Silken Chains (Bond by Morozov Bratva Book 1) (Bond by Morozov Bratva Series)

“I… I don’t understand.” I cough out a dry, panicky laugh. “You’re a real prankster, Eli,” I manage to say.

I glance back and forth between her and Ksenia. “I’m not anyone’s… bride.”

“Eli, I think it’s time for you to go get your Dyadya,” Ksenia instructs smoothly, her eyes never leaving mine. “He must be glad that his new bride is awake.”

Run.

But my legs are rooted to the spot, as if the plush rug has turned to quicksand.

“Okay, Mommy!” Eli skips out of the room, leaving me alone with Ksenia.

The room falls into a heavy silence.

Hit her, Laura, then run fast.

Yet, I stand frozen, mesmerized by the intimidating woman before me.

“Look, I’m up to my neck in trouble,” I spit out, the words tumbling in a rush. “I’ve got a bookstore that’s nothing but ashes now and no insurance to cover anything. I can’t be caught up in whatever madness this is.”

A smile plays on Ksenia’s lips, but her eyes remain as cold as steel.

Note to self: sob stories don’t work on stone-cold kidnappers. My life drama is just white noise to her.

“Come in,” she commands, gesturing to someone outside the door.

The door opens, and two men step in—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in impeccably tailored black suits. They look like they’ve walked straight out of a mobster movie.

“Wait, what’s happening?” I stammer, my eyes darting between Ksenia and the men.

Ksenia doesn’t answer. Instead, she watches, almost detached, as the men approach me.

“Hey, wait a minute!” I blurt out as they close in. “You’re making a mistake!” I attempt a quick escape, but they catch me easily, their hands clamping down on my arms like vises. “Let go, you jerks!” I squirm and twist, trying to break free, but they’re like human walls, immovable and unyielding.

“You’ve got the wrong person!” I protest. I try to twist away, but it’s like fighting against a wall.

“Wait just a second! You can’t do this, you… you gloriously terrifying goddess of doom! I know who you are now, Ksenia! And let me tell you, there’s a special place in hell for stunningly beautiful kidnappers! This is some serious law-breaking stuff, and trust me, it won’t end well for you. My army of angry friends, not to mention the police, are probably storming the gates as we speak!” I try to catch Ksenia’s attention, but her expression remains unreadable, her eyes cold and calculating.

The men yank me out of the room, and I sneak a last glance at Ksenia. She’s just sighing and shaking her head like she’s disappointed or something.

What was that?

As soon as we leave Eli’s room, the house unfolds before me. It’s like a scene from a gothic movie—luxurious, opulent, and eerily silent.

My mind races, fear mingling with a sense of awe. “Where are you taking me?” I ask, my voice trembling. One of the men just gives me a brief, emotionless glance, his grip unyielding like iron shackles.

Oh, Jesus.

Hollyfuckingshit.

My feet drag against the plush carpet as they lead me down the ostentatious corridor. The lavish decor does little to distract me from the dread building in my stomach.

I throw out another feeble threat, my voice weaker now. “You can’t do this. People will be looking for me!”

They don’t say a word, just carry me down the stairs like I’m some kind of mannequin.

By now, my steps become more resigned. The cold marble beneath my feet is a stark contrast to the warmth of Eli’s room; the statues and paintings that adorn the hallways seem to watch me with silent judgment.

Reaching the bottom, I catch sight of a heavy, ornate door. It looks more like the entrance to a fortress than a room.

“Let go… of… me!” I shout, but the sound fades, useless. They’re immovable, holding me firm as we near the door. I’ve stopped struggling now, the futility of my efforts sinking in. My body feels heavy, every step dragging more than the last.

One of the men knocks on the door, his voice gruff but respectful. “Boss, she’s here.”

As the door swings open, one of the men shoves me forward so abruptly I almost face-plant into the plush rug. “Hey!” I protest, my indignation flaring up. “Ever heard of manners, you Neanderthal?”

“He’s waiting for you,” grunts one of the suits as they lock me in.

The door shuts with a definitive click.

Fuck!

“Who’s waiting for me? You lunatics!” My voice cracks as I pound on the sturdy wood, the thuds of my fists futile against its mass. “Let me out of here!”

Silence.

“Alright, off to find the mystery man,” I holler, my words bouncing off the walls and back to me.

Pointless.

And there it is: my white flag moment.

I spin on my heel, heart pounding like a runaway train in my chest, and— Whoa. What? My mouth hangs open, any lingering anger zapped away for a second as my eyes take in the scene before me—a room that feels like a step back in time. The walls are lined with shelves brimming with books, their spines a kaleidoscope of faded colors and gold lettering.

I smell the musky scent of old paper and leather, mixed with a hint of cigar smoke lingering in the background.

Mmm, that old book scent is amazing.

Snap out of it! Laura, remember, you’ve been kidnapped!

My bare feet sink into the rug, like stepping on a cloud—way too fancy for a kidnapping scene if you ask me. The room is lined with shelves of books from floor to ceiling. Some are old, their spines cracked and worn, while others look newer. A large desk sits at the far end, more like a centerpiece than a piece of furniture.

I feel a weird mix of awe and panic. It’s like stepping into someone’s private world, a place where important decisions are made. The silence is thick, only broken by the soft sound of my own breathing.

Taking cautious steps, I look around. “Hello?” I whisper to myself.

I pause.

Glancing over my shoulder, I half-expect some lurking figure to leap out at me. With a cautious breath, I take a few more steps. I can’t help but read the book titles on the shelves.

Then my eyes land on a book with the title “The Histories by Herodotus.” I pull it out from the shelf, my hands shaking as I realize what I’m holding. “No way! A first edition?” I whisper, awe-struck. This isn’t just some old book; it’s a piece of history, probably worth more than my entire apartment.

“This is insane,” I murmur, carefully running my fingers over the ancient pages.

Immediately next to where the book was, I spot “Lost Chronicles of Alexander the Great,” and my heart leaps. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say, pulling it out gingerly. The weight of it in my hands feels like holding a treasure.

“This is the kind of book collectors would sell their souls for.” My voice is hushed, reverent, as I realize the rarity of what I’m touching.

I glance around the room, still clutching the books.

Fuck me! This room is a book nerd’s paradise, and I’m trapped in it.

“Of all the places to end up,” I chuckle nervously, “a billionaire’s personal library isn’t the worst.” I feel a mix of terror and exhilaration.

Great! I can still crack a joke mid-meltdown.

Carefully, I place the books back, my fingers lingering on the spine. “I can’t believe I’m seeing this with my own eyes.” My heart’s still racing, not just from fear but from the thrill of being surrounded by such priceless artifacts.

“This room must be worth a fortune,” I whisper to myself, a sense of disbelief washing over me.

Taking a deep breath, I try to calm my racing heart.

Okay, Laura, focus. You’re in a kidnapper’s den, not a book fair.

CLING.

Startled by the sudden click in the eerie quiet, I jerk back. My heart’s pounding loud enough to drown out the silence.

“What the—?” slips out before I can stop it. I slap a hand over my mouth, biting back a shout.

Then, that unmistakable whiff of cigar smoke hits me. Someone’s here, smoking a cigar in this room! Panic flickers through me.

What if it starts a fire…?

Then, driven by a mix of fear and curiosity, my feet begin moving almost on their own.

I find myself at the far end of the room, standing before a grand table and a chair that screams royalty, more throne than seat. Sunlight seeps through heavy velvet drapes, casting a dramatic, almost cinematic glow. The kind you’d see in old Dracula movies.

“Who’s there?” My voice is just a whisper, lost in the grandeur of the room. There’s a slight movement from the chair, a subtle shift.

The next moment, a flicker of light from a cigar briefly reveals a face hidden in shadows. My eyes lock onto his—those same piercing gray eyes I’ve seen before.

I gasp, frozen in place.

No freaking way.

Then, breaking the tense silence, a voice—deep, familiar, and unnervingly calm—speaks.

“Hello, little firecracker,” Victor Morozov greets me with a smirk. “You didn’t listen, did you? I told you to wait for me at the hotel, but you just had to defy me.”