The Bratva's Captive (Wicked Doms 3)

Deep inside me, something tempts me to soften, to stop being so harsh and exacting with her, but the urgency of what we need to do makes it impossible. I can't be the tender lover of the night before. I can't allow myself to become vulnerable and malleable like I did for that brief moment in time.

I will not fall for my enemy's daughter. Doing so would be disastrous.

"You're an asshole," she says in English, taking me by surprise. Her eyes challenge me to punish her for how she speaks to me now. Her voice wavers, but I suspect it's more from anger than anything else. "You toy with me like I'm a plaything. A fucking plaything and not a human with real feelings." Her voice drops to a vehement whisper. "And I fucking hate you for it."

"You'll be sorry you said that," I say, shaking my head. I take two steps toward her, but she doesn't cower. She stands straight, meeting my gaze squarely.

"Will I?" she tosses back at me, lifting her chin in defiance. "Why don't you," she reaches out to me and slaps her hands on my chest. "Fuck. Off."

I don't give her any power in this, rolling my eyes as I ignore her and lift her into my arms. She smacks my chest angrily. "Let me go," she says, escalating to a real fevered pitch now. "Put me down."

She wriggles in my arms as I stalk to the bathroom and drop her unceremoniously on her feet in the shower. It's a huge, circular tub, so we both fit in it easily. I yank it on, adjust the temperature, then turn the streams of water on us at full blast.

"You're filthy," I tell her. "I'll deal with you after you're clean."

"You're no gleaming example of purity," she mutters. At any other place and time, I'd laugh at that, at how silly and foolish she is in her petulance, but right now, I have a purpose. I strip her easily out of her soiled dress, already sodden, and whip it toward the large wicker basket outside the shower. I hold her with my eyes, daring her to do anything but stand right there, before I strip out of my own clothes. Soon, we're standing in front of each other, stripped of everything but the furious anger that rages between us.

My palm itches to punish her, my temper ignited by her unabashed defiance and fury. But I don't want her to know how easily she affects me.

"You're stunning when you're angry," I say, drawing her to me with my hand on the small of her back. I reach for the slim bottle of almond-colored shampoo, tip some into my hand, then lather her matted, thick hair. "Tip your head back."

"And you're just stunning, you asshole," she says through gritted teeth.

"Keep it up, angel. You're going to pay for this temper. You know that, don't you?"

She doesn't take the bait, biting her tongue while I wash and rinse her hair. Closing her eyes, she allows me to draw down the head of the shower and rinse her hair, the warm water causing steam to billow around us in clouds.

"But that's what you want, isn't it, Olena?" I say in her ear while I hold her to me. Her bare, soaked breasts pushed up against my chest, her slick body melded to mine. "You know I'll punish you for your defiant tongue. And you want just that. You like when I spank you."

"I don't," she says, but it's a lie, because her nipples harden against my chest and her voice quavers. "It hurts when you punish me. But you're going to do it anyway."

I chuckle, holding her even closer, inhaling the scent of honey and almonds mingled with her feminine arousal. "Of course I am," I tell her. "I must. I have to."

"Why?"

I don't answer, because the reasoning is too complex. And why do I need to explain myself? In silence, I lather a thick blue washcloth with loops of pearly body wash and draw it over her shoulders, the water running gray with soot and sweat. Next, I drag it over her breasts, paying particular attention to the hardened nipples. I bend and take one wet nipple between my teeth. She smacks at my shoulders, but with one swift move I capture both wrists and pin them. Ignoring her, I continue washing her body. Over the swell of her sweet belly, the curve of her gorgeous ass, in between her legs, until I kneel in front of her and wash her feet.

I'm struck with this, an act of submission, when her hands brace on my shoulders.

"Why do you do this?" she whispers.

I look up to meet her eyes. "Do what?"

"Act so... unpredictably." She's openly crying now, her tears mixed with the water from the shower. "One minute you call me angel and the next you're throwing me up against a wall and humiliating me. You make me think I could actually care about you, before I remember I hate you."