The Bratva's Bride (Wicked Doms 2)

I have no claim on him. He’s my brutal captor, and yet the very thought of him touching another woman makes my vision blur, my hands clench into fists, my belly sick at the thought. We have nothing but an arrangement for me to pay off Calina’s debt like a fucking prostitute.

Then why does my mind go right to the tender moments? The way he held me after he punished me. The way he laid me out on the bed and brought me to climax on his tongue. The way he bathed me and dressed me and called me his little kisa.

But it isn’t real.

I almost laugh to myself when I feel the fabric of my dress against my punished ass.

Real isn’t the right word. This is fucking real. I’m not dreaming. There was nothing fake about the way he spanked me.

It’s the tenderness I’ve imagined, as he demonstrated loud and clear for all to see by taking his belt to my ass in front of all his men.

I’m embarrassed and hurt and angry but—God!—fucking turned on.

I hate this I hate this I hate this.

This is harder than I ever thought h it would be. I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to pay this debt.

We walk in silence back to his room, and I keep my head bowed. I’ve had enough punishment to last the rest of my life, and don’t wish to be humiliated or beaten again. Worse, I don’t want my traitorous body to respond like a fucking whore when he dominates me. I need to maintain some of my dignity through all of this.

Or do I? Does it matter, if my only purpose is to pay off what Calina owes so they never find her?

I’m faintly conscious of him leading me to his room and the door sliding open. I hazard a glance at him, not at all surprised to see his brows creased over angry blue eyes, his lips thinned, and a look of grim determination on his features.

Maybe this will be the time he puts me in that god-awful cage and locks it. A part of me hopes he does, to keep me away from him. To protect me from my own irrational reactions.

And a part of me wants him to sit on that bed and draw me on his lap and hold me like I mean something to him, the way he did last night.

He does neither but slams the door, then shoves me hard against the wall. I stifle a gasp when my back hits the solid surface. He’s in my space, caging me in, his solid, muscled body framing mine with one arm braced over my head.

Before he speaks, he takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger and raises my eyes to his. “Don’t you ever fucking make me do that again.”

“Do what?” I ask, even though I know full well what he’s referring to. I want to hear him say it.

“Punish you in front of my brothers!” He slams a fist on the wall above my head. I gasp, but he doesn’t hurt me.

“I didn’t make you,” I say, and for some reason I’m not angry anymore. My voice is tremulous. “You chose that yourself.”

“If you disobey me in any way, my hand is forced. We don’t have the luxury of time or romance, Calina. You’re to be my bride, and soon, but any woman of mine is expected to behave. To do everything she’s fucking told. If I allow disobedience, I lose respect from the men that I lead in battle.”

Bride hits me like a two by four.

Brides are...bound by law. Legal. Vows.

Forever.

I open my mouth to speak again, to somehow protest this, because this is a big deal, but his lips meet mine, hard and punishing and brutal, a clash of passion and need that sends hopeless need trilling through my veins. His hand is at my cleavage, palming the bare skin before rending the dress to tatters with a savage tear. I’m divested of my clothing, the ruined fabric bunched around my ankles. He makes quick work of tearing my bra and panties from me until I’m bared, then he kisses me and fondles my breasts like he owns every inch of me. And hell, he fucking does. Pulse racing. Belly clenching. Breath ragged and hoarse with arousal, my body gives way to his domination like a deck of cards with a gust of wind. I crumple, my resolve blown away in seconds.

I can’t resist him. I can’t hold myself back. He takes what’s his, and I give it to him. Somewhere far away, locked up in a distant world of rational thought and self-preservation, a whispered voice tells me to resist. To stop. But I dismiss the warning without a backward glance.

He unzips his pants, frees his rigid cock, then lifts me up to straddle his hips. There is no warning, my punishment the only foreplay, before he slams into me, so hard and savage my head falls back with a scream. It hurts so fucking good. My pussy milks his cock, slick and hot and ready, as he impales me, lifting my hips and thrusting until he groans his climax. We’re sweaty and slick and my clit pulses with the need for friction and release, but this time, he doesn’t grant it. He allows himself the luxury of a few seconds with his forehead pressed against mine before he brings his mouth to my ear.