The Bratva's Bride (Wicked Doms 2)

I swallow. “Yes, sir.”

He smiles, revealing perfectly straight white teeth, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s merely approving, and I can tell his beautiful, cold face masks a ruthless killer.

“Good girl,” he breathes in my ear. “Let’s go.”

He takes my hand and opens the door to the room. I blink, fearing someone will come running down the hall or alarms will flash, but nothing happens.

They’ve all been neutralized.

“Walk quickly and do not avert your eyes,” he orders in a cold tone that reminds me his more patronizing tone is only an act. He’s ready to hurt me in an instant. He’s here to punish me. I have to trot to keep up with his long strides, and soon we reach an elevator. “Hands by your side.”

I wonder if they’ll notice him anywhere on the security feed, but then I remember I was the one who neutralized those. By the time they discover anything, I’ll be long gone.

When the elevator door closes, he cuffs my wrists with his hands.

“If we weren’t in danger of being seen, I would cuff you,” he says conversationally. “Instead, you will choose to come with me. If you do not, I will be forced to take you bodily and you will be punished.”

My heartbeat races when I feel his large, warm thumbs, calloused and rough, against the tender skin at my wrists. “I feel your pulse,” he murmurs. “Does it quicken with excitement, kitten? Fear of what awaits you? Or both?”

I close my eyes briefly and don’t answer right away. I’m not sure what to say. I don’t know how to respond to him at all. The door to the elevator opens, and we walk to the exit.

There is no possible way to get away from him. If I escape, they will find me. And my sister won’t be safe unless I’ve paid her penalty.

He marches me out to a small, sleek black car that’s waiting by the exit. What does he mean by neutralize? Did he kill them?

I swallow, closing my eyes to ward off tears. I brought my own team with me. I gave them specific instructions. They know now that I have to be taken, and they know my purpose. If they followed my advice, they’ll be standing down and not running to save me like they want to. It’s the only way.

He opens the passenger door as if he’s a gentleman and I’m his fucking date. I can’t fight him too hard, because I need to pay this penalty. I need him to believe I’m Calina. But I can’t walk blindly with him either, or my submission will make my behavior questionable. So when he opens the passenger door and tries to put me in the car, I buck, spin, and yank my wrists from his grip. His face doesn’t even register mild panic and in one swift move he captures my wrists in left hand again, spins me around, and cracks his palm against my ass.

“Vesti sebya,” he orders. Behave.

I’m stunned into silence when he opens the door and pushes me in.

I didn’t expect that.

I slide into the seat. I’m frozen in place when he reaches in, grabs the seat belt, then leans across my body to fasten the belt. It’s odd how he treats me like I’m fragile and he’s my caretaker, when I can barely imagine what torture he has planned for me.

Will he lock me up? Keep me in a prison, chained to his bed? Or bring me to a torture chamber and exact my retribution there?

“You are a pretty little thing,” he mumbles. “I didn’t expect you to be so beautiful.”

I don’t respond. What am I supposed to say? I’m starting to think being attractive in this situation isn’t a good thing at all. Maybe if I wasn’t, he’d dispose of me more quickly.

“Thank you,” I say, not knowing how else to respond. I shouldn’t thank him for telling me I am beautiful. It would be far better for me if I wasn’t, but I inherited my mother’s looks like Calina.

“Sleep,” he says. “We have a long ride ahead of us.”

A long ride? We’d tracked the sources of the local Bratva only a few miles away, to the inner city. Where is he taking me?

He takes metal handcuffs from his pocket. “Give me your wrists,” he instructs. I hesitate, still confused about where he’s taking me. Does it matter, though? I’ve already forfeited my life.

“What are you going to do to me?” I ask, my voice holding an abrasive edge. I can handle anything if I know what it is I’m facing.

“Wrists,” he snaps. I offer him my wrists. It will be easier to notice details if I’m not fighting him. If I fight him, he may gag or blindfold me.

Why do I care about the details, though? What use are they, if I have no choice but to give him my life?