The Bratva's Baby (Wicked Doms 1)

We exit the elevator and enter a long hallway, decorated in opulence. A thick, cream-colored carpet lines the floor, the walls adorned with large, oval-shaped painting. One bare, gleaming cherry wood end table sits by a door. When the elevator shuts behind us, I realize I’m completely free. He isn’t holding me. I’m not restrained. I looked about me in confusion until I realize we’re isolated on this floor, and a cursory glance at the elevator shows a slim, mirror-like panel I assume is meant for thumbprint identification. Though there’s a small, circular window at one end of the hall, I can only see clouds. We ascended four floors.

He doesn’t need to restrain me anymore. There’s no escape from here.

The door swings open when he swipes his finger on a panel identical to the one by the elevator. Silently, he ushers me into the room first, as if he’s a gentleman and not a monster. When we’re in, he slams the door with a bang and begins to remove his tie.

“Clothing off,” he says. “Fold each item and hand them to me.”

I blink at him. I should have expected when we had privacy he’d strip me naked. What else did I expect? He abducted me.

He’ll do whatever he wants with me now.Chapter SevenKazimirI’m weary from travel but invigorated by the job that lays before me. I crave control and power, and look with eager anticipation to Sadie’s training. Each woman I train is different. Each has her own fears and wants and needs. Each brings with her a past that affects her responses to my methods. None was mine for the keeping, though.

This one is.

Her training will be different.

It isn’t just her training, though, because Sadie herself is different. Her defiance is bred of something other than pride, but I can’t quite figure out what it is yet.

I will.

I take a seat in my comfortable chair, the large leather armchair that’s the focal point of the living room. Here, in my private penthouse, no one is allowed access but my servants, and only when I grant it to them. Even Dimitri asks for entrance before coming to me, and most of the time we meet in another place. This is my sanctuary, my castle. When I return, the weariness of my work and demands of the day begin to seep away. Returning to Sadie will ease my comfort eventually.

My suite is as private as a high security prison. Sadie, like all the other women I’ve brought in here before, will explore and try to find a means to escape. She’ll find none.

I watch as she begins to undress. Still clad in the abysmal clothing she wore the night before, she looks like she belongs in a convent. I swallow hard, my mouth dry at the prospect of seeing her undress, as if I’m on the verge of opening a precious gift.

“Top first,” I rasp out, when her fingers roam her clothes questioningly.

“And naturally, if I don’t…” she begins, but as her eyes roam our surroundings, she stops talking. Sadie may be a virgin, but she’s a smart girl.

We sit in the entry room, a sprawling living room outfitted in black leather furniture. My armchair. A matching sofa. A black leather ottoman where I keep tools I like to use in this room. On the opposite side of this room is my bedroom, and from where we sit we can see the rings on the bed made for cuffs or a makeshift whipping post, a black leather bench and horse.

She may not know what these things are, but she’s smart enough to know they’re not designed for hospitality.

When she’s stripped, I’ll give her the tour.

Scowling at me, she grasps the edge of her top. To my surprise, there’s no hesitation. No trembling hands or shaking limbs I expected. With furious yanks and tugs, she tears her clothes off, rending them from her body like a woman in tortured mourning. I freeze, watching her, my body heating with the need to both punish and claim her.

Her training will be the pinnacle of my career. I stand on the precipice of something monumental. Sadie is unique. Women do two things with me: tremble in fear or curry my favor. Sadie does neither.

As she strips, buttons pop, fabric tears, and she pulls her clothes off her body so rapidly and with such anger, she leaves red marks on her neck and her face flushes. Somehow, she’s trying to gain control by obeying me in anger.

I fold my hands on my knee and nod.

“Good girl,” I say, refusing to give in to her temper. “Now dress again.”

She blinks rapidly, as if trying to process what I’ve said. “What? In these clothes?”

“Yes.”

Our eyes meet in a battle of wills. I’m stronger than she is. More powerful. I have the potential to hurt her with hardly any effort. And yet, her will must be extracted from her. Broken. Molded to mine.