The Bratva's Captive (Wicked Doms 3)

Oh, no, she doesn't. I grasp her chin with my free hand and hold her gaze.

"Let me make this clear, Olena. I've taken you as my prisoner. I fully intend on getting answers, and I will do so on my terms. For now, you'll lose your clothing, before I restrain you on this bed."

"You're going to rape me," she whispers. "Please, don't." The fight has gone out of her eyes, replaced with a look of terror.

I don't deny it. I want her to fear me.

Perhaps there is a line I won't cross, but she doesn't need to know that.

But a part of me wants to know why she fears I will. Any woman would fear sexual assault, but this... this fear comes from something deeper.

I'll find out why.

In silence, I tug off her shirt. She closes her eyes.

I stifle a gasp when she's bared to me, her small but beautiful breasts encased in a plain white bra. But that isn't what captures my attention. Ugly, silver and red scars crisscross her abdomen and rib cage. Stab wounds. Vicious ones. And they're not old.

I hold her wrists in my hand and keep them pinned above her head. My cock stirs. Any other time and place and this would be foreplay.

"Where did you get these scars?" I demand. "How ugly."

She winces. Christ, I'm a bastard.

But I won't show sympathy. I have to avenge my Taya.

"My father's best friend," she whispers, closing her eyes. "He came for me in America before my mother died. Retribution for something my father had done." Her voice lowers. "He left these to mar me, not to kill me." Then her gaze swivels back to mine and her eyes flare with a ferocity I haven't yet seen. "You likely took me for the same reason. So now you know I've already experienced the brutality of my father's enemies." My cock tightens, throbbing with the heat of her challenge. It is easy enough to train a woman who's passive, but it seems I was mistaken. This one... she's got steel in her, and that excites me.

"Do what you want with me," she throws at me, defiant. "But I don't cave easily."

Oh, but she will. There are so many ways to break someone's will. Sheer violence is the simplest.

"We'll talk about that in the morning," I say with a touch of amusement. I hope she hears the implied condescension. "You get some rest," I suggest nonchalantly, as if she's a sleepy little girl and I'm her daddy tucking her into bed. I take the cuffs Demyan left for me and quickly cuff her wrists to the bedpost. Her leggings are easy to remove. She's a slim little thing, the leggings gliding off her body effortlessly. Next, her panties and socks. While I undress her, she doesn't move, she doesn't protest, but lies in silence, her jaw clenched.

"There, now," I say quietly. I want to keep her off guard. Brutality is easy to predict; gentleness is not.

"You lay here like a good little girl and get some rest. The medicine for the pain should work soon, and I'll check on you in the morning."

If I could trust myself to sleep without falling into another memory of my torture, I'd stay right here with her to keep a watchful eye. But I don't want her to see me weakened, so my dreams will be mine to keep. The sofa in the library will have to do for tonight.

I take a folded blanket from the foot of the bed and snap it open, then drape it over her body, before I leave the room. She says nothing, lying immobile and silent, still glaring, while I take my leave.

I enter the library and take in a deep, cleansing breath. The scent of worn leather and the aged pages of the books that fill our shelves soothes me. When I was a small child in an orphanage in Istra, I was allowed sanctuary in the local library. I read at a very young age, devouring books that distracted me from the dismal reality of my daily life. I was drawn to the most powerful heroes in literature—Lermontov's Pechorin, Dostoyevsky's Raskolnikov, Cervantes' Don Quixote. I had no father, no real-life role models until Dimitri. As our first pakhan, he earned my respect. Dimitri became like a father to all of us, the one who helped form me into the man I am today.

There are no blankets, and the couch is barely big enough to support a man my size, but I'll do what I have to. Fatigue settles over me like a covering, thick and oppressive, when I sit on the couch. I scowl at it, angry it's so small. This will pale in comparison to my room upstairs, but I have a purpose. I lay on my back, groaning when it nearly caves under my weight.