Midnight Oath (Tasarov Bratva 1)

I wake up to hard pounding after a night full of dreaming about it.

Whatever hold-ups conscious me has about sex, dream me does not relate. I felt like I dreamed for endless hours about a dark-haired man claiming me again and again in every way a woman can be claimed.

Then, this. A loud noise from the hallway.

I peel open my eyes and blink the exhaustion away. I can see early morning light creeping under the blinds. Sleep sounds nice, but there’s no way I’m getting back to it now.

I shed my pajamas and pull on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved white t-shirt. Then I poke my head through the door that leads into Isabella’s room.

She’s still asleep, her mouth halfway open. Little snores escape with every exhale.

I smile. Everything else may be a nightmare, but she’s happy here. Content.

That has to count for something.

I pull her door closed and pad out of my room. As soon as I step into the hallway, a new round of banging echoes off the walls. I follow it to the main stairwell where two men in cream-colored uniforms are installing…

“What’s this?” I ask before I can think better of it.

The workmen turn to me. “Sorry if we woke you,” the taller one says. “We got orders to get this chair lift installed as soon as possible.”

“I’m not usually at work for another hour,” the other one grumbles.

The tall one nudges his friend in the back with his knee. “And we’re getting paid handsomely for the trouble. We’re happy to do it.”

“Adrik ordered this?”

The taller man nods. “Mr. Tasarov, yes. Said it was vitally important.”

“Which is why you should stop jawing and help me,” the other man says to his partner. He looks over his shoulder at me. “Sorry, Mrs. Tasarov, but we’ve gotta—”

“No, I get it.” I wave. “I’ll leave you to it.”

It’s only when I turn away that I wince. Mrs. Tasarov. Soon enough, they’ll be right about that. That will be my name.

The shock of that realization is almost enough to distract me from the matter at hand.

Almost, but not quite.

I wander down the hallway, lost in thought. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it when I notice a set of imposing double doors at the end of the hall.

Out of nothing but curiosity, I try the knob.

Unlocked.

With a quick glance around to make sure no one is watching, I open the door and slip inside.

For a second, it’s too dark to see. There’s dusky light coming from the back wall. Dark roman shades are pulled down to cover the windows. The room smells musty, like it hasn’t been used in a long time.

Slowly, my eyes start to adjust to the gloom, and I realize I’m in a gym.

My bare feet slap softly against the padded floors. Punching bags in various sizes hang from the ceiling and dumbbells line the walls.

It makes sense Adrik would have a home gym. For one, this house is the size of a theme park. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a bowling alley and a drive-in movie theater, too.

I walk over to the first punching bag and give it a light jab. It’s the largest of the three and looks like it weighs ten tons.

When my fist connects, dust flies into the air and a reverberation shakes up my arm. It feels like I just punched a metal wall.

“Jesus, who is that even for? Hercules?” I shake out my hand and move to the next bag. This one is smaller, but more dust erupts when I punch it, then swings right back at my face like it’s trying to return fire.

I duck out of the way—just barely—giving the bag a vicious evil eye as I go.

I step up to the third and final bag. When I test out an easy punch, the bag cushions the hit and doesn’t try to attack me.

I feel like Goldilocks. “This one is just right.”

I boxed briefly in high school. A friend talked me into trying it out one day and I fell in love. I loved taping my hands and sliding into my gloves, the magic and ritual of it all. I loved the way I felt after landing a good strike, the way my body thrummed with energy.

Like I wasn’t quite so fragile anymore. Like it was okay to take up space in this world.

I felt alive…

Until my dad found out his baby girl was playing a “man’s sport.”

“What am I going to do with you when you get your nose broken? Or you crack your teeth, eh?” he spat. “You’ll switch to tennis on Monday.”

“I don’t want to switch!”

But he didn’t listen to me. He never did.

Not even my world shattered and no one was around to witness it but the person doing the shattering—and my father was the one person alive that I desperately needed to believe me when I told him what had happened.

Maybe things would’ve been different if he did.

I clench my fist and throw another jab. I’m sure my boxing coach would cringe at my form nowadays, but it feels just as good as it used to. I feel just as powerful.

And I need that feeling. I haven’t felt it in so, so long.

I punch again. And again. And again.

I’m so lost in the rhythm of jab, dodge, repeat that it takes me a second to recognize the steps echoing across the room aren’t mine.

My heart clenches. I spin on my heel, fists still up and ready.

There, of course, is Adrik.

He’s walking towards me in a dark pair of jeans and a sweater that hugs his chest. And he looks pissed.

“You’re really making yourself at home, aren’t you?” he snarls. “Snooping anywhere you fucking please.”

I drop my hands, even though my instincts are screaming at me not to let my guard down. “I wasn’t snooping. I was getting ice for Isabella. I figured you wouldn’t mind since you have such a soft spot for her.”

“Excuse me?”

I recognize the danger in his voice, but I ignore it anyway. I point towards the hall. “I see you’re installing a chair lift.”

“Would you prefer I made your daughter crawl up the stairs?”

As far as excuses go, it’s plausible. But I don’t buy it.

Before I can say so, Adrik continues. “This room isn’t open to you.”

“It looks open,” I retort.

“It’s not. Get out.”

I turn away from him and throw another punch. I’m doing my best to look casual and unaffected, but my body buzzes with the awareness of him stalking closer to me. The desire to turn and face him is overwhelming. Equal parts desire and self-preservation.