Page 62 of Forced By an Obsessive Bratva Stalker

A chandelier hung from its center, its warm glow making my eyes squint as they adjusted to the brightness.

I pushed myself up, every muscle protesting, and the room came into focus around me.

It was enormous.

My entire apartment—kitchen, bedroom, the cramped little bathroom with the shower curtain that never quite closed all the way—could have fit inside this single room, with space left over.

That was how massive the room was.

The bed I was lying in sat low and wide on a dark-wood frame, easily large enough for four people. It was dressed in layers of white and pale gray linen that looked as if they’d been arranged by someone with actual training in such matters.

Heavy curtains, the color of dark slate, hung floor to ceiling along one entire wall, drawn mostly closed but letting in a thin seam of light at the center.

Across from the bed was a fireplace. An actual fireplace, built into stone that looked original rather than decorative, cold and empty now but clearly functional. It was flanked by built-in shelving holding books.

A seating area occupied the far corner; two armchairs upholstered in something that looked like velvet, the deep green of old money, angled toward a low table with nothing on it.

Through an open doorway to my left, I could see the edge of what looked like a private bathroom. Fine marble was visible even from this distance, the kind of clean, cold luxury that made my chest tighten instead of relax.

Everything in the room was beautiful in a deliberate way. It was as though every object had been chosen to convey something specific about the person who owned it.

I sat very still in the center of that enormous, gorgeous bed, my heart starting to climb toward something close to panic as the last of the chemical haze cleared from my head.

At this point, the actual facts of my situation began arranging themselves with horrible clarity. My memories returned in a flash, and my eyes widened in fear.

I remembered everything that happened at my apartment—the three men who broke into my place in the middle of the night and kidnapped me.

Fuck. I’d been kidnapped.

The realization hit me so hard I practically felt my heart sink into my stomach.

“You’re awake,” a familiar voice said softly. “Good.”

My head snapped sideways in the direction of the speaker, and my breath hitched.

It was him.

It was the man responsible for my mental health issues.

“You!” I growled, jumping off the bed with a racing heart. “What is this? Where am I? Why did you kidnap me?” The words rushed out in a panicked rush.

He was seated on a sofa beside the bed I was lying on with his legs crossed. His dark hair was combed to perfection as always, his polished shoes catching the chandelier’s warm glow. His impeccably tailored black suit fit him perfectly, highlighting his muscles and broad shoulders.

“What do you want with me?!” I barked, a mix of fear and anger coursing through my blood.

He slowly rose to his feet. “Relax, I’m not gonna hurt you…”

“Stay back!” I balled my fists, taking a semi-fighting stance like I stood a chance against him.

He stopped in his tracks, brows raised as though he thought I was being ridiculous. “Aria, it’s me.”

“You, who?” I demanded, my scowl deepening. “Who the fuck are you? Because at this point, I don’t even know who I’m dealing with.”

Silence.

“Who am I talking to, huh? Anton? R.T.?”

“Rodion,” he said. “Rodion Tarasov.”