Chapter 42
Aurelia
Ithink I may have upset Nikolai more than I predicted. The thought gnaws at the edges of my mind as I sit in my cage. It’s been three days since I was brought back down here, three days in a haze of fear and frustration.
On the bright side, I’m still alive. More than a week in captivity and I’m not dead yet. That has to mean something.
The Bratva men have been relentless. Two more have been added to the rotation, and they seem to take a sick pleasure in tormenting me with their words, their leers, and the constant sense of threat hanging just above my head.
Adrian is pulled into a separate room more often now, returning every time bloodied and bruised. His silence says more than any words could—torture, intimidation, pain. Each time he comes back, he’s a little more broken, a little more hollowed out.
As for me… I try not to think about what might happen if Nikolai were not around. Thankfully—or maybe terrifyingly—I can assume he’s had a hand in keeping these men from touching me. The threads of fear and dread are there, yes, but at least the physical threats remain at bay.
Still, the psychological assault is endless.
Disgusting comments, subtle threats, the faintest brushing of hands against the bars—each moment a reminder that my control here is absolute fiction.
And with every passing hour without him, without Nikolai coming around to keep his men in check, to keep them from touching me, the haunting worry in my chest grows heavier.
He’s the only one under Bratva order who’s asked questions without the undertone of menace, the only one who’s treated me as…
I don’t know, someone whose mind is worth more than the entertainment of a beating.
And the longer I go without seeing him, the more I realize just how much his presence—or absence—defines my sense of safety.
I try to focus on the threads of thought I can control: my breathing, my posture, my planning. But it’s hard when every echo in the dark, every creak of a floorboard overhead, every whisper of a footstep feels like it could be the moment everything changes.
And the truth? No matter how much I want to blame Nikolai for my kidnapping, right now all he’s done is keep me from being raped, and I can’t exactly hate him for that.
Ripped from my thoughts, I hear the heavy gate grind open. Two men drag Adrian out, his screams echoing through the stone corridors. I try to tune it out, desperately, wishing there was a way to help, but I can’t—not when I’m in the exact same position, chained and powerless.
Usually, these moments are the rare stretches when I have time to myself. I rinse my clothes in the bucket of water, hanging them over the bars to dry, letting the cool air brush my bare skin. But just as I dip my arm into the water and start my routine, I hear the gate open again.
My pulse spikes. I immediately look up, expecting to see Nikolai.
But it’s not him.
It’s one of the new guards—the one usually responsible for Adrian’s abuse.
“What did you do?” His accent is thick, jagged, and clipped. His tone is low, but there’s a nervous edge.
“Wrong place, wrong time, I guess,” I reply with a fake uncertainty.
“You are very pretty to Nikolai,” he mutters.
I frown, unsure what he means. Maybe he’s still learning English. But language doesn’t matter—I read the way his eyes linger on my body, the curve of my breasts, and the slow, hesitant way his gaze moves over me.
“Do you think I’m pretty?” I drop my wet hands to my waist, letting the tension in my body speak louder than the words.
He nods, almost too quickly, swallowing hard. His nervousness is palpable.
“Maybe we could spend some time together then?” I pose it as a question, but we both know he wouldn’t say no.
He stays silent, holding my stare.
“Can you… show me around since no one else is here?” My eyes flick to the swelling in his pants, opportunity sparkling in my mind.
A calculated risk, but if I can maneuver him, maybe I can gain some freedom—even if just a little.
I dip my hand back into the water, bringing it to my neck and scrubbing my skin, not afraid to let the water drip down my collarbone.
He hesitates, unsure, clearly weighing the consequences of this moment. Low rank, inexperienced, probably young enough to be reckless, but not yet hardened by the Bratva.
“I’ll unchain you… but you behave,” he grunts.
I maintain eye contact, nodding once.
He kneels, inserting the key into my ankle cuffs and unlocking me. The metal slides free with a small click, echoing in the dark room.
Glancing down, I notice his hands trembling from the effort—or maybe from nervous anticipation. “How old are you?” I ask, casually masking my curiosity as if I care.
“Nineteen,” he answers.
So young and so stupid to already be involved in this life.
I know I’m only three years older, but I didn’t choose this. A pang of sympathy flickers, and I smother it. He’s not my problem. Survival comes first.
“My name is Sergio,” he says, quieter now, almost afraid I’ll think less of him.
“Mine is Ace,” I reply.
The single word hangs between us, casual yet charged, loaded with possibility.
The air between us feels heavier now. His hesitation, his obvious attraction, his inexperience—they’re all tools I can use. And for the first time in days, I feel a small surge of control.
He looks at me for a long, lingering moment before his lips slam against mine, his tongue stabbing against my teeth, forcing its way into my mouth again and again.
I swear the man is trying to swallow my entire face. My first impulse is panic, but survival wins out—I can’t afford to resist. I take a breath and whisper, “Take me to bed.”
A grin spreads across his face. He locks his hand firmly with mine and pushes open the heavy gate.
My eyes scan the space I’ve been living in from the outside—the grey walls, the harsh textures—it all screams dungeon, a cold basement prison. I force myself to look closer, spotting two locked doors at the back of the room.
I assume that’s where they’ve been taking Adrian to torture him.
But then my eyes look up to Sergio as he leads me up a cold set of stairs, a grey light glowing beneath the door.
The door swings open to a completely different world.
For the first time, I see this hellhole in daylight.
It’s just after sunset, so the sky is grey but not consumed by darkness.
Red velvet lines the couches. Chandeliers hang from the ceilings, dripping crystal over polished wood floors.
Floor-to-ceiling curtains frame massive windows, and for a second, I’m blinded by the luxury.
It’s over-the-top, decadent—a world I should feel safe in but can’t.
As we turn the corner, six older men sit around a gold circular table, playing poker. Their eyes snap to us immediately. I can tell—they’re men hardened by years of brutality, likely Nikolai’s father’s generation—Viktor’s.
One bald man shouts, “Chto delayet nash priz vne kletki, Sergio?”
Sergio hesitates a fraction, then responds quickly, “YA beru yego na test-drayv. No ne volnuytes’, ya ostavlyu na nom lish’ neskol’ko tsarapin.”
I freeze, suddenly hyper-aware that I’m completely exposed, every inch of me on display to men who don’t seem to possess a shred of humanity. My breath hitches, but I force myself to focus. Breathe.
You’ve survived men like these before. Just get to an exit.
Sergio spins me around for their amusement, pressing my ass against him in a crude show, and I can feel the laughter and cheers echoing around me. I clench my jaw, forcing back nausea, hating every second of this display—but I remind myself it’s temporary.
“Ty smozhesh’ zabrat’ yeye, kak tol’ko ya zakonchu. Day mne pyatnadtsat’.”
Every second I endure brings me closer to a chance to escape. I repeat it in my head, over and over until I can’t hear the disrespect anymore.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he stops, leading me down a hallway to what seems to be a spare room. It’s stark, without any personal belongings or comfort. I lean against the doorframe for a moment, my chest heaving, mind racing with how I want to handle this.
Even surrounded by luxury in the hands of someone ostensibly on my side, I know the danger hasn’t left me. Survival is still the game, and I have to play it perfectly.
He immediately unbuckles his pants, and my stomach drops. I realize there’s no stopping this here, in plain sight of the others. Any attempt would get me killed—or worse. I’ll have to play a longer game, survive, and wait for an opportunity. Survival first, revenge later.
He pulls me in, taking my mouth with a force that makes me gasp, one hand wrapping tightly around my neck while the other squeezes my ass.
A second later, his hand moves, and I feel sharp metal on my back, recognizing it as a knife.
My body tenses, but the tear of my shirt freeing my back gives my brain time to register that I’m not about to die.
He pulls my ripped tank top over my shoulders, freeing my breasts immediately.
His grin spreads from ear to ear as he hungrily presses against me. His tongue forces its way into my mouth again and again—relentless.
I have to hold back vomit, certain that if I throw up in this man’s mouth, he would kill me for it.
His fingers press my nipples between his middle and forefinger, and I can feel the tension in his grip building.
Then, suddenly, he shifts. His hands clamping down on my arms, reddening my skin almost instantly, and with a swift, shocking motion, he throws me onto the bed. My breath catches as the impact rattles me, and I can’t help but notice the manic joy in his eyes.
He leans close, whispering in low and dangerous Russian, “YA ostavlyu sinyaki na vsem etom krasivom litse.”
Before I can even form a coherent thought, a deafening ringing fills my ears.
Blood splatters across my face, chest, and the walls around me.
The world tilts as I watch Sergio’s body slump lifelessly to the floor, a dark, spreading stain beneath him.
Blood pours from the hole in his head in what feels like an endless flow, the warmth spreading to my feet as I stand in his blood and brain matter.