The Bratva's Baby (Wicked Doms 1)

“Do you have any further injuries that need to be treated?” he asks.

With an adorable pout that’s far too cute for her own good, she says with a pout, “None that he’ll allow you to treat, I’m sure.”

The doctor raises a curious brow to me, his lips twitching.

“That’s all for today, thank you,” I tell him. I take her hand in mine, and with a tug, pull her to my chest. “And that’s quite right. If you’re referring to the punishment you’ve earned, the only way you’ll get any relief from that is with your obedience.”

I watch the warring in her eyes, how badly she wants to tell me to fuck off. And though her eyes remain hard, her tone is soft when she whispers, “Yes, sir.”

With a frown, I lead her to the elevator while I dismiss the doctor. I have to take her with me now. How I wish I could lock her up and throw away the key.Chapter FourteenSadieThis man is an enigma to me. Heck, I’m an enigma to me. I shouldn’t find it sweet that he had my wounds doctored. I mean, he literally abducted me, then lit up my ass when I wouldn’t cooperate with his demands. How can I let the fact he had my wounds treated affect me in the slightest? I shouldn’t. And yet… I’ve never had anyone show the slightest concern for me.

When the doors to the elevator shut, I blurt out what’s on my mind.

“It was unnecessary to get a doctor. I’m experienced in nursing my own wounds, you know.”

The people who raised me thought traditional medicine a privilege, and they never took me, no matter how sick I was. I was expected to take care of myself when sick, and to stay away from them. The idea that he had an actual doctor treat my scrapes is utterly preposterous.

And weirdly compelling.

“I know you’d think that,” he says. “But I’d do it again.”

“I can take care of myself, I insist.

“Not here you won’t,” he responds, in a tone that brooks no argument.

I turn away from him, not out of anger, but because something moves me and my eyes are watering. I hate that they are. I’m weirdly emotional about this, and it’s embarrassing to me. It’s more than that, though.

Every time he touches me with tenderness, he reaches a part of my soul I’ve never allowed anyone to see, much less touch. Every time he cares for me, it quiets a restless part of me that’s been anxious for as long as I remember.

But he is not a good man. He has done, and continues to do, wicked, violent things. My ass still stings from the spanking he gave me, my body still throbbing from his manipulative fingers exploring my most private parts. I’ve read so many romance books… so many.

The good guys don’t act the way Kazimir does.

He’s the villain.

How can I be falling for a villain?

I shouldn’t feel what I do for him, and yet emotion trumps logic when it comes to him.

“He’s a monster,” I tell myself. “Don’t be fooled by the slightest show of kindness.”

But I’m hungry… so starving for a taste of humanity, for someone to care for me, that the slightest taste evokes a stronger, more powerful hunger that dominates my logical brain. That stokes the romantic in me who wants to be held by him once more. To taste his lips on mine again. I’m as powerless to stop my yearning for affection as I am from stopping him. That is… not at all.

When he pushes a button on the elevator, it begins to swoop upward. While we’re riding, he reaches into his pocket and removes the thin, supple chain that he showed me earlier.

I shiver, my belly clenching when he reaches for me with a scowl so dark his brows knit together and his eyes look nearly black.

“While we are up here, you’ll sit by my side,” he growls, his accent so thick I can hardly understand what he says. Reaching for my neck, he tips a finger under my chin so that I look upward. I swallow when my neck feels cool air. Such a vulnerable position, baring the neck, as if waiting for the executioner’s axe. The vampire’s bite. The intimate kiss of a lover. And now, for me… a collar and chain.

There’s a tug and pull when he clicks the chain in place, the weighted heaviness a physical reminder of his expectation of my obedience. I thought I would hate it. I should hate it. But we’re about to enter a room full of strangers. Even though he’s my captor… and I shouldn’t trust him… being tied to him like this brings me a strange sense of comfort.

I hate that it does.

The elevator cruises to a stop. As the doors glide open, he murmurs, “You look beautiful with my collar around your neck. Remember your place.” My chest warms with the praise. I mentally berate myself, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t hate him. I hate myself, though, for allowing the utter weakness of character.