Chapter 3 Alina
ALINA
My hands shake as I point the pistol at Dimitri Morozov's chest. The same place where Sergei took the bullets that killed him. Three perfect circles, right over the heart.
"Don't come any closer," I warn, my voice steadier than I feel.
Dimitri stands near the door, his expression unreadable. Those green eyes study me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. He doesn't look afraid. He doesn't even look concerned. If anything, he looks... curious.
"Put the gun down, Alina."
"No." I adjust my grip, remembering the lessons my father insisted I take. Self-defense, he called it. Protection for his daughters in a dangerous world. The irony isn't lost on me. "You're going to answer my questions. Why did you take me? What do you want from me?"
"I already told you—"
"Bullshit!" The word explodes from me, raw and angry. "You pulled me out of that church while people were dying. You threw me in your car like a piece of luggage. You brought me to this... this prison and locked me in. So tell me the truth. Why me?"
Dimitri's jaw tightens, the only sign that my words have any effect. "The truth is complicated."
"Then uncomplicate it."
He takes a step toward me, and I tense, my finger hovering over the trigger. "I said don't move!"
But he doesn't stop. He moves with the confidence of a predator who knows his prey is cornered, each step deliberate and controlled.
"You want answers? Fine. I took you because you're valuable.
Because that wedding was supposed to create an alliance between our families, and now Sergei is dead.
Because whoever attacked that church wanted everyone inside dead, and I don't know who or why yet. "
"So I'm what? Insurance?" Another step closer. I can see the details of his face now—the scar above his eyebrow, the silver threading through his dark hair, the hard line of his mouth. "Leverage?"
"Your protection," he says, his voice low and rough.
"I don't need your protection. I need you to let me go!"
"That's not happening."
He's too close now, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and masculine that makes my head spin. Close enough that I can see the tattoos peeking out from his collar, the eight-pointed star that marks him as Bratva royalty.
"Stop," I say, but my voice quavers. "I'll shoot. I swear I'll—"
"No, you won't."
The certainty in his tone makes rage flare hot in my chest. He thinks I'm weak. He thinks I'm some helpless girl who can't pull a trigger. He's wrong.
I adjust my aim and fire.
The gunshot is deafening in the enclosed space. The bullet goes wide—intentionally wide—and slams into the ornate mirror on the far wall. Glass explodes, shards raining down onto the hardwood floor. The sound echoes, and for a moment, we both freeze.
Then Dimitri moves.
He's on me before I can adjust my aim, before I can even process what's happening. His hand closes around my wrist with bruising force, twisting until pain shoots up my arm and the gun clatters to the floor. I cry out, trying to pull away, but he's too strong, too fast.
He spins me around and slams me against the wall, his body pinning mine. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs. His chest presses against my back, solid and unyielding. One hand still grips my wrist, holding it high above my head. The other braces against the wall beside my face.
"Let me go!" I struggle against him, but it's useless. He's at least six inches taller and probably eighty pounds heavier, all of it muscle. "Get off me!"
"Are you done?" His breath is hot against my ear, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down my spine despite my fear. "Or do you want to try something else stupid?"
"Fuck you!"
I try to kick backward, aiming for his shin, but he anticipates the move and shifts his weight, trapping my legs with his. Now I'm completely immobilized, pressed between the wall and his body, and the position is far too intimate for comfort.
I can feel every inch of him against me—the hard planes of his chest, the strength in his thighs, the heat radiating through his clothes.
My wedding dress is torn and dirty, offering little barrier between us.
When he shifts slightly, adjusting his grip, I feel something else pressing against my lower back.
He's aroused.
The realization sends a confusing mix of fear and something else—something I don't want to name—coursing through me. This is wrong. Everything about this is wrong. He kidnapped me. He's holding me prisoner. I should be terrified, disgusted, anything but...
"Let me go," I say again, but this time my voice comes out breathless instead of angry.
Dimitri doesn't move. His hand slides from my wrist down my arm, slowly, deliberately, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. When he reaches my shoulder, he pauses, his fingers pressing into my skin through the thin fabric of my borrowed clothes.
"You want answers?" he murmurs against my ear. "Here's one. You're brave. Stupid, but brave. Most people wouldn't have the balls to pull a gun on me."
"Most people aren't being held prisoner."
"You're not a prisoner. You're under my protection."
"Same thing."
"No." His other hand moves from the wall to my hip, and I suck in a sharp breath. "A prisoner has no choice. You have choices, Alina. You just don't like any of them."
He's right, and I hate him for it. I hate that he's right, hate that his touch is making my skin burn, hate that some traitorous part of me is responding to his proximity despite everything.
"What do you want from me?" I ask, and I'm horrified to hear my voice shake.
Dimitri is quiet for a long moment. His hand on my hip tightens, his fingers digging into my flesh.
When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, almost strained.
"I want you to stop fighting me. I want you to listen.
I want you to understand that the world outside these walls is more dangerous than you can imagine right now. "
"And I'm supposed to just trust you?"
"No." He turns me around suddenly, keeping me pinned against the wall but now facing him.
His green eyes bore into mine, and I see something flicker in their depths—not anger, but something darker, more complicated.
Something that makes my breath catch. "I don't expect trust. But I need cooperation.
Because if you want to survive what's coming, you need to stop fighting me and start listening. "
His face is inches from mine. I can see the individual strands of silver in his beard, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes. His gaze drops to my mouth, and for one insane moment, I think he's going to kiss me.
Part of me wants him to.
The thought is so shocking, so wrong, that I jerk my head to the side, breaking eye contact. "I want to see my family. I want to know they're safe."
"They are. I told you—"
"You told me what I needed to hear to keep me from fighting you in the church. How do I know it's true? How do I know my sister is alive? My parents?"
Something shifts in his expression, a flash of what might be sympathy. "I'll have my men verify their location and send you proof. But you're not leaving this estate until I know who attacked that church and why."
"And if I try?"
His hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone in a gesture that's almost tender. Almost. "Then my men will stop you. And I'll be very disappointed."
The way he says "disappointed" makes it sound like a threat and a promise all at once.
We stare at each other, the air between us charged with tension—fear and anger and something else I refuse to acknowledge. His body is still pressed against mine, and I'm acutely aware of every point of contact, every place where his heat seeps into my skin.
Then, abruptly, he releases me and steps back.
The sudden absence of his body leaves me feeling strangely cold. I slump against the wall, my legs shaking, as he bends to retrieve my gun from the floor. He checks the chamber with practiced efficiency, then pockets it.
"Get some rest," he says, his voice back to that controlled, emotionless tone. "Someone will bring you dinner."
He turns toward the door, and I should be relieved. I should be grateful he's leaving. Instead, I feel oddly bereft.
"Wait," I call out, hating the desperate edge in my voice. "Who attacked the church? Do you know?"
Dimitri pauses with his hand on the doorknob. He doesn't turn around. "Not yet. But I will. And when I do, they'll wish they'd never been born."
The cold certainty in his voice sends a chill down my spine.
He opens the door, and I think he's going to leave without another word. But then he stops, his broad shoulders filling the doorframe, and looks back at me over his shoulder.
"This is your life now, Alina," he says quietly. "At least for the foreseeable future. You can fight it, make yourself miserable, and exhaust yourself trying to escape. Or you can accept it and make the best of the situation. Your choice."
Then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
I hear the lock engage.
I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the floor, my torn wedding dress pooling around me, surrounded by shattered glass from the mirror. My wrist throbs where he twisted it. My body still tingles where he touched me.
And despite everything—despite the fear and the anger and the absolute insanity of this situation—I can't stop thinking about the heat in his eyes when he looked at me.
Can't stop thinking about how his body felt pressed against mine.
Can't stop thinking about what might have happened if I hadn't turned my head.
I bury my face in my hands and try not to cry.
This is my life now.
God help me.