The Bratva's Captive (Wicked Doms 3)

Picking up his phone, he issues a series of rapid commands in the same tone of voice I've learned to obey.

We both get dressed, and soon we're heading back downstairs to the dining room. I look around for Larissa, but don't see her anywhere. It would be nice not to be the only female here.

"Sit," he says, while he pulls out a vacant dining room chair. His brows are drawn together, his lips a fierce frown, when I remember his admonition. I need to be a model of obedience in front of anyone else, so they question nothing. I can't draw attention to us. I need to be on alert, observing anything and everything. But none of the Bratva joins us. Servants bring food on large silver platters, small triangles of sandwiches on rye bread, buttered and cut into triangles, the Russian tradition. I've got quite an appetite after the ordeal we've been through, and quickly eat several.

"Delicious," I murmur, following the sandwiches with a plateful of salad.

He smiles softly at me. "Good girl," he says, reaching over to tuck a stray curl from my forehead behind my ear.

My heart thumps in my chest, and I have to look away.

I can't allow this to happen. I have to resist anything and everything that would draw me closer to him.

But then he leans over and whispers, in that rough tone that makes my toes curl, "Remember the reward that awaits you, little one."

No. No no no no no.

I can't fall for him. I can't.

Hell, but I love this soft side of him, though. So much it makes my heart ache.

It isn't who he is.

Isn't it, though?

I can't resist the allure of a protective lover with a gentle side any more than I could resist wishes granted from a genie in a bottle. I'm only human. The needs I have are many and varied, and I can't freeze them out any more than I can make my heart stop beating.

"Yeah," I mumble, stuffing another forkful of salad in my mouth.

I jump at the sound of his chuckle. "Yeah? What is this yeah?"

"It's a noncommittal verbal exchange," I mutter, chewing my salad thoughtfully.

"Jesus," he mutters under his breath.

"What?" I say.

He just shakes his head and doesn't respond. "Finish your lunch, Olena," he commands softly.

I'm not sure what just happened there, so I shrug my head and do what he says. I take in every detail of this magnificent room. The thick, ornate Oriental carpet beneath the feet of the dining room table. The table itself is huge and elaborate, with intricate carvings around the border and cushioned chairs around the perimeter. I count them. Twelve. But I suspect there are far more than that in his brotherhood.

The walls are painted a deep cream color. Large oval mirrors adorn the walls, and a crystal chandelier the likes of which I've never seen hangs from the ceiling. Matching buffet tables line the walls, decorated with runners with empty crystal punch bowls sitting on them. It's impeccably clean, and suitable for entertaining a large crowd.

"Do you host parties in here?" I ask curiously, taking a sip of water.

"Sometimes, yes," he responds. "Though not recently. The last party we hosted was Demyan and Larissa's wedding."

"Oh, and when was that?" I ask curiously.

For some reason, that makes his eyes darken for a moment. "A while ago," he says, looking away, like he wants to change the subject.

"Before you were taken prisoner?" I ask.

"No more talking." The sharp tone of his voice makes my heartbeat quicken. Damn. I touched a raw spot.

We finish eating in silence, then he snaps his fingers for servants to come and clear our plates.

"Thank you," he says as they finish. I shoot him a curious look before I school my features. My father also has servants that wait on him, but he doesn't thank them. They obey him out of fear. Here, things are a little different.

He's not a good man. He is not a good man.

"Come, Olena," he orders, gesturing for my hand. I follow him, my mind a swirl of unanswered questions. "Remember what I told you," he says, his grip tightening on mine.

I nod and assume what I hope looks like a submissive expression. "Yes, sir," I say, and to my surprise his eyes soften before he tugs a lock of my hair.

"You can do better than that," he says.

Can I?

I bow my head. "Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir." He seems to like that.

It isn't until we're right outside the door I realize he's brought me back to the room where he interrogated me. Instinctively, I freeze. I don't like how I felt in there. I hate the idea of all their eyes on me while I'm on full display and at their mercy. I hate it.

"What is it?" he snaps when I don't immediately follow him.