The Bratva's Heir (Underworld Kings)

“You want a drink?” a waitress asks us.

The waitress is dressed in fetish gear—a complicated harness of leather straps that leaves her breasts completely bare. Her nipples are pierced, as well as her eyebrow, nose, lower lip, and tongue.

“I’ll have a shot of Stoli,” I say. “She’ll have the same, with lime and soda. Bring it to our room.”

The waitress nods, sauntering off on her eight-inch heels to retrieve our order.

Clare looks at me like I’m insane.

“I don’t want a drink,” she says.

“You’re gonna need one,” I inform her.

“Why the fuck have you brought me here?” she hisses at me, her eyes darting around at the patrons seated in their booths, some already well on their way to satisfaction as heads bob in laps and half-naked whores writhe on the laps of powerful men—powerful women too.

Go-go girls dance in cages. The bartenders wear body paint and thongs. Clare isn’t the only person with her hands tied.

I’m enjoying her discomfort. And enjoying even more the gleam of curiosity that she can’t quite conceal.

“We’re here so we can have a little chat,” I tell Clare, my fingers digging into her arm. “I can’t check into any old hotel at the moment.”

“My father will find me,” Clare snarls, trying to pull her arm out of my grip.

“Oh, I intend him to,” I bark back at her. “But not yet.”

I drag her upstairs to the private suite on the topmost floor.

I’ve used this room before, though only with professionals. Never with someone I knew on a more… personal basis.

I’ve always had certain proclivities.

It’s why I never had a serious relationship before Roxy.

I don’t like kissing, I don’t like cuddling, I don’t like murmuring sweet endearments in the dark.

What I like is total obedience. Total control. The easiest way to get exactly what I want is to pay for it.

I prefer professionals. The women who simper and pose for my attention in daily life have no fucking clue how to please me.

But Clare… Clare is something different.

She's been sheltered, that much is evident. Tempting, to introduce her to what the world has to offer outside those white picket fences.

I’ve seen the way she responds when I give her an order. She wants to resist, but she can’t. When I touch her, no matter how roughly, her pupils dilate, her skin flushes, her thighs tremble.

She can tell herself that she hates me, that she’s terrified.

But the truth is… she fucking likes it.

The suite has all the tools I need to make this little bird sing.

The room is large and grand, in the same ancient, ornate style as the rest of the hotel. The four-poster bed is hung with dusty crimson drapes. Blackout curtains block the slightest sliver of daylight from entering, and thick rugs muffle the worn wooden floorboards. Up here the light has a reddish cast, tempered by the old-fashioned lampshades.

“Sit,” I say to Clare, nodding toward the bed.

She eyes the mattress warily.

“Sit,” I bark.

Her knees bend without conscious thought. She sinks down on the edge of the bed, her bound hands resting on her lap.

I turn away to hide my smile.

A light tap on the door signals the arrival of the waitress. I take the drinks from her tray, closing and locking the door.

Clare flinches at the sound of the bolt turning.

“Listen,” she starts blubbering, “I already told you, I have no idea about any grudge between you and my father. He doesn’t tell me anything, we’re not even close. Actually, I think he kind of despises me… like if you think he’s going to pay a ransom—”

“Quiet,” I say.

She falls silent, her throat convulsing as she swallows.

I carry the drinks toward her.

“Are you thirsty?” I say, quietly.

I know that she is.

Adrenaline will dehydrate you like nothing else. I can see how pale and papery her lips have become, how difficult it is for her to swallow.

She holds up her bound hands for the drink.

“No,” I say. “Open your mouth.”

She looks up at me, her dark brows drawing together in an irritated line.

“Open it,” I growl.

Slowly, her lips part.

I dip my fingers into the vodka soda. Then I trace my wet fingertips around Clare’s lips, moistening them.

She shivers at my touch.

Unconsciously, her lips part further, and her tongue slips out, seeking hydration, but sliding against the balls of my fingers instead, sending a jolt all the way up my arm.

That was just a little taste.

She licks her lips, wanting more.

“Open your mouth,” I say again.

This time, Clare opens wider.

I take a sip of her drink, then I spit it directly into her mouth.

She rears back, horrified, sputtering.

“What the fuck are you doing!” she shrieks.

I seize her chin between my thumb and index finger, holding her tight, drilling her with my stare.

“Are you thirsty or not?”

“I’m not—don’t you even think about—” she stammers.

“You don’t seem to understand your position, Clare,” I growl. “I stole you. And when the Bratva steal something… we don’t give it back. You belong to me now. If you want to eat, you’ll eat from my hand. If you want to drink, you’ll drink from my mouth. You’re going to answer my questions, and you’re going to do what I say. Or you’ll suffer the consequences.”