The Bratva's Heir (Underworld Kings)

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale—I can still smell him. Raw and earthy, like freshly cleaved stone swept bare by a landslide. Clean, with the barest hint of pine. Unapologetically male.

Exhale.

I’m okay.

I’m okay.

I stand up straight and imagine what my mother would say if she knew I’d just leaned against the bathroom door in a prison bathroom. She’d probably have me bathe in hand sanitizer and take an STD test.

It’s surprisingly clean in here, unlike the rest of the prison. Like a teacher’s lounge in a rundown school, it’s a little slice of normalcy in an otherwise dismal setting.

Thank God for that. I need something clean right now. Something normal and predictable.

I should have filed a report. He could be in major trouble for what he did, and it’s my duty to report any incidents of abuse or misbehavior to the authorities. And if my father finds out… this would prove him right in spectacular fashion.

I’m usually the rule follower... but for just this once, I can’t do it. I won’t make the same mistake twice.

I glance in the mirror above the sink, half expecting to see bruises where he gripped my neck, but he left no mark. I tilt my head to the left, then right. A faint tinge of pink, no more. I swallow, watching my throat work.

I’m weirdly disappointed there is no mark, as if I need a badge for what I’ve been through. But there’s nothing. I’m fine.

My hair, on the other hand, is another story. I straightened it today and worked hard to make sure I hit the professional vibes I was aiming for, but thanks to that meaty fist of his, my perfect hair’s all messed up.

I’ve never been touched by hands like those. Ever.

No woman could ever be touched by hands like those and forget them.

Large, competent hands with thick, rough fingers, toughened by years of hard work and marked with faded ink. I can still see them, twisted around my hair and over my mouth with shocking strength. An expert hold that kept me immobile but promised violence if I disobeyed, quiescent power roiling beneath the surface. Ready to ruin.

I’m so shocked by what he did, I can’t remember the color of his eyes. I’m half tempted to find him again, so I can piece his image together in my mind. His eyes, hard and flinty, narrowed in fury at the audacity of my claims, my purpose. Like many inmates, he doesn’t believe in reform. Or so he says. I suppose if he did think reformation was possible, he’d have to admit being locked away like this serves a purpose.

I square my shoulders and attempt to right my hair. I have places to go and won’t let some unlawful, immoral criminal shake me.

His voice, though. God, his voice, tinged with the rough edge of a Russian accent, a deep baritone that rings with authority. I can still hear it.

A professional would know better than to wear their hair down.

He spat the words out as if to strike me with them.

I shiver.

He was right. It’s the first rule of self-defense for women. Never, ever wear your hair down. The second stupidest thing to do is to put it up in a ponytail, which is a ready-made handle practically inviting someone to grab it and assault you.

I knew this. I know this. And yet, today, for my first-ever visit to the infamous DesMax—the Desolation Maximum Security Corrections Facility—I just had to be all professional and put-together.

Frowning, I scour my bag until I find a hair tie and a few bobby pins. I quickly braid my hair, then twist it into a plaited bun at the nape of my neck. I looked average before. I look damn near homely, now.

Everything about me’s absolutely, perfectly average.

Brown hair. Brown eyes. Average lips. Standard nose. Freckles.

I know his comments on my “beauty” were just a taunt, trying to get under my skin. I went to school with the most stunning socialites in the city. I’ve never stood out, and I’m fine with that.

With a rebellious flourish, I grab my lip gloss from the bottom of the bag, yank the cover off, and swipe it across my lips.

Oh, right. This was the nude color. My lips are the same shade, only now they’re sticky.

Sigh.

My phone rings in the Cruella de Vil theme song, and I make a mental note to tell my bestie Felicity to stop changing my mother’s ringtones. One of these days, she’ll find out, and I’d rather not deal with the guilt trip. I silence it, thankful for the momentary distraction.

“Yes, Mother,” I mutter to myself. “I’m well aware my birthday party’s in thirty minutes. Excuse me while I tidy myself up after being assaulted by my latest client, who happens to be serving life for murder.”

Imagining the look of horror on her face actually perks me up a bit.