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)
“Yes,” I say, jaw tightening.
“Who?”
I roll my eyes with a sigh. “You know who.”
There are no real secrets in our family, though I’ve somehow miraculously been able to keep my masked online presence off their radar. He’s seen footage of me with Ember and so has Semyon.
There’s a beat of silence. Then he laughs, low and dark. “The pretty little redhead. Did you marry her yet?”
The teasing pisses me off more than it should. “No,” I bite out. “Not yet.”
He’s silent again, but this time, there’s no laugh, no follow-up. Just dead air. Rafail knows how to make his point with silence better than most men can with words.
I check the live feed again while I wait, watching the soft rise and fall of her chest. A faint shift, the way she tucks her hands closer under the covers. Something in me aches, sharp and… unfamiliar.
“You’re distracted, Rodion,” Rafail snaps, yanking me back.
“Just tired,” I lie, biting back something harsher. I have to remember who I’m talking to.
“Bullshit,” he fires back. “Focus. If you can’t keep your head in the game, I’ll pull you from the gala entirely and send Matvei.”
No, he fucking won’t.
“I’m focused,” I say sharply, even as my eyes flick back to the video.
“Then prove it.” His tone hardens. “We’ll talk more about this weekend later. I have a job for you to do. Right now.”
Here we go again. I straighten, already bracing. “What’s the job?”
“Details are coming to your secure line. Handle it, and do not screw this up.”
The line goes dead before I can respond. Typical Rafail.
A notification pings—encrypted instructions, just as promised. I scan the details quickly, forcing my mind to shift gears. It’s a cleanup. A target with loose ties to a Bratva rival. Not messy work but work that requires my full attention.
Son of a bitch. I wanted to go see Ember. It’s only been a few hours, but…
I clench my fist, pushing down the pull to check her video again. She’s fine. Safe. I don’t need to hover over every second.
But still, the idea of leaving her tonight twists something in my chest.
I grab my gear.
The distraction she’s become… I’ve got to deal with it. With her.
The job will keep me busy for now, but it’s not enough.
Not until I show her exactly what it means to be mine. Tonight, I’ll handle Rafail’s mess. But after?
I take a look at the tools I’ve set aside for her—the soft rope, the blindfold—and grin. Game on, little queen.
Then my phone buzzes again, and for a split second, I think it’s Rafail, already breathing down my neck. But no—the notification is from her account.
@dreammafiaqueen has gone live
Live
My pulse spikes, and I swipe the notification open, the feed springing to life.
There she is. Her hair’s still a mess from sleep, and her sweatshirt slides off one shoulder. The sight of her, disheveled but glowing, hits me like a punch. She’s in her bedroom, the same one I’ve been watching all night, and she’s staring into the camera with a look that’s nothing short of fire.
“Morning, little queen,” I whisper.
Her lips curl into a small, knowing smile, and then she speaks.
“This one’s for you,” she says, her voice low and teasing. She leans closer to the camera, her green eyes locking onto the lens like she knows exactly who’s watching. Me.
My grin fades, replaced by something darker, sharper. The game just changed.
“Careful what you wish for,” she whispers, echoing the words from my video. Then she sits back, brushing her hair out of her face with the kind of casual confidence that drives me insane before I realize—she’s sitting in her panties on top of a pile of books, the leather strap of her camera hanging off the edge of her end table. She fingers the leather strap and wraps it around her chest, just under her breasts—the feed ends abruptly, leaving me staring at the blank screen.
Oh my fucking god.
Let the games begin.
Chapter 14
EMBER
I don’t hear from Rodion all day.
I hate it.
I find myself opening up the damn app every minute, checking to see if he posted a new video, or a new comment, something. Even though I have it set up to notify me when he posts, I manage to convince myself that I must’ve missed it.
I do my best to try to stay on task, but my mind isn’t in the game.
The video showed he watched mine earlier, but…
I click the focus on my camera, adjusting the lens to center on the subject—a cluster of glossy city lights reflected in a puddle on the uneven pavement. It should be an easy shot, something I’ve done a thousand times before. But my hands aren’t steady. The framing feels off, and no matter how I reposition myself, the composition doesn’t click into place.
I blow out a frustrated breath and try again, crouching lower, angling the camera upward. The viewfinder blurs for a second, and I realize I’m not even looking at the scene anymore. My mind is somewhere else.