The Bratva's Bride (Wicked Doms 2)

“You’re sick,” she whispers.

I smile. “Thank you.” I’ll take it as a compliment. I’ve heard far worse. “Of course, if you’d prefer, I can put you to work in, say, our kitchens. At that pay grade, it will only take you, let’s see….” I pretend to figure it out. “The rest of your life to pay off, and only if you live a long one.”

“That’d be preferable to—“

I snort out laughter. “So cute. You thought I was serious.”

She’s repulsed by the idea of paying her debt off as a prostitute. Good. If she enjoyed this in any way, it wouldn’t be punishment.

“But you’re in luck, Calina. I like my women a certain way, and because of that, I typically pay top dollar. And when I’m feeling generous, I even tip.”

She doesn’t ask me what I mean, so I don’t offer details.

I’ll take her home, and when she’s there, she’ll see. My kinky, sadistic tastes are clear as day, but they do come at a price.

My cock rouses at the thought of her first shift.

Tonight.Chapter 3Oh, God. What have I gotten myself into? I’m alone with a man who’s both beautiful and terrifying, like an angel cast into hell.

I remember when we first arrived in Russia, one of the places my father took me and Calina was to the museum of Russian icons. He was fascinated, almost to the point of obsession, with the often intricate, vividly colored works of art. I remember walking through the halls of the museum, kept cool with regulated heating so as not to damage the artwork, the smell of varnished wood and polished floors still vivid in my mind. There was something about the paintings that both enthralled and terrified me. Their lifeless eyes and wooden motions, still lives caught in painted wooden plaques, commemorated some of the most terrible and monumental moments in church life.

The Transfiguration of Christ.

The Baptism on the Jordan.

The demons cast into hell. The fallen.

I can still recall one particularly detailed icon, the look of open-mouthed terror on the face of the demons cast into fiery damnation, their fingers grasping the edge of the pit they were cast into. Why my father thought it fascinating and artistic, I’ll never know. I found it fucking terrifying.

All of the icons were of religious figures—Jesus himself, his mother, the men who followed him. But one… one in particular always stood out from the rest, likely because the coloring was so different. Whereas the others were rusted orange and crimson, browns and blues, there was one in shades of brilliant white.

I can’t remember anything about that icon—who it was. What it was. All I remember are brilliant white wings, a sword held in hand, and the beautiful face of an angel.

An angel of God or an angel of death, I can’t remember, but for some reason it comes to mind when I look at the man who’s taken me as his. There’s power—both wicked and majestic—in his eyes. A fearless, brutal honesty I can’t help but admire in some small way.

Those eyes are like ice blue crystals. A fallen angel.

And he will have me as his own. I’m his prisoner, sentenced to pay off my sister’s debt like a cheap whore.

No. I can’t think of Calina.

There is no sister. There is no Larissa.

Larissa died.

I am Calina.

Though he spoke to me for the first leg of our journey, and even took a call, we drive in silence the rest of the way. I know so little of the language, I couldn’t understand his phone conversation, but the tone of the call was clear enough. I curse myself for my stubborn refusal to become fluent in Russian, as now I’m forced to read his body language and tone of voice.

He was angry. Impatient. Then curious and thoughtful. I wonder what it was about.

The inky blackness around us grows deeper as the wee hours of the morning approach. He has the heat on, but outside the window, freezing rain beats down in sheets. He curses under his breath and I wonder if it’s because he’s forced to slow down. I let my mind roam.

Where is Calina right now? She’s likely coming out of her sedation. She’ll wonder where she is, but she’ll be kept occupied. She can’t escape, though she’ll have the freedom to roam. I have no way of checking on her, and need to trust Glen will follow through.

Fifty thousand dollars, Calina.

God. How could she?

I take in a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

I should have watched her. This is on me. If she didn’t have access to the internet, she never would have had the chance to do such a stupid thing.

So now I pay.

And a part of me wonders if this was always meant to be. That someday, I would pay for the sins my father committed. If someday, I would have to right his wrongs.