Seducing the Badman (Russian Bratva #2) (3 page)

I
LOOK OUT AT
the city around me.

Nobody can tell me that being here in this house is safer than being out on my own, or with my brother, Yakov. This man that I was casually given to,
handed off to
, cannot love me the way I yearn to be loved.

I can see it in his eyes. He is cold, just like every other man I have ever been in contact with in my life.

Radimir Zalesky is terrifying
.

His light blue eyes are cold on the surface; obviously, he has seen much evil in this world, and even performed some of that evil himself. Underneath, I see a vulnerability there—
very deep down underneath
.

Radimir has a full head of dark hair, and his tattoos crawl up his neck and down his arms, all the way to his knuckles. It’s strange to feel
fear and attraction
all at the same time. I have only ever felt fear toward men, never attraction.

The feeling is so foreign that I find myself conflicted.

If I were a woman appreciating him as a man, I would say he is attractive—in a terrifying way. He is massively tall, taller than almost any other man I have ever seen; his body is big and muscular, his arms are gigantic. He looks to be around his mid-thirties. His face isn’t what I would call classically handsome. His jaw line is strong and covered in dark thick hair. His nose is crooked, as if it has been broken multiple times. I’m not sure if he ever actually smiles; his frown lines between his eyes are set in deep, as if that is their permanent residence.

Radimir is
Bratva,
and by the looks of it, he is not only high ranking, but he has committed many violent acts. His tattoo markings tell a story, a story of gore and violence. I don’t know much about their tales, but I do know that each tattoo has a specific meaning, and most are for violent acts performed.

I did not fight Radimir, or Yakov, too hard a few hours ago, when I was ordered to follow this stranger. There is no use to the rebellious act of fighting or behaving like a brat with either of them. I know what happens to women who fight against a man’s orders
. Nothing good
. It is always painful to fight.

Yakov has killed right in front of me, and he did not even hesitate. There was madness swirling around, and I didn’t need to add to the stress and pressure of the evening. I did as I always do. I quietly followed orders.

Like a good girl.

I knew what I was to be the day I turned eighteen, and I was only grateful that my father allowed me to go to college, to educate myself, and to put it off as long as he did.

I don’t know why he allowed me to do those things, but I can only imagine it was because he hadn’t found my
match
yet.

Until a few months ago, and then I had heard murmurings of contracts being put in place for my arranged marriage.

My father is dead now, and I am not even sad. I should be sad, but I’m not.

How do you mourn a tyrant?

Yakov is in charge now, and I know he will do what is right.

I sigh as I look at the twinkling lights of Moscow from the back of the SUV.

I wonder how much of a prisoner I will be, and when he will force himself on me?

Because I know he will.

Will he be gentle, or will he be cruel?

I have seen cruel.

I have felt cruel.

I shudder, trying not to think about that day.

For all intents and purposes, he looks as though he will be cruel. He looks as though he will take and take from me, that he will possibly leave me a shell of a woman. Something deep inside of me hopes he will not do that. Something inside of me prays that my brother would not give me to a man who would do such things.

The man is big, his body powerful, his eyes cold and blue. When he touched me, when his hand was around my neck and he pulled me into his hard body, I felt safe, warm.
My belly clenched with want.
I didn’t understand the physical reaction, but wouldn’t mind giving myself to him if he were gentle—possibly because he made me feel safe and because I’m attracted to him.

Possibly because he is ruggedly beautiful.

When we arrive at his mansion of an apartment, he grabs my bicep loosely and guides me toward a bedroom. I know this is the moment he is going to take me, to force his way inside of my body, and I begin to tremble. His cold blue eyes look down at me and he curls his lip, almost in disgust.

Perhaps me being scared of him—of the intimate act I have never performed
willingly—
disgusts him?

Perhaps he wants a woman who knows what she is doing?

“Go inside. Take a shower. Go to sleep. This is your room; you are not to leave it until I come and get you. Do you understand me?” he barks.

I suck my trembling bottom lip between my teeth and I nod, tears welling in my eyes. He jerks his head in a nod once, then waits for me to go inside of the room. I walk into the bedroom, closing the door behind me before I hear the door click locked.

I try to open it, but he has locked me in.

I fall to the floor and I let the once threatening tears finally fall from my eyes.

I am a prisoner—an object, a toy. I will surely be his slave.

I cry for a while, until there are no more tears left to cry, and then I do as Radimir ordered—I shower.

The hot water feels good on my skin. I wash my hair and my body. When the warmth of the water turns cold, I dry off with a luxurious fluffy towel. It is even nicer than the ones at my father’s house.

I rummage through the sleek black dresser drawers and find a beautiful silk nightgown; it is light blue, almost white, and floor length. I slide it down my body and the sexy, soft, material immediately makes me feel a bit better.

I dig around some more and find bras and panties, but I don’t chance putting them on. I don’t take Radimir for being a celibate man, and I am not going to wear another woman’s undergarments.

I slide between the soft sheets, and as soon as my wet hair hits the pillow, my puffy eyes close and I slip into exhausted unconsciousness.

Emiliya is not the first woman I have owned.
This makes me a bastard, I know
. The first woman I owned was named Klavdia, and she was stunning. I saw her first five years before I owned her, at a sex kink party. I had heard of the lifestyle from my
Pakhan
—my boss, Sergei. He told me how obtaining control could help my anger issues, associated with the feelings of my loss of control when I was a child on the streets.

I did not live a good life, not until he found me. I was twelve years old, struggling and selling myself to stay clothed and fed. Sure, I rested my head at the orphanage every night, but they didn’t have the resources to provide necessities. If I ate once a day, I was lucky.

One of the older boys was a prostitute. He sold himself and made good money. He helped me get clients, and I too became a
blyad
—a
whore
.

Sergei found me one night outside of the Opera. A wonderful place to drum up new clients. Married men or single men, it didn’t matter. I would suck a cock or spread my ass for any of them, as long as it meant cash in my pocket, food in my belly, and clothes on my back.

I propositioned Sergei that night
. Looking back now, it was a stupid move, but I couldn’t see past the silk suit, expensive watch, and shoes that cost more than I could ever dream of.

“If I let you suck my cock, you what? Buy drugs with it? A new game system, maybe?” he laughed. I remember my teenage face turning red with anger.

“No. I buy food and clothes; and whatever I have left, I give to the younger boys so that they don’t have to do what I do to survive.”

I spat at his expensive shoes and I began to run away, but he grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and hauled me into an alley. I knew that night I would be raped or killed— maybe both. I was nobody, some punk whore kid.

“This is truth, what you say to me?” he asked, not looking angry. He was frightening just the same.

“I live at the orphanage. They have too many boys and not enough money for food and clothes for everyone,” I shamefully admitted. His grip didn’t loosen on my shirt, but he studied my face—for what I, didn’t know.

“You want out of there, boy?” he asked harshly.

I thought about it. Hell yes, I wanted out. I nodded just slightly. I wasn’t sure what kind of sick game he was playing. Maybe he would hurt me?

“You come with me and you are no longer a whore. I make you a soldier,” he offered. My eyes widened at the thought.

“A real soldier?” I asked hopefully. I could see myself in the green uniform and I knew I would truly be somebody.

“A real
Bratva
soldier. Better than those pussies in uniforms. You can make more money than you can dream of, boy, and no more selling yourself.”

I should have thought about the consequences of what he was offering me, but I didn’t. I left with Sergei that night and I never looked back. I selfishly left all of the other boys to fend for themselves, and I began to carve my way into the business, into the organization.

As I grew into my role and my position of power I felt unhinged. Angry at my past. Sergei could see the war raging in my eyes and he took to a party. He told me it would help to calm the beast inside of me. That’s where I met the woman I would call my own. The woman who would use me and manipulate me.

The moment I saw Klavdia, it was as if everything around me disappeared. She was looking at me from under her long lashes with a coy smile on her face. A slave girl, a beautiful, blonde slave girl.

At the time, I thought she was looking at me the way a woman looks at a man. I had never had that before.
A woman who wanted me for me
. I had women who wanted some money or some cock, but never
me
.

Later, I understood it was because I was wearing tailored silk suit pants, a watch that was worth tens of thousands of dollars, and leather shoes that were so soft, it was a shame they were on my feet.

I only purchase expensive things.

Only the best for me.

I deserve it after the life I have lead.

Grisha, her owner, came up to me and asked if I would like to use her for the night. Normally, using another man’s slave was not something I would be interested in, but she was so gorgeous, her body flawless.
I couldn’t turn him down
.

Klavdia was good to me that night—sucked my cock like a professional, spread her pussy for me, like a good slave. I bound her wrists while I fucked her so hard she screamed out in pain, and then I drove into her even harder until I felt the fluttering of her pussy and her shout of release. She gazed up at me, almost lovingly, and thanked me for the evening, like a good girl.

That night was the one and only time I fucked the woman who would later be sold to me and stay in my home for over four years.

By the time I sold Klavdia to a real Master, I hated her, and she me. I wanted the girl from the party. I wanted the girl who looked up to me like she was grateful for anything I would give her. I hadn’t known it was all an act. She spent my money, kept her legs closed, and promised me that once she was comfortable, we would be together.

I was stupid, I was blind, and I was soft. Klavdia had been fucking so many men behind my back that when I found out, I was actually glad my dick had stayed away from her.

I hadn’t been celibate myself during those four years. I had fucked plenty of women while waiting for Klavdia to come around. I felt shame every time, but sex wasn’t something I could abstain from. I needed it. I needed to dominate a woman and fuck her every way imaginable. I needed it like I needed air. That release when I come inside a woman’s body, it exorcises demons every single time.

When I overheard Klavdia admit she had seduced the heartbroken Maxim Lasovska, the man under me in rank, a man who was suffering with his own personal demons—a man who was very much married, it was the final straw.

Klavdia, was a mistake that I never want to make again. She was a gorgeous accessory to own, but she was selfish and cruel. I want a real lover, a real woman to call my own. I want to rest my head next to my lover, to plant my babies inside of her, and raise them together.

Slave ownership is not for me.

I am not wired that way.

I want a woman that will take me into her body with no questions asked; a woman that will satisfy me to a point where others aren’t desirable; and I want to satisfy her the same way.

This, I was not sure was possible, so I had given up.

Yakov Chekov approached me a few months after Klavdia was sold. I had been a bear of a man and everybody had steered clear. I had to apologize for her actions to Haleigh Lasovska, Maxim’s wife. I had never apologized to anybody in my life, and yet the little American girl deserved it. Klavdia had been deplorable.

“Shit will be going down soon, Radimir. Sergei has ordered the hit on my father,” Yakov informed. I gaped at the man in surprise.