Conquered Bride (Belaya Bratva 1)

Something shone in his eyes before it was blinked away. “Which part?” he asked smoothly, that arrogant smile on his face.

I rolled my eyes before leaning down and brushing my lips over his. “I want more,” I stated, biting his lower lip lightly. “I want to have you.”

His hands drifted down to the strip of skin visible. “Then have me.”

I didn’t believe him. I wasn’t going to have him. I could claim him as my husband, as mine, but I would never completely have Gavril, and I didn’t know how to process that.

So, I kissed him with all the pent-up frustration and passion that was inside me. Gavril allowed me to take the lead, his tongue sweeping over mine lazily as I worked on the belt at his trousers. I wanted to strip him so I could kiss every inch of his body, but we didn’t have that sort of time.

I wanted him in me.

When I pulled him out, Gavril pulled away from my mouth. “Careful,” he growled as I brushed my thumb over the tip, finding it slick with pre-cum. “If you keep doing this, I’m afraid things will get very messy.”

“That’s exactly what I want,” I answered before grazing my teeth on the underside of his jaw. I removed my hand long enough to pull my panties aside before I lowered myself onto his hard cock, burying him deep inside me. Gavril hissed as I did so, his hands tightening on my sides. I moaned and he captured my lips with his, his kiss more feral than it had been before.

I rocked against him and brought myself to another earth-shattering climax, Gavril’s mouth moving from mine as he shuddered against me. A gush of warmth flooded me, and my sex clenched greedily around his cock, drinking in his essence.

“Fuck,” he whispered against my shoulder. “I wanted that to last longer.”

I let out a shaky laugh, breathing in his scent and filtering my fingers through his thick, dark hair. “You can make it up to me then.”

Gavril lifted his head and for a moment, there was no hardness in his gaze, but more of a challenge. “You can count on that.”

The car suddenly stopped, and I unwound myself from his lap, barely sliding back into the seat beside him before the door was opening. There was no hiding what we had done. The entire car smelled like sex.

Gavril waited until I was able to slide on my shoes and join him. Together, we walked into the house, only to be approached by his mother the moment we were inside.

“A man from the American Embassy is here,” she hissed, clearly upset she had been dragged out of her bed to entertain a guest. “He is asking for you.”

I watched as my husband slid on his mask of indifference and headed to the receiving room, his stride confident and nothing like the man who had just fucked me in the back of the car.

When he became this man, I hated it. I hated that he felt the need to hide himself from everyone else, and wondered if anyone ever truly knew Gavril Kirilenko.

Still, I followed him into the receiving room and found a short man with glasses waiting, his suit rumpled due to the lateness of the hour. “Mr. Kirilenko,” he greeted Gavril. “I apologize for the late visit, but some urgent business has found my desk.”

“Go on,” Gavril replied, almost bored.

The man cleared his throat, his eyes dancing nervously to me. “There’s a woman who has been reported missing from the States, and I see you are traveling with an American yourself.”

Gavril’s eyes flickered over him, hardening to the point of madness. “My wife Sveta is not an American.”

The man’s mouth rounded. “Are you certain?”

Gavril let out a small, humorless laugh. “Am I certain of what? That she is my wife?”

Not to be deterred, the man pulled out a single photo, my driver’s license photo at that. I felt my heart sink.

“This is the missing woman in question. Naomi Spencer,” he said, his gaze on me. “She bears an uncanny resemblance to your wife there.”

Oh God. I maintained my composure the best I could, but inside I was falling apart. It was my worst nightmare coming true, the very thing that Gavril had warned me against. If they found out who I was, then he wouldn’t need me any longer.

Gavril didn’t bat an eye or even look at the photo. “I’m afraid you are mistaken. Now, my wife is tired, and it’s late.”

“But—” the man started.

Gavril raised a hand to interrupt him. “Allow me to remind you that this is not the United States. This is Russia. You enter my home in the dead of night and disturb our night with baseless accusations. You declare that my wife is an American woman when she is anything but. And if you think you can use this as an excuse to detain her or take her away from me, I will have no problem escalating a diplomatic incident between our two countries. Do I make myself clear?”

The man stared at Gavril, weighing his options. After a while, he nodded and said, “Very well. I’m sorry for this intrusion. If you have any information about Naomi Spencer, please contact the embassy at your earliest convenience. Now if you’d like me to leave behind my number, I can certainly do so.”

The two talked for a few minutes longer, but I wasn’t listening any more, a sinking suspicion starting to take shape in my mind.

There was only one person who could have gotten to the embassy.

Only one person who would want to go through all of that effort to find me.

Only one person who I’d spent years running and hiding from, but who always—always—found me, no matter where I ran.

Jon.