The Bratva's Baby (Wicked Doms 1)

What does krasotka mean?

A ringing sound outside his room makes his body go rigid, and though I don’t understand the words he utters, I can easily tell they’re some form of curse words. He shoves me to off his lap and I topple onto my feet.

“Eat,” he orders. “That is an order. I will check when I return. And put this on.” Opening a wardrobe on one side of his bed, he removes a silky bathrobe.

He yells to the door in Russian, while pulling on his pants, then he gives me a warning glare before he leaves the room to answer the door. I slide on the robe, eager to cover my nudity, when I hear the door open. He’s left his bedroom door ajar.

From where I sit, I can see two men bring in a third between them, the third man’s face bloodied and bruised. One eye’s swollen shut, the other black and blue. His nose is clearly broken, his clothing tattered. Kazimir curses when the men throw the other at his feet, but my vision is obscured by the doorway so I can’t see the faces of the two men who brought this one in. They both bow their heads in respect.

One of the men standing speaks in harsh tones to Kazimir, the other interrupts him, and Kazimir silences them with one sharp word and a swipe of his hand. They all fall silent, while Kazimir kneels on one knee in front of the man they’ve dragged in. He grabs the man by the chin and asks a question in that low, dangerous voice I’ve already learned to fear. I’m held in horrid fascination as the scene plays out.

The man begins to sob and beg. I can’t understand a word he says, but his pleas are pathetic. Kazimir’s dispassionate look seems to make the man even more desperate. He begs and sobs, before Kazimir rears back and slaps him across the face. I wince at the crack of flesh hitting flesh, then he does it again and again until blood spurts from the man’s nose. I cover my mouth with my hands when Kazimir lifts the man and knees him in the belly, before he throws him halfway across the room so effortlessly the man could be a small animal. With a casual flick of his wrist, he issues an order then makes the man howl and try to claw his way to freedom, but the other two grab him and drag him out of the room.

Kazimir watches, his eyes furious slits, when I realize he’s dismissed them and coming into me. I’ve eaten nothing. My stomach is tied in knots, but I don’t want to find out what happens if I disobey him. I grab a hunk of bread from the table and shove a large bite in my mouth. My mouth is too dry. I feel like I’m chewing on cotton balls. I chew and chew but when I finally swallow, my belly churns with nausea and I’m afraid I’m going to vomit. I never could stomach violence.

The doorway darkens with his form. I grab a glass of water and wash down the bread, then quickly eat a few bites of some type of soup. I taste nothing, and my stomach still threatens to empty.

Walking past me, he goes to the bathroom. I hear the faucet being turned on, then he’s muttering to himself as steam billows up around him and he scrubs at his hands. From where I sit, I can see the dark shadows of tattoos all over his body, though I can’t see details. They scare me, but it can’t be denied that some are works of art. A skull graces the bulging muscle of one large bicep, a rose with something stuck in it is along another arm, a spider crawls along his back, and other intricately woven lines join them all together. These tattoos mean something. I make it my mission to find out what.

I’ve always been afraid of men with tattoos, like they were somehow dangerous and had to be avoided. Now, looking at Kazimir, I can see my fears aren’t unfounded.

When he returns to the room he’s scowling at me. I’ve slopped soup on the tray and sprayed bread crumbs all over the place in my attempt to eat hastily.

“Why was the man crying?” I ask. “What did you order?”

Without blinking, Kazimir replies. “His execution.”

A cold shiver of dread skates down my back. “Why?” I whisper. “What did he do?”

“He betrayed me,” Kazimir says. “That’s all I will tell you.”

“You don’t perform executions yourself?” I ask.

“Eat!” he snaps at me. I jump, nearly knocking over the water.

“I did,” I say in a small, offended voice. “I’m not very hungry. You don’t have to yell.”

With a scowl, he looks at my tray and grumbles to himself. “That will do,” he says, which I suppose is his pathetic attempt at an apology. “Now get in bed and rest until I call you to me.”