken.

Everyone’s voice has the same polished cadence, sentences sliding past without ever touching the floor.

Izzy gestures. “This is Sera, my favorite hermit. Dragged her out by force. Aren’t you proud?”

A chorus of polite laughter. The taller woman tips her head. “So, Sera, what do you do?”

I brace myself. “Data analysis. For a consulting firm.”

Their smiles freeze for a half beat, just enough for me to see the quick recalculation behind their eyes. One nods, then pivots to discuss an art auction with Izzy, leaving me clutching my champagne like a lifeline.

A man with a silver tie leans closer, voice pitched low. “First time at one of these?”

Is it that obvious? “Is it that bad?”

He grins, sharp and knowing. “No, it’s refreshing. Most people here only talk to each other to climb to the next rung. You actually look like you want to leave.”

“Guilty,” I say, and he laughs, but his eyes already wander back to the woman at his side. I fade, as people like me always do at events like this.

Izzy is radiant. She flirts effortlessly, laughter curling around her words as she squeezes the forearm of the man with the silver cuff links. I watch as she drops his name—Tristan, maybe—and he leans in, charmed. They talk about a gallery opening.

Izzy’s voice rises, warm and musical.

I hover just outside the glow, fingers tightening around my glass. The conversation shifts, circles back, leaves me trailing behind. The floor is cold beneath my toes, marble unforgiving. I wonder if anyone would notice if I slipped away for good.

The crowd parts and swells, exposing brief pockets of silence. I watch a woman in a beaded gown whisper to her companion, a flick of her wrist sending a diamond earring spinning. Another man laughs too loudly, then checks over his shoulder, as if remembering who might be listening.

The air is thick with perfume, sweat, and old money. Underneath it all is a tension that prickles at my skin. I can see the power shifting, alliances forming, crumbling, repairing themselves all within the space of a laugh. Izzy fits, radiant and self-assured. I don’t.

She catches my gaze and mouths, “Breathe.” I try. It doesn’t work.

A fresh wave of guests arrives, faces half hidden behind jeweled masks.

The string quartet shifts into a waltz, applause ripples, and couples take to the floor, swirling in perfect synchrony.

My own feet ache, toes cramping in borrowed heels.

I wonder if I’ll ever get the pinched feeling out of my chest.

The music swells, a waltz so lush it seems to thicken the air. Light glints off crystal and gold, bodies spinning in arcs of practiced grace. For a second, I can almost lose myself in the rhythm, in the safe anonymity of strangers.

Then I feel it. A stare, cold and certain, brushing over me like a hand at the nape of my neck.

I don’t look up right away. I keep my gaze pinned to the rim of my glass, tracing beads of condensation with a fingertip. But it’s impossible to ignore. The awareness grows, prickling along my skin until I finally let myself glance across the ballroom.

He stands alone, a head taller than most, dressed in black so sharp it might as well be a warning. His mask is simple, matte onyx, sculpted clean over high cheekbones and a hard mouth. No ornament, no jewels, nothing to soften the lines.

He doesn’t bother to hide the intensity of his stare. The blue of his eyes is unflinching, cold even in the spill of candlelight. There’s something in the way he stands—shoulders set, one hand loose at his side—that says he isn’t waiting for permission. He expects the world to move for him.

A chill scuttles down my spine. I look away, suddenly fascinated by the mirrored trays sweeping past, the flex of a waiter’s white-gloved hand. It doesn’t matter. I feel his gaze burning through the crowd. Dancers whirl between us, a kaleidoscope of silk and sequins, but he never looks away.

My pulse stutters. Maybe it’s the champagne, or the heat, or the knowledge that in a room full of sharks, one of them has just picked me out. I glance over my shoulder for Izzy. She’s a flash of emerald at the far end of the room, already entangled in another conversation. No rescue there.

A group drifts past, laughter bubbling, and I let myself slide closer to the wall. If I press my back to the marble, maybe I’ll vanish. Maybe he’ll turn away.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he steps forward. Not fast, but with the kind of certainty that leaves no room for retreat. Each stride is measured, unhurried. He’s not stalking; he’s claiming. I brace myself, pulse flickering in my throat, as he closes the distance between us.

When he stops, the air sharpens. He’s taller up close, broad in the shoulders, the edge of his cologne an unfamiliar, dangerous note—smoke and vetiver, expensive and severe.

He doesn’t offer a hand. Doesn’t bother with a smile. His voice is low, accented faintly Russian, the vowels clipped and controlled. “You don’t belong here.”

The words land between us. It’s not a question but an observation, precise as a blade. I let the silence linger for a beat, weighing whether to laugh it off or snap back.

“Maybe not,” I answer, forcing my voice steady. “I doubt you came over to check the guest list.”

His mouth curves—not a real smile, more a suggestion of amusement. “No. I came to see if you’d run.”

I set my empty glass on a passing tray, willing my hands not to shake. “Should I?”

His eyes sweep over me, mask to mask, unblinking. “You could try.” His gaze settles on my mouth for a fraction of a second before flicking back up. “You wouldn’t get far.”

A waltz blooms around us, couples spinning in dizzying orbits. His hand comes up, palm open, waiting. “Dance?”

“Fine.”

I could refuse, I know that. Something in the way he looks at me—expectant, cold, already sure of my answer—unsettles me more than any threat. My feet move before my brain does. I place my hand in his.

He leads me onto the marble, drawing me close, one arm tight at my waist. His hand is warm, steady, fingers splaying across the silk at my hip. His body moves with the music, deliberate and inescapable, guiding me through steps I barely remember.

I hate how my pulse jumps at the contact, how my nerves riot at the nearness of him.

We move as the orchestra swells. He says nothing, but I feel the scrutiny in every glance, every adjustment of his grip. My breath is shallow, my heart thrumming, a hot ache blooming behind my ribs. I want to look away, to break his focus, but his eyes hold me.

“Why me?” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

He leans closer, lips brushing my ear, voice pitched for me alone. “Because you’re the only one here who’s really awake.”

A shiver crawls across my skin. The world tilts, the dancers blurring to color and shadow. I try to pull away, but his arm tightens, anchoring me in place.

“Relax,” he murmurs, almost soft. “You’re safe.”

I don’t believe him, not for a second. Still, I let him lead, shoes planted on marble, heart hammering. The dance ends, applause rushing up like static. He releases me only at the final note, but his eyes linger, a promise or a threat, I can’t tell which.

My hand tingles where he touched me. I step back, drawing breath, but the air is thin and sweet as poison. The mask hides the flush in my cheeks, but nothing can hide the tremor in my pulse. I watch as he disappears into the crowd, knowing I’ll feel the weight of his stare long after he’s gone.

I slip past a knot of laughing strangers, heels biting into marble as I make for the nearest exit. My mask is in my hand now, the velvet streaked with foundation where I’ve pressed it too tight.

For a moment, the ballroom is just a blur of light and silk and perfume, everything unreal. His scent clings.

Izzy catches up to me in the corridor, cheeks flushed, still tipsy and glowing. “You disappeared,” she says, words tumbling, “Did you see that guy? The one in black? I swear he was staring at you all night—”

I wave her off, mumbling something about fresh air, not trusting myself to say more.

My pulse hasn’t settled. Even as I push open the heavy glass door and let the cold night bite into my skin, I know it’s not enough.

I’m still carrying him, his voice, the pressure of his hand at my waist, the strange promise in his eyes.

I tell myself it’s nothing. I tell myself it’s nerves, champagne, the mask of a room full of strangers.

Izzy is still chattering, her laughter chasing me down the steps, but my mind is caught somewhere else. I glance over my shoulder, half expecting to see that black mask in the shadows, watching. The marble foyer is empty.

I press the velvet mask to my chest, pulse flickering. I haven’t escaped, not really. The night feels changed, somehow. I try to leave him behind, but it’s pointless. He’s already under my skin.