The Bratva's Bride (Wicked Doms 2)

I look at the monitor before I open the door, pleased to see she’s still fast asleep. I open the door and she wakes with a start, sitting up in bed.

“It’s just me,” I tell her, as if the knowledge the man who abducted her and caned her is less threatening than another. “Lie back down.”

I walk to the bathroom and open the cabinet, withdrawing a small bottle of pain relievers. I shake a few into my hand, toss them into my mouth, then cup some water in my hand and swallow them down. She watches from the bed. Without bothering to shut the door so I can keep an eye on her, I relieve myself. Though she wrinkles up her nose, she doesn’t speak.

I flush and wash my hands, noting what I’d like housekeeping to bring up today. More towels. More washcloths. Whatever feminine amenities she needs. I want her well taken care of, paying attention to every detail on her body. Today, she’ll meet with the manicurist and hairstylist, as well as a few others I will hire.

“What do you need to groom yourself?” I ask her in English.

“Excuse me?” she asks, not moving from bed. Good girl.

“Razors. Makeup. I don’t know, feminine things. What do you need?”

“Depends on what I’ll be doing,” she mutters.

I turn to face her. “You’ll be servicing me,” I say, letting the weight of those words settle like nightfall. “You’ll be my woman to the press and maintain perfect composure to all we see. Today, I’ll have you well groomed, and this evening you’ll get a better feel for what my expectations will be. When I take you out in public, I’ll expect perfect behavior and outward compliance. If you behave, you will not be punished when we’re alone. And if you misbehave, you’ll deal with the consequences of that.” I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms, eyeing her. Watching for any signs of resistance. As the leader of our organization, I’ve learned to read body language well.

Is she repulsed? Angered? Afraid?

Her nostrils flare and her shoulders remain taut, despite her breathing in and out, but she doesn’t move from the position I’ve ordered her in. There’s a slight narrowing of her eyes and her lips are tight, but other than those small visual signs of anger and distrust, she keeps her face impassive.

She doesn’t trust me. She hates the thought of my having any control over her. But she’s smart enough to know that outward compliance will make this go smoother for her.

I continue. “You’ll pay back the debt you owe us based on merit,” I tell her. “Like the common prostitute you’ll be for me, I will deduct what you owe based on a wage. An hourly rate, if you will. When you go with me in public outside this house. When you service me behind closed doors. Those will be the opportunities for you to earn your wages.” She flinches when I say service me, but I can see she’s mulling this over.

“I’m eager to give you your first chance to earn your salary,” I tell her, unabashedly letting my eyes roam over her gorgeous naked form before me. “But right now, I would like to eat. I don’t trust you, and you’re my property, so you will sit up and let me feed you. Do you need to use the bathroom?”

She nods. I jerk my head to the door and exit the doorway to let her in.

“Go, then. When you come out, I’ll give you a notepad to write down what you need.”

I let her actually shut the door to the bathroom for an illusion of privacy, since there’s nothing in there she can use as method of escape. I’m not convinced she’ll try to escape anyway. She knows that if we found her again, her life would be forfeit.

My office things have been moved into storage, and I almost like how it looks in here. When I go into the living room to retrieve a pad of paper, I look out the large windows. Our compound sits on a hill, overlooking the city. When I look at the buildings below us, I frown. Something is out of place, though I can’t quite place it. What looks different than it normally does?

I hear Calina behind me, but I ignore her while I look below us, scowling for a sign of something amiss.

Something isn’t right.

I get my phone and dial Maksym.

“Morning,” he answers in Russian.

“Something is off,” I tell him.

“What do you mean?”

“I feel it in my gut. I’m not exactly sure what it is, but I want our entire estate combed by our men before we meet in an hour. I want every exit and entrance patrolled, every security monitor checked, every one of our guards interrogated.”

“Over nothing, Dem? Are you just suspicious because you brought the girl here last night?”