The Bratva's Heir (Underworld Kings)

How many have?

He’s huge and bulky, but there doesn’t seem to be an ounce of fat on him. His neck’s solid muscle, his shoulders so strong I imagine he can bench press my entire body weight. No, more. I remember the way he tucked me under his arm and carried me like a child. Ink scrolls down his neck, his shoulders, his arms, and when he turns toward a table with the kettle he holds, I see his back is a pattern of tattoos as well.

The towel is snug around his trim waist.

He utters something in Russian, then hangs up the phone.

“So you’ve wakened, little bird. Are you ready for our next discussion?”

Something tells me our next “discussion” involves some of the accoutrements that lie like snakes in grass on nearby tables and shelves—whips, a supple chain, a thin rod, something that looks like gathered strings of leather, a mask of some sort.

“No.”

His low, dark chuckle makes me shiver in anticipation of what he’ll do next. He’s neither amused nor happy. I wonder if it’s the sound of a man crazed.

He sets the kettle on a table a few yards from me and, dropping the towel, reaches for a clean set of clothes. I watch, looking in unabashed awe at every muscled, chiseled inch of him before he dresses himself.

“No?” He shakes his head, plugging the kettle in. There’s a silver tray on the table I didn’t see before. My mouth waters. God, I’m starving. “Haven’t you learned yet what will happen to you when you disobey me?”

Disobey? Is he delusional? Where does he get off thinking it’s okay to talk to me like this?

Then I remember he kidnapped me, tied me up, dragged me to this club, and made me climax to the point I was boneless and begging him to stop.

At this point, the way he talks to me is almost moot. He treats me like he owns me. Maybe he thinks he does.

He lives a way of life so foreign to me, and I don’t just mean head of the Bratva. I don’t know what to expect.

I don’t like that.

“Hungry, little bird?”

My stomach growls as if to betray me.

When I remember how I’ll be fed… how he gave me my drink… I decide I’m maybe not so hungry after all. I turn my head away from him and don’t respond, but he doesn’t like that. In the next moment, the bed creaks, bowing under his weight, and his fingers wrap around my jaw.

“You’d do well to remember your place, Clare,” he says in that deep voice of his tinged with the Russian accent, something I will forever associate with danger. “If you disobey me, I’ll punish you. And I won’t always be so kind as to make you orgasm for punishment.”

He’s threatened punishment before, and a crazy little part of my brain’s both curious and horrified. I never quite realized that climaxing can be painful and punitive. I suppose like any appetite, there’s discomfort when overindulged.

“Now,” he says, as if we’ve got that all sorted out. “I asked you a question. Answer me, or I’ll take you straight across my knee to teach you manners.”

Right, then. That’s what he’ll do.

“I’m not hungry.” My stomach growls again.

“Liar.” His eyes narrow. Reaching for the platter beside him, he lifts a steaming mug and gives it a stir. I watch, mesmerized, as his big, inked fingers lift a tea bag out, then nestle it on a little plate. He’s surprisingly gentle for such a large, rough man. I watch as a trickle of tea makes a pattern on the tiny saucer. He lifts a small steel carafe and pours milk in, then takes a long gulp before he releases a pleased sigh.

“Ahh. Christos, that’s good. You should talk to your father about the swill they call tea in the Desolation jails.” His tone’s gotten an edge to it. I really wish he’d stop bringing up my father.

My mouth waters when he places a thick slab of cheese on a wedge of crusty bread. It looks delicious.

His eyes close when he takes a bite. He chews, swallows, then wipes his mouth with a napkin. I’m a little surprised by his good table manners.

“Also delicious.”

He makes good work of the little finger sandwiches, the antipasto platter, a mound of olives, and some grapes and berries. It seems this location, in the grimy underbelly of Desolation, serves only to throw people off. Or maybe it’s Constantine who’s all smoke and mirrors. It seems he has connections in every corner of the city.

“That’s fancy fare for a guy like you, no?”

I’m faint with hunger, my belly gnawing at me.

A corner of his lips quirks upward. “What do you really know about me, Clare? For all you know, I’m a connoisseur of fine wine and cheeses.”