Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I don’t just dream about possessive anti-heroes, I crave them. The dark, dangerous ones dripping with Bratva energy, the ones who claim you with a single look and make the world kneel just to keep you safe.
“Touch her and I'll unalive you…”?
I live for it.
“My wife…”?
My favorite .
It’s all a harmless fantasy, right?
Until it’s not.
Rodion Kopolev, the lethal masked hero thousands of social media followers fangirl over, doesn’t just embody the dark anti-heroes I love…he is one.
And when his obsessive focus lands on me, I feel like the heroine in one of my books.
His possessive words claim me.
His dominant touch brands me.
And when I try to run, he chases…
But when the threats of my past creep closer and I need protection from a dangerous stalker, Rodion is the devil willing to give it to me… for a price.
Turns out, when the fantasy becomes reality, it’s not so harmless after all…
Please Untamed is a standalone dark romance with a strong, fierce heroine and an unapologetically obsessive, jealous, and possessive alpha anti-hero. No OW drama, no cliffhanger, always a hard-won HEA.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter 1
RODION
The low thrum of dance music beats steadily, like the heartbeat of California’s underbelly. Neon lights slash across the dance floor, throwing jagged shadows over the dancing forms of women. I lazily watch them. I love women of all shapes and sizes. I don’t care about the color of their skin or their hair, if they’re short or tall, curvy or slender, or if they have glasses or freckles or whatever. Women are god’s gift to men, and fuck, I miss having one in my bed. It’s been way too long.
I’ve tried to be good. Responsible. Mature.
God.
California might glitter, but I miss the familiarity of home. Here, under these neon lights, I feel untouchable and detached—like a tiger prowling, watching the world from behind the bars of a cage.
I want out.
I nurse my glass of the bar’s sorry excuse for vodka—some cheap, local crap that doesn’t hold a candle to what we drink at home for any excuse to cheer a victory—and glance at my hands.
Fuck. For a second, I swear I see flecks of blood from the job I wrapped up earlier. But no, it’s just the lights messing with me. I washed my hands in the penthouse bathroom so many times under steaming water that they’re half-scalded.
Not that it matters. Rafail, my oldest brother and the pakhan of our family, rules with an iron fist and expects every job to be wrapped up neat, tied with a bow. Me? I like the reminders of what I’m capable of.
Maybe it makes me a sociopath. I like to think it keeps me human.
Got one more job to do here.
A burst of laughter gets my attention. I look over to see a table of giggling women. I shift closer to the bar, slinking into the shadows so I can watch unnoticed. Six of them, dressed in low-cut tops and short skirts, sit at a table cluttered with empty glasses. A young brunette with waist-length glossy hair shoves her phone under the nose of another woman. The second one’s wearing something across her shoulders. A sash?
I squint.
Bride to Be, the gold lettering reads. Ah. A bachelorette party.
How cute.
“I’m telling you, it’s the possessive ones! Like, ‘I own you’ energy!” A blonde giggles over her drink. Her friend rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue.
My ears perk up. “I own you energy.” What are they talking about?
I’ve got better things to do than eavesdrop, but I’m bored as hell and need to get laid. Rafail would fucking kill me for not sticking to the plan.
I fucked up, big time, and he sent me here to lay low while he manages the fallout. Turned out I could utilize my skills while here for the greater good of my family, so I can’t lose focus now.
I look away from them.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Rafail
Heads up. Semyon got fucked over… instead of wedding bells, looks like he’ll be playing clean-up crew and teaching some lessons.
Shit. It’s been a year since Rafail married his wife, Polina, which meant it was time for one of us to get married. We had to. Taking the position of leadership after my father’s death, Rafail wasted no time in establishing himself as the married eldest because, in the old-fashioned, cutthroat world of the Russian Bratva, a married man had more power. Respect. A man like me—wild and free, untamed by the love of a woman—was unfettered but unpredictable… and wielded less power.
We don’t have time to date casually and don’t have the luxury of playing around. Marriage, children, the stability of vows are a must.
Semyon was ready to marry before the ink was dry on Rafail and Polina’s marriage certificate. He didn’t have the time or patience for anything less.