The Bratva's Heir (Underworld Kings)

They wanted to fall on Clare like wolves on fresh meat.

They fucking despise her father, especially Yury. Valencia ordered the cops to rough up his brother during an interrogation. Either the cops went too far, or they did exactly what Valencia asked—either way, they cracked his brother’s skull, and he died of a seizure in his cell later that night. The city said Yury’s brother had a “pre-existing condition,” and the cops were never charged for the killing, let alone Valencia himself.

Yury would love to do the same to Clare: handcuff her hands behind her back, beat her black and blue, and dump her off on her father’s doorstep.

But no one is going to lay one fucking finger on her.

Nobody but me.

I decided that Clare belonged to me the moment she walked into that room. When she sat down across the table from me. When I heard her say my name in that low, clear voice of hers.

I wanted her as soon as I laid eyes on her.

The fact that her father is my enemy only makes this all the more delicious. It adds a wickedness to my lust, like pepper on steak.

At this very moment, I’m sure Valencia has been informed that his daughter is missing, and that I’m the one who took her.

He’ll send a fleet of cops into Desolation to try to hunt us down.

He’ll rampage through my casinos, my strip clubs, my warehouses.

But he’s not going to find Clare.

Because I’m taking her somewhere much safer than that.

Somewhere the two of us can really get to know each other. Just like my little bird wanted.

I start the engine of Yury’s Bentley. I’d love to sit behind the wheel of my Maserati again, but unfortunately, it’s too recognizable—it’ll have to stay in storage a little longer.

Clare is huddled against the door, her mouth split by the gag, those big brown eyes blindfolded. She looks so helpless and vulnerable. My cock is an iron bar running down the leg of this detestable uniform.

I drive into the heart of Desolation—the Warren. The most dense, violent, broken-down part of the city, where even the cops are scared to go. Where ancient neon signs buzz and blink, where boarded-up windows outnumber glass panes, where half the businesses are fronts for something you can only find by entering through an unmarked door in the alley…

Like the Emporium.

From the outside, it looks like nothing more than an ancient hotel, the facade weathered, the steps cracked.

Inside, it has everything I need…

I park behind the hotel, coming around to Clare’s door like the gentleman I am. I yank it open, catching her arm before she can tumble out onto the concrete.

Her legs are shaking so badly she can hardly stand. I pull down the blindfold so she can walk without stumbling.

“If you promise to keep your mouth shut, I’ll take the gag down too,” I tell her.

She stares at me for a moment, those dark eyes gleaming with rebellion. Then, slowly, she nods.

I pull the fabric out from between her teeth. She grimaces like she wants to bite me.

“Where are we?” she demands.

“You’ve never been here before?” I say, knowing full well that she’s never been within twenty miles of this place. There’s no chance Clare has stepped foot on the streets of the Warren. “I think you’ll find it incredibly… educational.”

Taking a firm grip on her arm, I lead her in through the back entrance.

The bouncer gives me a nod of recognition.

“Good to have you back, Mr. Rogov,” he says.

He doesn’t bat an eye at the sight of me leading a woman into the club with her hands bound in front of her. That’s positively tame compared to what he sees going in and out of these doors.

Walking into the Emporium is like walking into another world.

The light is low and violet-hued, emanating upward from the baseboards. The thick carpeting, velvet furniture, and darkly papered walls give a hushed feeling like the padded rooms of an asylum. The dull beat of the music throbs like a heartbeat.

Even this early in the afternoon, the Emporium is full. This is Desolation’s most popular sex club. Every hour of the day the lonely, the horny, and the depraved seek relief in their most forbidden fantasies.

Up on the main stage, three stunning blondes are taking a bath together in a claw-foot tub. One of the girls is stretched out in the water, her legs spread so that her knees bend over the rim of the tub, her feet hanging down on either side, the faucet pouring directly over her exposed pussy.

The second blonde kneels next to the tub, sucking the first girl’s toes.

The third blonde perches up on the rim, soaping her extravagantly proportioned breasts for the enjoyment of the men seated directly around the stage.

Clare stares at the show wide-eyed, then back to me. It doesn’t take a genius to see she’s wondering what I’ll do to her, what I have planned.