The Bratva's Bride (Wicked Doms 2)

Maybe I can use Calina to gain the respect of my peers and associates.

Outwardly, my wife, while she suits my purposes. Behind closed doors, my captive.

“Where are you taking me?” she says in a husky whisper, the tremble in her voice the only thing betraying her fear. “This isn’t the way to your home.”

I raise a brow at her. Seems she’s done her homework, though she doesn’t know as much as she thinks she does. She has no idea I no longer live apart from the others.

“And here I was thinking you’d be a simpleton,” I mutter. “It seems you’ve fooled the doctors, anyway.”

She freezes and doesn’t respond, but I can feel her bristling from where I sit.

Silly, foolish Americans. They like conversations prettied up and sweetened, but in Russia, we speak the truth.

“A simpleton would know how to steal money like that?” she responds.

“No,” I bite out. “But it seems you fooled the judge who ordered you admitted.”

She says nothing in return.

“I know your history, Calina. I found out who you were before I made my plans. I know you suffered brain damage in a car accident years ago, and that your father was killed in the accident. So is this how you entertain yourself? Meddling with things you have no business meddling in?”

She doesn’t respond.

“I’m going to give you far better uses for your time, kitten.”

“I don’t like you calling me that,” she says, her voice shaky.

Silly, foolish girl.

“I’ll call you whatever I’d like. You’re mine now.”

“Oh isn’t that cavalier,” she mutters, then clamps her mouth shut as if she’s just realized she’s said too much. I don’t respond. I wondered what I would find when I came for her. Is her behavior erratic? Unpredictable? Does she have the brilliant mind of a hacker, but hears voices in her mind? Or has she fooled them into thinking she wasn’t the hapless victim they thought?

Why would anyone do such a thing?

I have no time to try to psychoanalyze her. I’ll take her back with me to the compound and see what we have on our hands when we arrive.

I don’t have time for this. I shouldn’t even be here. I have an organization to run, and time spent on her in any capacity impairs my ability to do it well.

Why did I even come? What is it about this small, child-like woman that’s drawn me to her?

I shake my head. Perhaps I wanted to put a decided end to her single-handed destruction of my group. And the more I think about it, the more I know I did the right thing. Someone wily and attractive like her is dangerous. She needs to be decidedly neutralized. The threat she poses removed, like a declawed little kitten.

I cast a look at her. She’ll be proper entertainment, a mouse caught by a cat. I can play with her, toy with her, until I’m through.

Until I’ve exacted every penny that she owes.

And as I think it over, I form a plan. Dimitri, the man I thought of as a father, always told us to have an end goal, a purpose in sight, no matter what that goal was.

Dimitri would be proud.

“Fifty thousand American dollars,” I tell her thoughtfully. “That’s 3.2 million rubles and the sum total of how much you stole from us.”

She doesn’t deny it but closes her eyes and groans, as if she somehow didn’t know the extent of what she did. How can she not know? Perhaps a misperception of reality is where her mental illness lies. Or perhaps hearing the truth makes it seem that much more real.

“That’s how much money you owe us and how much I’ll extract from you in payment before you’ve paid your debt.”

She begins picking at her nails again, harder this time, like she can’t stop the frantic tearing and clawing, but a swift slap to her thigh makes her yelp and freeze.

I can’t wait to truly punish her. To see her subdued and whimpering. I’m fucking hard when I fantasize about causing her pain.

“How can I pay you back?” she says, in voice so subdued I actually wonder for a moment if she’s considering it.

“Do you know the going rate of a prostitute in Moscow?”

She freezes.

“A cheap one, good for a blow job and quick lay, runs about five thousand rubles,” I tell her. “The better ones, fifteen.”

I let her think that over as I do some calculations.

“I’ll be generous. I always pay my sluts well for their time.” She’s so still it looks like she isn’t breathing. “The more cooperative you are, the faster you’ll pay off your debt. Service me well, and I’ll consider your time worth fifteen thousand rubles an hour, or…” I finish the mental arithmetic. “Just over two hundred paid hours. Not counting the time we sleep and I work, whoring yourself to me will pay your debt in a matter of months.”