The Bratva's Bride (Wicked Doms 2)

I realize that even though he broke his phone last night in a tantrum, he already has a replacement. All hail the king, I think bitterly. Gets whatever he wants when he wants it. Including me.

He growls angrily into the phone, then hangs it up and shoves it into his pocket.

“We will meet my brothers downstairs,” he says, still wearing a pair of gym shorts and a tank top. “I want you wearing what you wore when we came here,” he repeats his previous order.

He tidies his room while he waits for me—does he have any patience for a single thing out of place?—then when I’m dressed, he takes me by the elbow and leads me to the door. He opens it, ushers cleaners in, then shuts it behind him.

“They come every day?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says.

“But it’s only just you.”

As we walk down the hall, he cuts his eyes to me. “I like things immaculate,” he says. “It’s the only reason I haven’t fucked you yet.”

I grimace at the implication. Once I’m groomed, I’m his to do with whatever he wants and we’ve discussed what that means. I’m to earn my “wages.” My stomach churns with the realization that I’m his prostitute. I’m not a virgin, but I haven’t had sex in years, and the last time I did it was in the back of my boyfriend’s car in high school.

A fucking lifetime ago.

I don’t remember many details from the night before, and now he’s leading me to a place we haven’t gone yet. It’s on the main floor, fairly opulent with thick carpet, ornate paintings on the walls around us in thick, golden frames, and uniformed servants and guards stand all around us. The compound is massive and ornate, like a mansion of sorts. It’s easily the largest place I’ve been to in Russia. I glance at the servants that wait. Feet planted apart. Eyes staring straight ahead. Sober, and ready for instruction. Are they afraid, like me? Do they even care who I am or what my purpose is here?

Demyan takes me by the elbow and draws me close to him.

He snaps out commands to the men to our left, who quickly nod their heads and move to obey. He’s leading me to a large room with a massive, gleaming table. Men sit at the table when we come in, but rise respectfully when we enter.

There’s the large, broad man with dark hair and a thick beard, the two leaner men that look like they could be brothers who sit side-by-side, and several others. They all watch us in silence.

This looks like a meeting room of sorts. On the wall is a whiteboard with all sorts of things written, of course, in Russian. Books line the walls and if not for the overhead lighting, it would be dark in here. Pulling out a chair beside him, he motions for me to sit.

“Do not move or speak. Sit in silence unless I instruct you otherwise,” he says. “Do you understand me?”

I nod in silence. Of course I understand. What else would I do?

Demyan growls out an order and everyone sits. I place my hands in my lap. I understand some Russian, and I want to see how much I can glean, but they speak so rapidly I can’t decipher much. I do gather they’re talking about some sort of gala Demyan will be going to, and they make mention to “the girl.” It’s a few minutes into the conversation that I realize that girl is me and my cheeks heat with this knowledge. He’s taking me to a big, fancy ball. No wonder he has professionals coming in to groom me.

Demyan is the one in control. They speak to him with respect, deferring to his authority with nods and questions. It’s as if he’s the father, the patriarch, and they’re his children, though he isn’t much older than most of them. He begins addressing them, and I hear mention of thieves. What thieves are they talking about? I wonder if they’re talking about Calina at first, but I can understand it’s more than one person. It’s a group or something. The men tense when he begins to speak, and one man has the nerve to interrupt him. I freeze, knowing already that you do not interrupt Demyan.

The room grows deadly quiet as Demyan faces the youngest at the table, a thin man from the night before with a shock of auburn hair that hangs over his forehead. Despite his tender years, he wears a surly expression. I don’t even know this boy, but I already feel sympathy for him when I remember the way I was punished the night before. He may be one of them, but he’s not exempt from the expectation of obedience.

“Have I given you permission to speak out of turn?” Demyan asks, raising a stern brow. “Have you earned your place as my equal?” The boy bows his head and shakes it, chastened. Frowning, Demyan scolds him like an angry father, and the boy meekly takes his chastisement. “You will listen and show respect to those above you in rank.”