The Bratva's Captive (Wicked Doms 3)

Inanely, I feel rejected. I don't want to stand in the corner. The night before, he held me in the crook of his arm, and like a child, I want that again. I crave the comfort of his strong, muscled arms about me. I shouldn't. I should want to slap his face for treating me the way he did, but somehow, he's made me little and vulnerable after that punishment. My head hangs low; I walk to where he's instructed. He doesn't move but watches my every movement. I stand, humiliated, my hands hanging limply by my side while my ass throbs from the punishment he gave me.

I feel so exposed like this, with him watching me. What's he doing?

Then I remember his erection below my belly, and I inwardly squirm. What if he's stroking himself off at the sight of me in the corner like this? Or maybe he's just ignoring me. Checking his phone or something. I sigh, trying to still the tears that continue to fall.

"You've really learned your lesson this time?" he asks me, a note of incredulity in his voice.

I nod. "Yes, sir," I respond meekly.

A few more minutes pass in silence. "You may come here now, Olena."

My eyes still cast to the floor I walk to him. There is no phone. He's still fully dressed. He's only been watching me.

I want to crawl up on his lap and bury my face on his chest and weep for the sadness he's drawn out in me. But when I reach him, he only stands and points to the bed. "Rest now," he says. He doesn't touch me. Doesn't say another word. Just points to the bed and leaves me alone. I climb into the bed, pull the pillow close to me, and cry the rest of my tears until I have no more to cry.

He's taken everything from me.

They all have.

I need to somehow find a way to escape.

This is not who I am. This is not who I will ever be.

Somehow... some way... I will find a way to rise above this. But as I make my vow to myself, the door opens again.

"Why do you cry?" he asks, standing in the doorway looking angrily at me. "That was hardly a brutal punishment."

"I don't know," I tell him. "And how do you know? Have you been punished like that before?"

It was the wrong question to ask. His entire face turns to granite, his eyes flinty.

"Punished like that?" he asks. "You got less than two dozen smacks over my lap. Your skin is reddened, and you feel pain, but in a few minutes the memory of that will fade. You may bear a few marks, but nothing permanent." He's beside me now, standing right next to me, his hands clenched into fists. "I didn't draw blood. I broke no limbs. I spanked you like the naughty little girl you are, and if you ever behave the way you did today again, I will not hesitate to draw you over my lap again. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," I say, regretting even talking to him. Jesus, have I learned nothing?

Reaching down, he fists my hair and lifts my face to his with a savage yank. I scream, but he swallows my scream with his mouth on mine. It isn't a gentle kiss of a lover but something harder. Deeper. Terrifying.

My hands come helplessly to his shoulders, and I don't know if I'm trying to stabilize myself or push away or hold him, but I grab his neck and hold on tight as his tongue plunders my mouth and he grasps my waist. I'm lifted into his arms, and he's holding me to him. I've never angry kissed someone before, but there's something undeniably erotic laden in this kiss. Something primitive and raw in our clash of lips and tongues. In my naked body held to his clothed one, my fingers around the strong column of his neck.

I don't know why he's doing this, what's come over him. Hell, I don't know what's come over me. But something happened in that punishment. Something broke in me, and he can't handle that.

He pulls his mouth off mine just long enough to groan, "Olena. Fuck, woman, you're incorrigible."

"I'm not," I say quietly, dropping my forehead to his shoulder. "I just... I'm just not what you want me to be."

"Christ," he says on a tortured groan. "You're everything I want you to be. That's the fucking problem."

What?

But he closes his eyes and tenses. He's said more than he meant to. Releasing a ragged breath, he sits on the bed and does what I wanted him to all along: holds me to his chest, cradled in his lap.

"What am I going to do with you?" he whispers. "What the fuck am I going to do with you?"