The Bratva's Bride (Wicked Doms 2)

I crank on the shower and wait until steam rises. Placing the monitor on the countertop, I keep the shower curtain open enough that I can watch her sleep while I stroke myself off.

I imagine her on her knees before me, purring ‘yes, sir’ with that gorgeous mouth of hers. I jerk my hips and stroke my cock, getting harder, the need to come racing through my veins as I chase my release. I groan, jerking off to the thought of fucking her pretty mouth, then slump against the wall of the shower. I quickly clean myself off, then towel dry. She’s still fast asleep. One arm is up over her head, the blanket falling off her to reveal her perfect, pert breasts.

I’ll lick and bite those nipples and master every ounce of pleasure I grant her.

If she behaves. Time will tell.

She could be a feisty little kitten who needs to be trained, or a more complacent one that purrs when pleasured.

I toss the towel in the hamper in the bathroom, exhaustion suffusing my limbs. I go to her door, shut it quietly, then slide the lock in place. With no other exit or window in her room, she’s well-hidden and her room is little more than a prison.

Momentarily sated, I climb into my own bed, and pull the covers up over me. I’m particular about the way I want my room, my entire home. The other private rooms are on the top floor, apart from where we hold our meetings and the more social parts of our jobs, like when we entertain. As the pakhan, I occupy an entire suite.

Soon, I must decide who will become the next brigadier. Several have served the role since our brother Kazimir left the country, but the time has come for me to choose the next in authority. I roll over and close my eyes. Perhaps I will put it up to a vote.

My mind wanders to the upcoming gala we need to attend. I’ve gone to many, and never alone, but this time I’ll go with Calina. To our associates, a married couple within our organization holds more sway than those who are not married. I will have to feign love or at least affection for Calina. That I can do, and it’s almost a sort of game I can play with myself.

I’ll make it clear to her that if she behaves in front of those we socialize with, she’ll earn a little freedom when we return.

If she does not, she will be punished.

A part of me hopes she doesn’t. The part of me that yearns to punish her again.

Exhaustion takes over, and I’m pulled under into deep sleep. I toss and turn, bits and pieces of dreams flitting through my subconscious. A ball in the city square. Calina, dressed in a regal gown, beautiful, though her eyes look at me with deranged glee. In my dream, I snap a collar on her neck in front of all of them, and fasten metal cuffs around her slim wrists.

Then I’m no longer a man, but a boy. I stumble out of my room one morning, waking up to find my mother on her knees clutching her precious rosary beads. My father despised anything to do with the Orthodox church, but my mother clung to anything she could. Icons. Her beads. Songs she’d sing in his absence.

“Why do you hold those beads, mama?” I asked. She would only smile sadly, unable to mask her blackened eye and swollen lip.

I despised my father. Even as a child, I would imagine the day I was big enough to beat him with my own two hands, but when that day came, it was far less satisfying than I’d imagined. It isn’t pleasant to assault the man who should have protected you. Who should have taught you how to be a man yourself, even if I sought revenge for how he treated my mother.

It was satisfying that he never rose a fist to her again.

When he died, we declined any official services, claiming poverty, and though I knew we were poor, we could have likely found the money with relatives or the church to give him a proper burial.

But monsters don’t deserve a proper burial. I’m not a religious man, but I do enjoy the thought of his lack of a proper funeral dooming him to eternal restlessness or damnation.

Monsters deserve to rot in hell, and that’s the only consolation my mother’s faith ever gave me, the knowledge that retribution exists for those who deserve it.

I wake in a sweat, just before the sun rises outside my window. I shake my head, and draw a hand across my brow. My head pounds as if I drank too much the night before.

I push myself out of bed and grip my head. The bathroom is through the second room, a strange construction I approved of when I thought that second room would serve as an office. It has never functioned as a bedroom, until Calina.