Gifted and Bred By the Bratva (Bred By The BRATVA #14)

Chapter 1 Lily

Lily

The lights are too bright.

Blinding white, pointed directly at me, hot enough that sweat trickles down my spine beneath the thin silk of the dress they put me in.

I can't see past the glare—just vague shapes in the darkness beyond.

Rows of them. Men in expensive suits, sitting in plush chairs, sipping drinks while they decide what I'm worth.

I can hear them, though. Low murmurs. Numbers climbing. The scratch of pens on paper. Someone laughs—a low, ugly sound—and it crawls up my spine like cold fingers.

Fifty thousand.

Seventy-five.

One hundred thousand.

The platform beneath my feet is cold marble. My toes curl against it, seeking warmth that isn't there. They took my shoes. Said buyers like to see the whole package.

Package.

That's what I am now.

The slip dress is white silk, thin enough that I might as well be naked. It cost more than any foster home ever spent on me in a year—I heard one of the handlers say so. Designer. The buyers expect quality, apparently.

The air smells wrong. Expensive cologne and cigar smoke layered over something chemical. Antiseptic, maybe. Like they need to keep things clean. Sterile.

Like a hospital.

Or a slaughterhouse.

A month ago, I was still living with the Hendersons. My last foster family. They'd taken me in at sixteen, smiled at the social workers, collected their checks. I thought maybe, finally, I'd found somewhere I could stay. Somewhere I belonged.

I was supposed to turn nineteen next week.

Instead, three weeks before my birthday, two men showed up at the house. Mrs. Henderson told me to go with them. It's fine, sweetheart. They're going to help you find a job. She didn't look at me when she said it. Mr. Henderson counted the cash in the kitchen.

I still don't know how much they got for me. Enough to cover their drug debts, probably. Maybe more. I'd been with them for almost three years. I'd cooked their meals. Cleaned their house. Believed them when they said I was like a daughter to them.

Four weeks of being moved, processed, prepared. Four weeks of learning that tears don't help. Four weeks of doctors with cold hands and handlers who looked at me like livestock.

And tonight, I finally go to the highest bidder.

"Virgin," the auctioneer announces, and my stomach lurches. "Verified. Documentation available for the winning bidder."

A ripple goes through the crowd. More numbers.

One hundred thousand.

One-fifty.

Two hundred fifty thousand.

I stopped crying two weeks ago. Somewhere between the first warehouse and the doctor who examined me with clinical detachment and colder eyes.

Crying doesn't help. No one's coming to save me.

I've been alone since I was eight years old, bouncing through foster homes like a piece of furniture no one wanted to keep.

This is just more of the same.

Except worse. So much worse.

"Five hundred thousand," someone calls out. A different voice. Smooth. Cultured.

A murmur ripples through the crowd. Even the auctioneer pauses for a moment.

"Five hundred thousand to the gentleman in the third row," he recovers, voice climbing with excitement. "Do I hear five-fifty?"

Silence.

My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat. Please let it be over. Please let it be over. Please—

"Sold! To Senator Walsh for five hundred thousand dollars."

Senator.

The word registers slowly. A senator just bought me. An actual United States senator.

I want to laugh. Or scream. Or both.

A guard grabs my arm—rough fingers digging into flesh—and yanks me off the stage. My bare feet slap against cold concrete as I stumble backstage. It smells different here. Sweat. Fear. Mildew underneath the expensive perfume they sprayed on us.

There are other girls here. Waiting their turn, or already sold and waiting to be collected. Some of them are crying silently, tears streaking through carefully applied makeup. One girl, barely eighteen, is just staring at nothing. Completely blank. Her eyes are open but she's not there anymore.

I've only been here a month. She looks like she's been gone much longer.

I force myself to look away.

The guard shoves me into a small room with a mirror and a chair. Harsh fluorescent lighting. A water stain on the ceiling. "Wait here. Your buyer will collect you."

The door slams. Locks.

I sink into the chair and stare at my reflection.

Green eyes too big for my face, the shadows beneath them not quite hidden by concealer.

Dark hair they made me wash and curl until it shines.

Pale skin with a bruise on my collarbone from when I tried to run last week—still purple at the edges, makeup barely covering it.

This is it, I think. This is your life now.

I don't know how long I wait. Minutes. Hours. Time stopped meaning anything weeks ago.

Then the door opens.

He's older than I expected. Maybe mid-fifties, with silver hair and a politician's smile that doesn't reach his eyes. Expensive suit. American flag pin on his lapel.

"Well," he says, looking me over like I'm a car he's thinking about buying. "Aren't you pretty."

I don't say anything. What's the point?

He walks closer. Reaches out and touches my hair. I flinch, and his smile widens.

"Skittish. I like that." His hand trails down to my shoulder. My collarbone. The bruise. "Someone's been rough with you already. Don't worry—I know how to handle delicate things."

Delicate things.

I want to throw up.

"Let's go," he says, grabbing my wrist. "We have somewhere to be."

The car is black. Tinted windows. A driver who doesn't look at me once.

Senator Walsh sits beside me in the backseat, his thigh pressed against mine even though there's plenty of room. He smells like whiskey and expensive cologne, and his hand keeps finding my knee.

"You're probably wondering where we're going," he says conversationally, like we're on a date instead of... this.

I stare out the window. City lights blur past. We're somewhere in Severny Harbor—I caught a glimpse of the water when they loaded me into the car. A port city, I think. I can smell salt and industry even through the closed windows.

"I'm not keeping you," he continues. "You're a gift."

That makes me turn. "A gift?"

His smile is sharp. "I have a business associate. Very powerful man. Russian." He says the word like it tastes bad. "He's been uncooperative lately. Blocking some of my... interests. I thought a gift might remind him we could be useful to each other."

A peace offering.

I'm a gift for someone else. Someone worse? Better? Does it matter?

His hand slides higher on my thigh, fingers digging in. "Men like him—men like us—we appreciate beautiful things." He says it like he's including himself in some exclusive club. Like all powerful men share his particular appetites. "I'm sure he'll find a use for you."

I press myself against the car door, trying to get away from him. There's nowhere to go.

"I've never actually met him in person," the senator admits, almost to himself. "But I know his type. Russian. Bratva." His lip curls. "They take what they want. Use it up. Throw it away."

He leans closer, whiskey breath hot on my neck. His hand squeezes my thigh hard enough to bruise.

"Shame you're not eighteen anymore. Girls go for double at eighteen—that premium innocence, you know?" He laughs, low and ugly. "Hopefully nineteen isn't too old for him. Some men are particular about that sort of thing."

My stomach lurches. I think I might be sick.

"Don't worry," he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear. "I won't touch what's his. But maybe after he's done with you..." His grip tightens painfully. "Maybe he'll share. Men like us always share eventually."

Men like us.

He's so sure. So confident that this stranger is just like him. Just as corrupt. Just as depraved.

I pray he's wrong.

Bile rises in my throat. I swallow it down.

Survive, I tell myself. Just survive.

The car slows. Stops.

"We're here," the senator says, releasing my thigh. "Smile, sweetheart. First impressions matter."

The building is glass and steel, stretching up into the night sky. A doorman opens the car door. He looks at me—barefoot, in a slip dress, clearly terrified—and his expression doesn't change.

He's seen this before.

How many girls have walked through these doors? How many have walked out?

The senator grabs my arm and steers me inside. Marble floors. Crystal chandeliers. A private elevator that requires a key card.

We go up.

And up.

And up.

When the doors open, we're in a penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city. Everything is dark and expensive—leather furniture, modern art, a bar with bottles that probably cost more than any foster family ever spent on me in a year.

"Wait here," the senator says, pushing me toward a couch. "Don't move. Don't speak unless spoken to. Understand?"

I nod.

He straightens his tie and walks down a hallway, disappearing around a corner.

I sit on the edge of the couch, hands clasped in my lap, and try to breathe. My heart is racing. My skin feels too tight. I'm going to be given to a stranger. A Russian stranger, whatever that means. Someone powerful. Someone dangerous.

This is fine, I think hysterically. This is totally fine. You've survived worse.

Except I haven't. Not really.

I hear voices. Low. Male. One of them is the senator—I recognize his smooth politician's cadence. The other voice is deeper. Accented. Cold.

They're arguing about something. The words are muffled, but the tone isn't. The Russian is angry.

Then footsteps.

Coming closer.

I stand up without meaning to. My legs are shaking. I press my hands against my thighs to stop the trembling.

The senator appears first, his smile strained. Behind him—

Oh god.

The man is huge. Tall—at least six-four—with broad shoulders and the kind of body that looks like it was built for violence. His hair is dark, threaded with silver at the temples. His face is hard. Angular. A scar cuts through his left eyebrow, and his eyes—