Innocent Bratva Hostage (Sharov Bratva #8)

Chapter One - Hannah

The music pounds through the walls of the VIP lounge, a bass-heavy rhythm that vibrates up through my feet. My tray wobbles in my grip as I weave through the crowd of well-dressed strangers. The lights are dim, the air thick with perfume and the kind of tension that only comes when too much money and power are crammed into one space.

I shouldn’t be here. Not in this room, not in this dress, not serving overpriced cocktails to people who look like they could buy my whole life without missing a dollar. Bills don’t pay themselves, and being a waitress at The Silver Vine is the best gig I’ve landed since moving to Chicago.

I drop off drinks at a table near the corner, offering my rehearsed smile as I slip away. My shift is almost over. One more round of the room and I’m done for the night. I can already feel the ache in my feet from standing for hours, but the thought of peeling off my heels and curling up with a blanket keeps me moving.

Then I see him.

He’s seated at a booth toward the back, his shoulders broad and his posture impossibly composed, like he owns the whole place. Maybe he does. His dark hair is a little disheveled, a lock falling over his forehead, but it doesn’t make him look less dangerous. It only adds to the air of someone who doesn’t care to follow the rules. His suit is sharp, black as midnight, and tailored perfectly to his frame.

I try not to stare, but his presence is magnetic. He notices me immediately.

“Waitress,” he calls, his voice low and smooth, with the faintest edge of an accent. Russian, maybe. It’s hard to tell over the noise, but there’s an authority in his tone that makes my stomach tighten.

I force my legs to move, balancing my tray as I approach his table. “Can I get you something?”

His eyes lock on mine, pale blue and startling. They pierce through me like he knows every secret I’ve ever kept. I fight the urge to shift under his gaze.

“Vodka,” he says, his lips curving into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “The good stuff. Two glasses.”

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Coming right up.”

As I turn to leave, I feel his eyes on me, a weight that follows me all the way to the bar. I don’t know why my hands are shaking as I place the order, but I take a breath to steady myself. It’s just another customer, I tell myself. A rich, arrogant customer who’s probably used to getting whatever he wants.

When I return with the drinks, he gestures for me to sit.

“I’m working,” I say, trying to keep my voice polite but firm.

He leans back, his smile growing faintly amused. “Take a break. One drink. I insist.”

I hesitate. My manager’s rule is clear: don’t get too friendly with the VIPs. Something about the way he looks at me, like I’m the most interesting thing in the room, makes it hard to say no.

“Fine,” I hear myself say, sliding into the booth across from him. “Just one.”

The vodka burns as it goes down, smooth but potent. He watches me, his gaze never wavering, and it’s unnerving how calm he is, like he’s in complete control despite the alcohol.

“What’s your name?” he asks, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass.

“Hannah,” I reply, setting my drink down. “You are?”

“Makar,” he says simply. There’s no last name, no explanation. Just the name, heavy with a meaning I don’t understand.

We talk, or at least he does. I find myself hanging on his words, his voice like a dark melody that wraps around me. He’s charming in a way that feels effortless, and even though I know better, I can’t help but be drawn in.

“Why are you working here, Hannah?” he asks after a while, his tone softer now.

I shrug, playing with the edge of my napkin. “College isn’t cheap. Someone’s got to pay the bills.”

He hums, like he’s considering this. “You don’t belong here.”

I laugh, the sound nervous in my own ears. “I’m pretty sure that’s the nicest way anyone’s ever told me I’m out of place.”

His lips twitch, almost a smile. “It wasn’t an insult.”

Before I can respond, he leans forward, his hand brushing against mine. His touch is warm, his fingers calloused, and it sends a shiver up my arm. I tell myself it’s the alcohol making my pulse race, but deep down, I know that’s a lie.

“You’re different,” he murmurs, his voice so low it’s almost a growl. “I could tell the moment I saw you.”

I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing. The air between us feels charged, heavy with something I can’t quite name. When his hand moves to my wrist, his thumb brushing over my skin, I forget how to breathe.

“Makar—” I start, but his name feels strange on my tongue, too intimate.

He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve. “Come upstairs with me.”

The words hang in the air, a challenge and an invitation all at once.

I should say no. Every instinct I have screams at me to get up, to walk away, but I can’t. There’s something about him, something dark and magnetic, that makes it impossible to refuse.

I nod, and the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes makes my stomach flip.

Makar doesn’t say a word as he takes my hand and leads me out of the lounge. His grip is firm, commanding, yet not rough. It’s the kind of touch that tells me he’s used to people following his lead without question.

I can’t think of a single reason to be the exception.

The hallway is quiet, a stark contrast to the pounding music behind us. My heels click against the marble floor as we step into the elevator. He presses the button for the top floor, his movements deliberate.

My heart races, a steady thrum in my chest that grows louder as the floors tick by. I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He hasn’t let go of my hand, and I feel the heat of his palm against mine.

When the doors open, he doesn’t wait. He strides out, pulling me gently but insistently down the corridor. I don’t even notice the opulence around me—plush carpets, gold accents, the faint scent of something expensive in the air.

My focus is on him, on the tension in his shoulders, on the way his presence fills the space like a storm waiting to break.

The door to his suite clicks shut behind us, and suddenly the world feels impossibly small.

I stand frozen in the entryway as he shrugs off his jacket, draping it over a chair. He doesn’t turn to look at me right away, and I take the moment to drink him in—the way his shirt clings to the muscles of his back, the sharp line of his jaw as he loosens his tie.

“Come here,” he says, his voice low and steady.

I take a hesitant step forward, my pulse hammering in my ears. He closes the distance between us in an instant, his hands finding my hips. His touch is firm, grounding, and I feel myself exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

“You think too much,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “I can see it in your eyes. Let it go.”

I open my mouth to respond, but he tilts my chin up with one finger, silencing me. His eyes meet mine, and the intensity there makes my knees feel weak.

“Tonight, you don’t have to think,” he says. “I’ll take care of everything.”

Before I can process his words, his lips are on mine. The kiss is nothing like I expect. It’s not gentle, not tentative. It’s consuming, a fire that spreads through me with every second. His hands slide up my sides, his thumbs brushing just beneath my ribs, and I feel like I might melt under his touch.

I grip his shoulders, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as he deepens the kiss. His teeth graze my lower lip, a teasing nip that sends a spark of heat straight through me. I don’t even realize I’m moaning until I feel his chest rumble with a low, approving growl.

Makar pulls back just enough to study my face, his fingers tracing the curve of my jaw. His thumb brushes over my cheek, and there’s something almost tender in the gesture, though his expression remains unreadable.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, his voice softer now, but no less commanding.

I don’t know why, but I nod.

“Good,” he says, and the word is a promise.

He leads me to the bedroom, his hands never straying far from my body. When he eases the straps of my dress down my shoulders, I shiver, but not from the cold. His fingers trail over my skin, igniting every nerve as he takes his time undressing me.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself, as if the words weren’t meant for me to hear.

I barely have a moment to process the compliment before his lips are on my neck, his hands guiding me back until the backs of my knees hit the edge of the bed. I sink down, and he follows, his weight pinning me beneath him.

He kisses me like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, his hands exploring every inch of me. His touch is rough in places, soft in others, a perfect balance that leaves me breathless. For once, I don’t feel the need to be in control. I let him take the lead, let him show me what it means to surrender.

He wastes little time in undressing, simply tugging down his pants. His cock springs free—thick, veiny, already leaking precum.

“Wait,” I say, “I’ve never—”

“Do you want this?”

I swallow. “Yes.”

“Then just enjoy it.”

When he slides past my slick folds, it’s like nothing I’ve felt before. He’s so warm, and thick, and I moan as my walls clench around his cock. He’s so big it’s like he could split me open.

Makar says nothing as he make love, but he makes me come with a low moan. My body is alight with fire as the orgasm washes over me like a tidal wave, and it leaves me a whimpering, breathless mess against the mattress,

When it’s over, I’m left trembling, my body still humming with the aftershocks of his touch. Makar lies beside me, his arm draped lazily over his forehead as he stares at the ceiling.

I turn my head to look at him, my chest tightening at the sight. There’s something vulnerable about him in this moment, something raw and unguarded. It feels like I’m seeing a side of him no one else has.

“Stay,” I whisper, the word slipping out before I can stop it.

His lips curve into a faint smile, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from my face. The gesture is so unexpected, so gentle, that it steals the breath from my lungs.

“You’ll be fine,” he says finally, his voice low and almost… affectionate?

I want to ask what he means, but the weight of exhaustion pulls me under. My eyelids grow heavy, and I let myself drift, the sound of his steady breathing lulling me to sleep.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know he won’t be here when I wake up.

For now, I let myself believe in the illusion of safety by his side.