The Bratva's Bride (Wicked Doms 2)

She nods, but doesn’t speak. I reach down and tweak one of her nipples so hard her back arches. “How do you respond?” I remind her.

“Yes, sir!” she gasps, tears watering her eyes.

“Better,” I tell her, still holding her by the nipple but softer now, caressing the punished, tender flesh.

“Tell me about your experiences with other men,” I tell her, still stroking her nipple.

“I’m not a virgin,” she says. “I had a steady boyfriend when I was younger, but none in recent years.” She holds her head high with a little smirk. “A mental institution is not such a great place to meet men.”

I don’t smile. It doesn’t amuse me to think of her with other men.

“I would imagine not,” I tell her, wanting to change the subject.

“Sir?” she asks.

“Mmm?”

“How will you keep track of the money I pay you back. My wages?”

“A simple method, kitten,” I tell her. “I’ll record your hourly wage. We will keep track of how much you’ve paid off.”

“Sir?”

I nod.

“What happens when I’ve paid my debt?” she asks. “When I’m… done.”

“You’ll be free of debt to me.”

I don’t give her a further response and the ambiguous answer makes fear flicker in her eyes.

She will know too much. She will have seen too much.

She will not survive her payback.Chapter 7They say the definition of trauma is a deeply distressing or disturbing experience, often marked by the inability to process that experience. According to the experts, part of the reason Calina regressed as far as she did, in addition to the brain damage she suffered, was watching the death of our father.

After what I’ve seen today, the trauma… what he says he will do to me, and what we do tonight, tomorrow, and the day after… I wonder. Am I as susceptible to trauma as Calina? If I keep experiencing the types of things I did today, will I end up not needing to pretend I’m mentally ill, but actually going there myself?

Tonight, he brings me down to practice for tomorrow. I’m to be on my best behavior, and I know that. He told me clearly, if I don’t behave, he’ll punish me.

Maybe I’m sick and twisted inside, though, because when he showed me what he has in his closet, a deep, dark, sensual part of me wanted to incur punishment at his hands. Maybe to make it easier to hate him?

I should hate him.

And as the inner turmoil burns in my brain, I begin to wonder.

Has the descent to insanity already begun? Am I already beginning to lose all semblance of control?

I sucked him off, and fuck, the feel of his belt around my neck… the taste of his swollen cock in my mouth, so responsive to my licks and suckling… hell, I want to do it again.

And I’m determined to pay off what I owe him, every last dime, as fastidiously as I can.

I’m in the bedroom, ready to go back outside this room, after being prepared once again by the people he hired. I look at myself in the mirror, at the pale blue evening gown painted on my body, accentuating every feminine curve. At my hair, pinned onto my head with delicate swirls and tucks, diamond hoops at my ears. My makeup is understated, but accentuates my best features.

I don’t look like the boring, almost tomboyish woman who came here, but beautiful.

And that unnerves me. He won’t be able to keep his hands off me this way.

But isn’t that what I want?

I scowl at my reflection. I have no idea what I want. None at all.

Does it matter?

There is only one thing I really need right now, and that is to find a phone to check on Calina. I will do everything else he tells me, the picture of perfect obedience. But tonight, I will call her. I will check on her. Just to appease my conscience.

He’ll punish me if he finds out.

And maybe I’m okay with that.

I hear his footsteps just moments before he comes in behind me. My eyes meet his in the mirror above my head, and those vivid blue eyes are furious.

“What is it?” I ask. I’ve done nothing but obey him. Why does he look like he wants to break something?

“Come out of there,” he snaps, then swears angrily under his breath in Russian, looking at my dress. “Change into something else,” he says. “I don’t need you wearing something that shows your tits to every man within a one-mile radius.” He’s dressed simply in a t-shirt and jeans, nothing fancy at all. The t-shirt’s stretched tight against his biceps, taut against his chest, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide his massive, muscled physique.

“Why am I dressed like this and you’re dressed like that?” I ask.

“I gave you an instruction,” he reminds, his brows knitting together in warning that this is the only time he’ll remind me.