Page 29 of The Bratva Enforcer and His Virgin Bride

A bag is pulled over my head.

My vision disappears.

Sound changes.

Space changes.

Even breathing feels different, like the air has been replaced with something thinner, colder.

I don’t scream again.

I don’t fight blindly the way instinct tells me to.

I force myself still instead.

That’s what Papa always used to say.

Think first. React second. Never waste energy on panic.

My wrists are still held tightly behind me, but I shift slightly—not resisting for the sake of force, but for information. Grip strength. Number of hands on me. Direction of movement.

Three points of contact. At least. Maybe more.

I’m lifted suddenly. Off my feet. Strong arms under me. My stomach drops as I’m carried forward, and then the air shifts sharply—cold night air hitting my skin for a fraction of a second before I’m lowered again.

A car. The sound of a door opening. Leather seat. Then I’m dropped inside. Very gently. The door shuts. The world seals itself in.

For a second, I sit completely still in the darkness under the bag, listening.

Doors open and close outside.

Footsteps.

Low voices I can’t distinguish.

Another door shuts.

Then—

The engine starts.

My body tightens instinctively.

The car moves.

Forward first.

Then faster.

The road is smooth beneath us as the vehicle merges into motion.

I keep my breathing even.

In.

Out.

In.