The Bratva’s Locked Up Love by Jagger Cole

2

Maksim

“This may hurt.”

She’s not lying. It does, like a motherfucker. But I’ve had worse… much, much worse. I’ve been on fifty operating tables. I’ve heard the sound of my own heart flatlining on the machine next to me. I’ve looked death in the face enough times that we know each other.

But something is different this time. This time, there’s an angel putting me back together. A faceless one—one I have not seen. But the sound of her voice is guiding me through the pain. The soft touch of her hands on my skin grounds me… pulling me back from the edge.

I’ve lost a lot of blood. Yes, I’ve had worse, but I know this is bad. The three that came at me in the showers… I wince, clenching as the memory of the blade dances to the forefront of my head.

Two were bratva… that much was obvious from their tattoos. I have no idea what family or families they were affiliated with, though. The third had Aryan Brotherhood tats. I’m not sure it’s possible to feel any less sympathy about him or the others being dead by my hands now.

Their attack was clumsy. Brutal, but clumsy. And luckily, I was able to use it to my advantage. But even still, the last man getting those last two jabs into my back did more damage than I was expecting. Those are the bad ones. But those are also the one’s the angel behind me is closing now.

My eyes close tightly. I feel the softness of her hands on my skin. Yes, I feel the needle too, but I’ve felt thousands of those. That I can ignore. Instead, I focus on her touch. I focus on the way she seems to mutter to herself under her breath as she closes one of my wounds.

A smile curls at the corners of my lips. It’s amusing to hear her murmur like that. Just as it was to hear the broken Russian she attempted.

Her fingers trace my skin again, and I feel my pulse quicken. It’s involuntary. It’s just simply the first human touch, aside from the attack, that I’ve had in two months. Or, I think it’s been two months. I can tell they vary the schedule on purpose in here. Between that and the insignia on the guard’s uniforms, their mannerisms, and the few other inmates I’ve seen in passing, I have an idea of the place I might be in.

Military, possibly. Or more likely, an unofficial place, like Guantanamo. I don’t know. All I do know is that roughly two months ago, I flew to Chicago from Moscow on orders from my boss, Yuri Volkov, head of the Volkov Bratva. We’re expanding more of our interests into the US, and I was here to oversee some of that expansion, along with another Bratva family ally.

I remember the unmarked van swerving in front of me after I left the car rental place. I remember veering off the road into a side street. I remember the five SUV’s full of men in black tactical gear drawing on me and pulling me from the car. Then there was a bag over my head, cuffs on my ankles and wrists, and nothing else until I found myself here. Wherever the fuck “here” is.

The doctor is almost done. I’ve lost more blood than I’d want to, given what must be done now. I’m weaker than I should be. But this is the moment. In two months, I haven’t once been told why I’m here. So I’m done waiting.

The clumsy but brutal attack has given me a first foothold into my escape. Vasily, the one other inmate I’ve spoken to in here, through bars, had an altercation with a guard a month or so back that landed him in the medical block. Through him, I know about the security in here. I know about the cage, and the double-doors that lead out. I also know there’s no cameras, and just a single red button that calls for help…

I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t relish that the angel who’s just saved me must be hurt, whoever she is. The original plan was to simply kill the doctor. But her being a woman will work even better to my favor as a hostage. Female hostages get you much further. They curry more sympathy.

I scowl as my hands begin to twist, turning my wrists under the handcuffs. Like I said, I don’t relish that I must do this. Whoever she is, she’s nice. She attempted to speak my native language. And she’s good at her job.

In a fair world, it’s a broken, damaged soul like me that gets hurt, or dies. Not a life-saving doctor. For all I know, she’s a mother. Or someone’s sister. Someone’s daughter. She’s done nothing to deserve what I’m about to do to her or put her through in the name of my own freedom.

One hand slips free of the badly locked handcuff. I can feel the doctor working away, stitching up the last of my wounds. Her soft hands brush my skin again, and I scowl. I work at the other wrist gently, barely moving.

My eyes open, and I scan the room. Through the bars of the cage with the door open, to the red button on the wall. When I push that, they’ll come in guns blazing. But I’ll have her, with a scalpel to her throat. I’ll use her as a shield to get through the two doors. From there, I’ll have to make it up as I go.

I feel her snip the thread behind me and stand. It’s time.

“You’ll be given antibiotics with your meals for the next two weeks. Please do take them. Some of your wounds are deep, and they will get infected without the meds. If they start to itch or smell, you need to alert your guards so that they tell me.”

My second hand slips out. I’m free. The cuffs jangle against the sidebar of the gurney as I shift. I swing my legs down as I quietly stand and turn to her. My jaw tightens.

She’s young. Her back is turned to me, but even still, I can tell she’s very, very young. And small—delicate, even. Her long dark hair is pulled back in an efficient but flawless ponytail. For the first time in months, I’m seeing clothes that aren’t all black or camouflaged. She’s in black jeans and boots, with a white lab coat on top.

I wince again. I hate that I have to do this. But it must be done.

“So, unless you have any questions, we’re done—”

She turns, and her face pales. She stares at me, eyes bugging out of her head like she can’t quite work out what she’s looking at. Her mouth falls open as her eyes drag up my bare torso, up to my face. It’s like someone’s pressed a pause button on her.

But suddenly, I see the fear explode behind her eyes. Her lungs fill, like she’s about to scream. So I move, and I move fast. I storm into her, one hand clamping over mouth, the other wrapping around her throat. I push her back until she’s pinned to the bars behind her—my body hard against her as I loom over her, staring down into her eyes.

But then, I freeze. In the adrenaline rush of lurching into action, I’ve just not fully taken her in. And when I do, everything goes still.

Fuck me, she’s beautiful. She’s absolutely, without question, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my entire shattered life.

Big, bright blue eyes with thick dark lashes stare widely up at me. My hand might be covering her mouth, but I can feel the full swell of her lips against my palm. Her Snow-White-pale skin is flushed with pink in her cheeks as she trembles against me. I can feel her pulse in her neck throb under my fingers.

She’s a literal angel, and now she’s my captive.

But our eyes lock, and my will breaks. My determination to use her as a shield evaporates. Before I can question it, my hand drops from her mouth. My eyes hold hers wildly. My pulse hums in my veins as my body pins her against the bars.

“Who are you?” I growl. It’s one of the handful of times I’ve spoken since I got here.

“I…” She’s shaking so hard against me. She’s terrified. “I—I’m a doctor.”

“What is your name?” I snarl. I don’t need to know, and yet, I need to know it. I need to know this angel’s name. Because I know now, this plan is done. I’m not using her to break out of here. I won’t be able to. I won’t find the strength to do that to her within me. And that means, I’m going back into the darkness of this place. And if I’m going there, I want this angel who’s burned into my brain to have a name.

“Quinn,” she whispers. “My name is Quinn…”

An alarm blasts through the room. I smile grimly as red lights flash. Well, so much for there not being cameras in here. Behind her, the door to the medical cell unlocks with a clank.

This is it. Time to say goodbye to my chance at freedom.

I don’t want to, because I never want my hands off of her. But slowly, I pull away. My hand drops from her throat as I step back.

“Thank you, Quinn.” I hiss quietly. I put my hands behind my back and lower myself to my knees. My eyes hold hers, never blinking, never looking away. The door opens and a tidal wave of black rushes in.

The guards swarm me, kicking and hitting and striking with batons. There are a dozen of them, and they bring me flat to the ground. The hits and kicks continue, until I’m numb. When they pull away though, she’s gone. And that’s the one hit that does hurt.

I’m flat on my stomach with a dozen gun barrels pressed to my back and neck. The wall rotates into a holding room. The men yank me up, and one slams the stock of his M16 into my stomach just to be a shithead.

I grunt, going limp as they drag me from the room and back down into the bowels of where the hell I am. Back into the darkness. But now, I have a light in me. Now, I have an angel warming my heart.

And my angel has a name. It’s Quinn.

Now, I have a new mission: find her again. And when I get my hands on her this time, I’m never letting her go.