The Bratva's Captive (Wicked Doms 3)

His chocolate-brown eyes, framed with thick black lashes, crinkle a bit around the edges, even as his gaze heats with something dark and possessive. "Good girl," he says approvingly.

I don't know why. I don't know how. But when he says that... when he calls me good girl, a little thrill of pleasure ripples through my body. I swallow hard, unable to mask how this man both intimidates and intrigues me.

"Your name?" he asks softly.

"Olena," I reply. His gaze alights with recognition, a look I should heed, like he's a hunter and I've just stepped into his target zone.

Extending his hand out for me to shake, he waits. I follow his lead and slide my much-smaller hand in his. But when his large, rough hand touches mine, I look at him in confusion when vivid awareness takes hold.

I... I know him. I've met him before. This isn't the first time he's touched me.

I stare at him in bewilderment, trying to place him, but I can't. I am rarely allowed to socialize, so he would have to be a student or professor. He definitely doesn't work for my father, and even if he did that would mean nothing. Only my bodyguards are ever allowed near me, and none are allowed to touch me.

How do I know him?

"And your name?" Maybe knowing something else about him will trigger a memory.

"Maksym," he tells me.

"Pleased to meet you, sir," I respond, this time on purpose. I'm completely swept away by his gaze, his voice, his powerful presence, and ready grin. If he asked me to go to a party tonight, I would ditch my bodyguards so fast it would make my father's head spin, and I'm fairly certain this guy could talk me out of my panties without even trying.

"Have we—have we met before?" I stammer curiously.

He shakes his head. "I don't think so. I would remember meeting a woman as beautiful as you."

Oh, my. It's a classic pick-up line. He's blatantly flirting with me.

I like it.

But even as my body yearns to be touched by him, for our handshake to never end, my mind admonishes me.

There are reasons my father has guards on me.

There are reasons my location detector is always on my phone.

There are reasons I don't go to parties or anywhere near large groups of people. My father would lose his mind if he knew I was talking to any man, let alone this huge, much-older, tattooed man.

But I haven't talked to a guy in so long. None of the college boys interest me, and it's easier for me not to have any relationships because of my father's overbearing nature. And this man intrigues me.

He releases my hand too soon, before he resumes leaning across the counter. I glance back over at the table, surprised to find my guard hasn't returned yet. A flicker of trepidation warns me to be careful.

This isn't right. This isn't normal.

Something is wrong.

Or is it? I need sleep. It's almost closing time, and my guards must be right outside the door.

"May I get you something?" I ask. "We're closing shortly, so our selection is limited, but I'm happy to get you what I can."

"Are you?" he asks curiously, tipping his head to the side and smiling, but this time, the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"O-of course," I stammer, suddenly nervous.

"Blinchiki, please," he says, ordering the signature crepes we're famous for. I quickly fill his order, but my hands shake.

"Anything with it?"

"No, thank you," he says, taking the food from me and handing me some money. "Are you a student here, Olena?"

I love how he says my name, enunciating each syllable with precision, his deep voice resonant and powerful.

"I am," I tell him, and without thinking, needing to know something about him, "Are you?"

He chuckles. "No," he says. "Though I've always wanted to be a professor."

"Have you, Maksym?" I like saying his name. Welcoming the familiar. The word feels delicious on my tongue.

"I have," he asks. Folding his blinchiki in his hand, he takes a large bite, chews, and swallows. I stare when his tongue flicks out and captures a crumb. The way his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows. I want to stare at him and watch every powerful move of his body. I try to stand casually, but how do you stand casually?

"Would you like one?" he asks, noting the way I stare at his food.

Wow, so maybe casual isn't something I do well.

My cheeks heat. "Oh. Oh, no thank you," I say, when I realize I've been staring at him eat. "God, I've eaten so many of these things, I'd be happy if I never see one again for the rest of my life."

His eyes twinkle at me in mild humor while he finishes his snack, crumples up the paper, then takes a step away to toss the paper in the trash. Is he leaving? My heart beats harder.