The Soldier (Chicago Bratva 4)

She deserves that much.

The pier is crowded with people, but we ignore them and walk out to the very end of it to lean on the rail. The ocean sparkles cobalt blue and frothy white—bright and hopeful, like Kayla.

“I came here my first weekend in Los Angeles. I moved out here to go to USC—that’s where I met Sasha—and I was so excited to see the ocean. I drove out here by myself and watched the sunset. And that’s when I promised myself I’d never give up on my dream.”

“To become an actress?” I ask. I shift, so I’m standing behind her, protecting her back from the other people around. Or maybe just staking my claim. I wrap one arm around her waist and rest the other on the rail beside hers.

“Yes.” She darts a glance my way. “Sometimes I think I should put a time limit on it. Like, I have one more year, and if nothing happens, I’ll move back home. But then I remember the promise my eighteen-year-old self made, and I say never. I’m not leaving until I’ve made it where I wanted to go.”

“And where is that?”

She drops her head a little, so I kiss her temple.

“Tell me. A-lister? Hollywood star?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll make it,” I tell her, not because I know anything about show business but because I want it to be true. I want Kayla to have everything she always dreamed of. A woman as good and pure as her deserves to have the world at her feet. Mostly because it would surprise her. And she’d work her ass off to do it right.

“Sometimes I believe it, sometimes I don’t,” she whispers.

“Believe it.”

She turns in my arms and looks up at me. “So I guess I should’ve told you that last night, too. I can’t leave L.A. Not even for—” she breaks off. I think she was going to say love but lobbed that word off at the neck.

“So we’ll enjoy what we have, no? While we have it.”

She melts a little against me, like some raging conflict has just been resolved. “I’m sorry if it seems like I am pushing for more. I don’t—”

I put a finger on her lips. “No apology needed.” Gently, I turn her back around, so we can stare at the sea together. The waves crash beneath us in a frothy foam. Someone's out with a boogie board, trying to catch a wave.

I should be glad. We just put an ending on our relationship. Not a specific date but an agreement that we’ll part ways sometime in the future.

It’s what I wanted. What needed to happen. Why, then, do I want to find some piece of wood and beat it until my knuckles bleed?

5

Pavel

When we return from the pier, I’m ready to play. “I want you naked, on the bed, now,” I command, unbuttoning my cuffs.

Kayla’s glassy, unfocused gaze instantly sharpens at my tone, and she scrambles to comply. She strips off all her clothes.

“I want you in the hose and heels,” I say gruffly, my dick already hard again remembering how hot she looked last night in them.

I don’t undress because that’s how we roll—her naked; me clothed, for as long as possible. It helps set the power dynamic. She’s my slave. Undressed for my eyes. Naked in every way to me. Right down to the soft marshmallow of her soul.

She crawls up on the bed in her black thigh-highs and stilettos and kneels in the center of it, hands face up on her thighs, awaiting instruction. I let my gaze roam over the beautiful picture she makes. The pose. Her tight little body. Her youthful tits with the pale peach nipples that stiffen at my slightest touch. I memorize it all for when I’m away from her. I’ll fuck my fist all week remembering all the beautiful ways she submitted to me during our time together.

“Good girl,” I praise, strolling close and tweaking one of her pouty nipples now. “I should have asked if you need to eat first. Are you hungry?”

She hesitates then shakes her head.

“Words, blossom.”

“No, sir.”

“All right. We’ll play. Then I will feed you.”

I will feed you. Simple words, but saying them affects me. Like she’s my pet, and I decide if and when she gets fed. The control she gives to me—putting me in charge of her body, her wellbeing—is a powerful drug.

I torture secrets out of men for a living, but I didn’t know I was a sadist until last year.

No, that’s a lie. I always knew I had this thing inside me. It’s why I had a mountain of rules about never laying a hand on a woman. None of my bratva brothers—at least none of the ones in my current cell—can stomach hurting a woman. But me? My deepest, darkest fear was that I could stomach it. That I might like it. Far too much.