The Bratva's Baby (Wicked Doms 1)

“Kitten,” Nikita says.

“Oh.” I smile to myself.

“And krastoka?”

I look casually to where Nikita stands behind Sadie, brushing her hair. “It means beautiful,” she says. “If he says that to you, he’s calling you beautiful woman.”

Sadie doesn’t respond, but I can see the faintest flush of her pink cheeks. I’d forgotten she wouldn’t know what I said, the words coming unbidden.

But she is so beautiful. Untarnished by the touches of other men, unencumbered with pride and vanity.

I focus on a message from Maksym and give him a detailed reply when I hear Nikita clearing her throat. I look up and blink in surprise. Sadie stands before me, biting her lip, her eyes cast down as if she can’t bear to look at me.

A sequined black evening gown hugs her curves, dipping low in the front to reveal cleavage. Sleeveless, her bare arms slope gracefully downward. I want to kiss my way from the top of one arm to the tips of her fingers. Her soft brown hair is arranged on top of her head in loops and swirls, elegant but simple. Natural hues enhance her cheeks and lips, her eyes emboldened with black and browns. I knew she was a diamond in the rough, but this… she’s mesmerizing. Gorgeous.

I beckon wordlessly, swallowing hard as she makes her way to me gingerly, the plug still keeping her quietly submissive. Nikita beams. She knows she’s done her job well.

When Sadie stands between my legs, I take her hands. “You look stunning, krastoka,” I say, watching a pink flush bloom on her cheeks now that she knows what I mean. “I hope you choose obedience at dinner, for it will be my pleasure to reward you this evening.”

“It would be a smart choice,” Nikita chirps up from the corner.

I scowl at her. The woman oversteps. “You are dismissed, Nikita.”

Giggling to herself, Nikita gathers up her things and leaves. I stand and arrange Sadie’s hand on my arm.

“Walk with me, Sadie. Remember your place.” I pat her backside firmly. She winces and cringes. She won’t forget.

I lead her out of our room and to the exit, giving her instructions along the way. “You are not to speak until spoken to. If Dimitri asks you a question, you respond promptly and reverently. You do not speak out of turn or disobey me in any way. And you eat from my hand.”

It isn’t until I give her the last instruction she balks. “What?” she asks.

“Did I stutter?” My patience grows thin.

“I just… how am I to eat?” she asks.

“From my hand,” I tell her, pushing a button on the elevator and watching the doors slide shut. “When I feed you.” Eventually she’ll be allowed to feed herself, but for now, one of her methods of obedience is to learn to accept food from my hand. Controlling her primal needs will help me train her to my satisfaction.

I was a poor boy on the streets when Dimitri found me. Skin and bones. My mother worked herself to death to meet our needs, doing menial tasks that barely kept our bellies fed. My father was a weak man who left the two of us to poverty. I stole for food and begged for a doctor’s help when my mother became ill. He refused.

The doctor who refused to care for my mother was the first man I killed when I had the power to do so. My useless father was the second.

Dimitri took me to his home. Raised me as his own. Fed me. Clothed me. Trained me to be the man I am today. A starving man learns to respect the hand that feeds him, the one who cares for his most primal needs. So when I begin training a woman, my plan is intentional. I strip her of the most basic necessities. Food, clothing, shelter. Though her needs are contrived by me, the cumulative effects of my training will not be in vain.

The utmost floor of the large mansion we occupy belongs to me, the entire apartment private and secluded. Dimitri’s office, and the other rooms are where business is conducted—interrogations, meetings, and the like—lie in other parts of the sprawling building. Dimitri lives off-site in a small, humble home he occupies with his wife of thirty-five years. Yana is like a mother to me, but I haven’t seen her in some time. Dimitri prefers to keep his family life and business separate.

Sadie notes everything as we descend to the dining hall. In the past, when I’ve been in the position of training a woman held captive, it took days to get them to where Sadie already is. Like silly little mice caught by a cat, they try to flee when their tails are already pinned beneath my paw. They can’t get away. None ever have. But they always try.