The Bratva's Heir (Underworld Kings)

“Stay there, ptitsa. It’s important to dismount carefully so you don’t get hurt.” One minute, he’s spitting out orders that are hard to swallow and I wonder who he is and… moreover, who I am to him. The next, he’s being gentle and careful with me. Protective.

I watch him put the bike in neutral and hold it steady so I can get off. I hold his shoulders to steady myself before I swing my leg over the side.

Even now, he doesn’t want me to fall or injure myself. Even now, he’s looking out for me. And for some reason, that makes me feel a little sad inside.

I don’t know what’s going to happen to Constantine. I don’t know where we go from here. I do know the thought of him being caught and dragged back to DesMax, that hopeless, dismal place, makes a knot form in the pit of my stomach. I also know that being caught and brought back to prison might be a happy ending compared to the other outcomes he might face.

It isn’t until we’re halfway up the stairs to the house that I realize where we are — on a street I used to frequent with my parents when I was younger, a place of summer vacation homes and a boardwalk, a good distance away from the prison, but close enough to my childhood home that we could get there in a heartbeat. My father liked to vacation locally in case he needed to return quickly, and my mother was terrified of long flights, so it was an easy decision for them.

I almost tell him that I’m familiar with this street. I’m not sure we stayed in this exact home, but I’ve been in the close vicinity. Then it dawns on me, he knows where we are. He chose this place on purpose. Though he might not know that I vacationed here as a child, he’s well aware of how close we are to my childhood home.

And right then, with the doubts of everything before us, the sadness of who he is and what he bears weighing heavily on me… I want to go home. I want my own bed again. I want to go back to who I was before all of this: a strong, independent woman, who knew what she wanted and where she was going in life.

I know I can’t have that. I can’t go there. I know now that who I was will never be the same.

And at this point? I’m not sure I even want to go back to the way things were.

It’s my life’s work to help others learn how to manage mental illnesses, to learn how to handle trauma, but right now, I’m not even sure how to begin.

Our heads bent, we walk quickly to the front door. He swipes at a number pad on the door, and the lock clicks open with a quiet snick. The muscles in his arms bunch and bulge as he pushes it open and gestures for me to go inside.

It’s a modern, luxurious place, immaculately clean with comfortable-looking furniture, specifically geared for comfort and relaxation. I gasp when I look out the window at the night sky, the stars twinkling like diamonds in the valley below.

I open my mouth to speak to him when he barks out an order. “Strip.”

I freeze and don’t respond right away.

“You have thirty seconds, Clare, before I start counting.”

“Counting… what?” I ask on a whisper, simultaneously turned on and terrified.

“How many more strikes you’ve earned with your disobedience.”

Did I imagine it, or do his eyes look heated just now?

Do mine?

“Fifteen seconds.”

It isn’t enough time to think or plan. My eyes on his, I begin to strip.

As soon as the fabric of my clothes pools around my feet, I see I’m affecting him and realize... I can gain back control. Perhaps I never gave it up to begin with.

I could’ve demanded he take me home. I could’ve maybe even escaped. I didn’t have to do what he told me. I didn’t need to let him make me come.

I didn’t have to enjoy it.

When I stand before him in nothing but a bra and panties, I know I’ve affected him. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down, and his erection shows clean through the tightness of his pants. When I hold his gaze, his pupils dilate.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs, before he speaks in ragged Russian.

“What was that?” I ask, my own voice thick with arousal.

A wicked glint lights his eyes. “I said Yebat’ yego konem. Literally translated it means ‘let the horse fuck it’.”

“What?”

“In English you might say goddamn.”

My heart thumps. “Oh. Well that’s better than... horses… fucking.” I flush.

“You’re a treasure, Clare.”

“Oh?” I ask in a teasing lilt. “Then why must you punish me?”

In one step, he’s crossed to me. His fingers tangle in my hair. I gasp when he yanks it, my mouth dropping open when pain spikes down my scalp and tingles across my spine. Before I’ve recovered, he palms my ass and yanks me against him. I whimper just before he takes my mouth, lips pressed to mine with branding intensity.