The Bratva's Bride (Wicked Doms 2)

Oh my God. He wasn’t joking. He has every intention of teasing me right here, in this public place, filled with prominent members of society and the media. I school my features and stare at him. When I look his way the stimulation immediately ceases. He’s just reminding me he can do this. Reminding me to pay attention. Even without the vibration, my body hums with need. I lift the flute of champagne and take a long pull, emptying half the glass, when his eyes meet mine. He raises one brow in warning and I remember him admonishing me to drink it slowly. With a sigh, I stop drinking.

Demyan is speaking animatedly to a large, formidable-looking man I recognize immediately as Prime Minister Amaranov. With dark brows and heavy jowls, and large, fat hands, he makes me tremble a little inside. I know very little of his public reputation or history, and only recognize him from the news. I chide myself for not knowing more.

Uniformed men stand all around us bearing firearms. They wear all black, from head to toe, save a small patch bearing the Russian flag on their arms. Black caps complete their outfits, and all bear large, intimidating guns. I swallow hard. One thing that’s very different here than America is the widespread public display of weaponry from the military. They don’t even bother to conceal their weapons. The Russian Presidential Security Service takes protection seriously. When Demyan draws near Amaranov, I watch several of the uniformed men step a little closer.

They think he poses a threat. Hell, he does.

Demyan turns to me and beckons for me to come closer. “Come, kisa,” he says. It surprises me he uses my pet name in such a crowd, but when I draw closer, he slides his hand to the small of my back, pulls me to him, and kisses my temple. It isn’t until I see Amaranov’s cloudy gaze darken I understand what Demyan’s doing. In English, he introduces me, his hand still claiming me on the small of my back.

“Prime Minister Amaranov, meet Calina. Calina, the Prime Minister.” I stare awkwardly for one brief moment before I take the Prime Minister’s large, sweaty hand and shake it, barely stifling a grimace, then bow my head in greeting. I open my mouth to greet him in Russian, as common salutations are something I do know, but immediately close it again and respond in English when I remember I’m not supposed to know any Russian. “Pleased to meet you, sir.” The gorgeous black-haired woman in the red dress joins Amaranov, who introduces her as his wife.

So this is the woman they wanted him to sleep with. She gives Demyan such a bold once-over I blink in surprise before something vicious and angry takes hold in my chest. I want to pull her hair free from that up-do and yank it until she screams. I want to smear that pretty lipstick all over her too-perfect face and make her cry.

Oh, God. I can’t believe I’m thinking these things.

Am I… jealous? No. I can’t be. Yet, it was earlier today when one of Demyan’s men insinuated he sleep with this woman that I lost my temper.

Amaranov speaks in such rapid Russian, I can’t really keep up with it. I look from Demyan to Amarannov and back again. When his wife realizes I don’t understand anything, her smile widens.

Leaning toward Demyan, she places a hand on his arm—a perfectly-manicured, pretty hand on his arm and says something in rapid Russian, but her voice is low and seductive, barely above a whisper. His smile tightens, he shakes off her hand and turns to me, says something to Amaranov through gritted teeth, then turns away.

Before I know what’s happening, he’s leading me away from her.

“Demyan?” I ask. “What’s going on?”

He finds a vacant alcove with a balcony, leads me outside, and closes the door behind us. When we’re alone, he drains his champagne in one gulp, rears back and throws the glass over the balcony. I gasp when it shatters into shards on the paved walkway below.

“Ublyudok,” he curses. I know he’s speaking of Amaranov.

“What?” It’s a vicious curse. What did Amaranov do to make him so angry?

He huffs out a laugh and turns to me. “He wants to sleep with you,” he says. I blink in surprise and don’t know how to respond. “And his wife wants to be with me.”

“Wait, what?”

“He wants to trade partners for the evening. He wants to stick his filthy cock in you, and he wants me to fuck his hideous wife.”

My shock at the image of that ugly man putting his hands on me quickly evaporates. Did Demyan just call that beautiful woman hideous?

“So… okay, let me get this straight,” I say, frowning. “The Prime Minister of your country’s a… swinger?”