Loving The Bratva Boss

Chapter 5

Five hours.
That's how long I've been trapped on this impossibly luxurious plane, pretending I can sleep when my nerves won't let me. Every time I shift, the stupid club dress rides up, digs in, stretches, suffocates. Jade picked it out, and I had humored her—never imagining I'd be wearing it while being abducted across the world.

I twist again, trying to get comfortable, and a frustrated huff escapes my mouth.

From across the cabin, he finally speaks.
"Part of the reason you cannot sleep, milaya, is because you're wearing that scrap of fabric you call a dress."

His tone is neutral, but the insult is sharp enough to scratch.

"I don't mean to be rude," I mutter, tugging the hem down for the twentieth time, "but if you had just taken me home, I could've changed into something... less miserable."

For a moment, I think he won't respond. Then—

"Get up," he orders, standing and walking toward the back of the plane. "Follow me."

I scramble up so fast I nearly trip, practically jogging to keep up with his long, unhurried strides. He doesn't wait for me or slow down—he moves like a man who expects the world to adjust to his pace, not the other way around.

He pushes open a sleek door, revealing a bedroom. And not just any bedroom—this thing looks like it belongs inside a spaceship designed by billionaires. Clean lines, ambient lighting, snow-white bedding, a massive window showing a sea of clouds. It's breathtaking.

He goes straight to a polished suitcase, unzips it, and pulls out a neatly folded shirt—his shirt, judging by the size.

"Change."
He doesn't look at me. He simply sinks into a chair in the corner, eyes pointed firmly away.

The unexpected courtesy settles my nerves more than it should. I turn around quickly and pull the dress off, replacing it with the shirt and a pair of soft pants. The fabric smells like him—clean, rich, expensive, and warm in a way I can't explain.

"I'm finished," I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

"Come here," he says.

My feet move before my brain agrees. He grabs my wrist, pulling me into his lap as if it's the most natural thing in the world. His arms wrap around my waist, steady and warm, holding me in place. Too close. Too much.

But somehow, not enough.

I stare down at my hands, twisting them like a nervous child. "Can I ask you a question?"

"You just did," he says dryly. "But go ahead."

Heat rushes to my cheeks and my throat tightens with nerves.

Before I can stop myself, the question slips free. "Why did you kill that man? You said he stole from you, but killing him is—well, it's illegal. It's murder."

The air shifts instantly.
His posture hardens beneath me. The calm dissolves.

"He stole from me. He lied to me. Betrayal in my world is not a mistake—it is a choice. And choices have consequences."
He cups my jaw, forcing my eyes to meet his. "I do not show mercy to men who threaten what is mine."

My breath hitches. He isn't raising his voice. He doesn't need to. His calm is more terrifying than any shout.

"But don't you feel—" I begin, but he cuts me off sharply.

"Enough."
The single word lands like a blade. "We will not discuss it further."

Seconds stretch between us—tight, tense, suffocating.

Then he lifts me off him—not gently—and stands.

Without another word, he walks out of the room.

He's angry. Not just irritated—angry with me.

A painful lump forms in my throat. I sit there for a moment before my legs carry me after him, despite every logical part of my brain screaming not to follow.

Why am I doing this?
Why do I care?
Why do I want his attention—his approval?

Is this Stockholm Syndrome?
Is that what's happening?

I find him seated again where he was earlier. The book he'd been reading lies untouched beside him. He doesn't look at me when I enter, but the tension rolls off him like heat from asphalt.

"Nikolai," I whisper.
Still nothing.

"I'm... I'm sorry for asking." My voice shrinks into something small. "I won't bring it up again."

He finally turns his head, eyes cold and controlled.

"You are correct. You will not bring it up again."
His tone slices clean. "What I do is not your concern. You speak about my business only if I allow it. Understood?"

I nod quickly.

"Good. Then return to the bedroom. We have four hours left in this flight."

The dismissal is absolute.

I turn and walk down the hall, heart pounding with something sharp and aching. I slide under the pristine blankets, stare up at the ceiling, and wait for fear to settle in.

It doesn't.

I should be terrified.
I should be planning to escape.
I should be praying for a miracle.

But instead—
I'm wondering what will happen when we land.

I'm wondering what Nikolai Volkov will do with me next.

And disturbingly...
I'm not afraid.

I'm anticipating it.