Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
What is wrong with me?
“Spread your legs,” he growls, tapping the inside of each thigh with the back of his hand.
I obey, opening myself to him without hesitation. His fingers slide into me, thick and deliberate, stroking my most sensitive place. Oh fuck, yes, please.
“How does that feel, Anya?” he asks, his voice low and rough in my ear.
“So good.” I breathe, my voice a barely audible whisper.
“Tell me you’re going to obey me,” he commands, his tone leaving no room for argument.
“Yes,” I gasp, switching to Russian instinctively. “I’ll obey you.”
He rewards me with another perfect stroke of his fingers.
“Tell me you will never leave this house without my permission again,” he growls, plunging more fingers inside me now, his movements unrelenting and precise. My breath hitches, my muscles tightening as pleasure coils within me, ready to snap.
“I won’t,” I cry out. “I won’t leave again without your permission!”
“That’s what marrying into the Bratva means,” he says, his tone colder now. “You will obey me. I will accept nothing less.”
He removes his fingers before his hand comes down one final time, a sharp smack that makes me cry out.
“You’ve got a lot to learn, Anya. Is that clear, beautiful?”
The word “beautiful” sends a bloom of warmth through my chest.
My wife.
Beautiful.
“I asked if that was clear, Anya.”
“Yes,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Crystal.”
“Good.” His tone softens, but the command remains. I ache for him, no matter how hard I try to resist. “Because I want you to remember this night. I’m taking it easy on you, Anya. You deserve my belt for what you did. If you ever do anything like that again, you won’t sit for a fucking week. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” I whisper again before I can stop myself. “Yes, sir.”
His growl of approval makes my body melt like heated caramel.
“Spread your legs, baby. Come on my hand,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl in my ear as he strokes me again, relentless and precise. His fingers bring me higher and higher, finding my clit, spreading my slick heat, and when I finally shatter, it’s like lightning strikes through me, leaving my body trembling and boneless.
I’m dimly aware of him shifting behind me, of the sound of his own low groans as he takes out his cock and fists it. My breath catches as I tense, thinking he’s going to take me. I watch, half-drunk, as he strokes and pumps his hardened cock, tracing a finger over my heated ass, between my legs.
With a groan, his hot seed splashes across my back, marking me in the most possessive, intimate way. He muffles another groan, and I feel a wicked smile curve my lips.
I did this to him. Me. I made the ice shatter.
The thought sends another ripple of pleasure through me as I collapse onto the bed, barely able to move.
“Lie on your belly,” he says quietly.
Too tired to argue, I obey. He cleans me off with his own soaking T-shirt, the act so filthy and possessive it sends a shiver down my spine.
My eyes grow heavy.
He bends down and presses a soft kiss to my cheek. “Get some sleep, Anya. We have a lot of work ahead of us.”
The click of the door shutting behind him sounds as I close my eyes and begin to drift off to sleep, but a second later, my eyes fly open when I hear a series of clicks.
He didn’t just shut the door. He locked me in.
Chapter 11
SEMYON
I was eleven when I learned the true meaning of fear. Not the shallow kind that makes your stomach flip when you're caught sneaking out, or the faint distress in a dark alley, or facing someone bigger than you. Fear that claws at your insides and makes you immobile. Fear that sears through your chest like acid, making it hard to breathe.
I sit in my room and take another sip of whiskey. I drink too much; I know I do, but sometimes it's the only thing that grounds me.
I close my eyes and the memories rush to me, as vivid as the day it happened.
"Go!"
Rafail's voice is sharp, cutting through the chaos like a whip. I can see him, only eighteen years old. I can still feel him shove me with one arm as he picked up Zoya with the other and threw her into my arms, practically shoving us in a small closet in the back of the house—the tiny one no one would ever look in.
I remember shouting, even as I pressed Zoya’s head into my chest so hard she couldn't see a thing. "No, Rafail!" My feet dug into the hardwood. "Poppa is out there—Mama—"
Rafail didn’t let me finish. His grip was like iron as he shoved me into the closet along with Zoya, desperation pushing him to the edge. "What did I fucking say? Get in there. Now. Keep them safe!"