by Nicole Fox
“I thought he took out a loan for the shop or something and was having a hard time paying it off,” I admit. “He never corrected me.”
“He probably didn’t want to scare you,” the man says, looking over at me again.
I feel his eyes on me like the lick of a flame against my skin, burning and uncomfortable. “How is that working out?”
“I’m not scared,” I say quickly. “I just want to know who I’m not scared of.”
He smirks, and I want to slap the expression off his full lips. “Dmitry Tsezar, boss of the Tsezar Bratva.”
I don’t know who he is or what a “bratva” is, but it sounds worse than a simple loan shark.
We drive in silence for a long while, and I steal glances at him when he isn’t looking.
He sits up tall and proud in the seat, chin lifted, eyes focused on the road ahead of him. But I get a sense there is something more to him. A story behind the strong face.
I hate him for what he did to my father, but I also can’t ignore that fact that Dmitry could have killed him. Instead, he threatened him, he bargained with him, and in the end, he traded my father’s debt for me. It doesn’t make him a good guy, but it precludes him from being a soulless monster.
A monster with a heart of gold, then. Or something like that.
That doesn’t matter, though. Not when he’s holding me captive. I can’t feel pity for the man who is going to … well, I’m not sure what he’s going to do, but I’m certain he isn’t sending me on an all-expenses paid vacation.
“So,” I say, breaking the silence. “What are you going to do with me? Lock me up? Throw away the key?”
“If that’s the kind of thing you like.”
I turn to him with a frown. “It matters what I like?”
The corner of his mouth turns up in amusement. “I always try to make sure the women I’m with have a good time.”
A prickle crawls down my spine as I realize what he means.
Sex. With him. The two of us. Together.
Heat floods my entire body at the same time like a kind of explosion, and I shiver.
“I can lock you up if you like,” he purrs, reaching across the seat to drag a finger up my thigh. I shift out of his reach, but he isn’t dismayed. He winks at me. “Or tie you up. My favorite option, if you want to know, is to pin you to the wall with my own body. I like the idea of your legs wrapped around my waist. It would give me a chance to show you exactly how not small my penis is.”
My face has to be as red as a stop sign, and I’m grateful to the early autumn sunset for giving me some kind of cover.
I was too busy all semester to date much. School was my priority—passing my classes and keeping my GPA up. That mattered more than anything.
Perhaps my lackluster sex life is why Dmitry’s words are like an arrow aimed directly between my thighs. I shift in my seat slightly, hoping it’s a small enough movement he won’t pick up on it.
Suddenly, the car stops, and I go on high alert. Are we pulling over to get a head start on what Dmitry was talking about? Has he changed his mind about taking me to his house? Maybe he’ll just kill me and be done with it. My father won’t be any wiser until six months from now when I don’t come home. By then, there will be no trace of me for the police to find.
My heart is lodged in my throat.
Dmitry turns to me and drags his thumb across my lips with a mischievous smile on his lips. His blue eyes sparkle. “I’ll be back.”
Then, he’s gone.
I watch him walk around the car and up to a small house set back from the road. The lawn is overgrown and the porch light is out, covering everything in shadow. I can see enough to know that the woman who answers the door is middle-aged and wearing a robe. Dmitry talks to her for a minute and then hands her an envelope. She grabs his hand with both of hers, whispering something to him, and then waves as he walks back to the car.
He slides into the driver’s seat and pulls away without a word.
“What was that about?” I ask finally.
The woman seemed happy to see him. And it didn’t look like she gave him any money in return, though it was too dark to really tell.
Is it possible Dmitry could have friends?
“Drugs,” he says simply. “Or money. Or guns. Whatever you’d like to imagine it was.”
“In a white envelope?” I ask.
He hums a dismissive assent and doesn’t mention it again as he stops at another house and another, having a similar exchange with each middle-aged woman who answers the door.
After the fourth house, I push.
“Why won’t you tell me what you’re doing?”
“What makes you think you deserve answers from me?” he snaps back.
“Because you fucking kidnapped me,” I spit.
“Ah ah,” he says, wagging a finger. “Kidnapping implies you were taken against your will. I specifically remember you offering yourself up. Did you or did you not agree to this deal?”
I don’t say anything, which he must take as a response.
“Since you did agree, I’m sure you remember the stipulations. I’m in charge.”
I bite my tongue and sink down in my seat. I could argue, but he’ll make more threats. Against me. Against my father. Or he’ll continue telling me what he plans to do to me later, and I can’t handle that kind of confusion right now.
Twenty minutes later, Dmitry stops outside a large wrought iron gate.
It looks like a horror movie scene. The kind of entryway people walk through moments before stumbling into the abandoned house and being murdered by a ghost.
He hits a button on his visor and the gates swing open slowly. We pull through them, winding along a long drive with trees on either side, and I sit up.
“Is this where you live?” I ask.
He nods. “This is home. Yours, too, for the next six months.”
The thought is a dark one. Six entire months.
However, my dread is interrupted when he rounds the last curve of the long driveway and the house comes into view.
Luxury.
That’s the only word I can think of.
The house has a low, modern profile, all wood accents, stone, and glass. The lawn is immaculate, with obvious professional landscaping. It’s magnificent.
Dmitry parks in front of the house in the middle of the semicircular driveway and turns the car off. I get out on shaky legs, suddenly much more nervous than I was in the car.
I’m going to live here. Here.
The reality of it isn’t sinking in, and I’m not sure when it will. If ever.
How did I get myself into this mess?
Dmitry walks ahead of me, then pauses in the middle of a step and turns around. “Are you coming?”
I hesitate for only a second before I follow. Then, just as I reach him, he grabs my shoulder. His touch isn’t rough, but firm. And I don’t try to escape.
“There is only one rule,” he says.
“Somehow I doubt that,” I snort.
His eyes narrow. “I’m serious. There is only one house rule that you must obey: never go to the east wing.”
“I’m bad with directions so you’ll have to point out the wing I have to avoid.”
He indicates to my left. “I’m serious, Courtney. Never go over there. I swear that you will regret it.”
I’m curious. More than curious. But there is no way Dmitry will tell me anything, and I have too many warring thoughts in my head to devote to the mysterious wing of his house. First and foremost, I’m distracted by the fact that his house has wings in the first place.
Growing up, my dad and I lived in small rented bungalows and trailer parks. Nothing flashy or showy. We lived on the essentials.
This house is … definitely more than the essentials.
Dmitry opens the door and waves me in ahead of him. Clearly, he at least knows how to be a gentleman, even if he’s chosen to fall short of that standard for ninety-nine point nine percent o
f the brief time we’ve known each other.
The entryway is high-ceilinged and clean and shiny. Everything is marble and polished hardwood. Decorations are sparse; mostly mirrors and plants that might be real or fake. I can’t tell.
A staircase leads up to a second floor and steps to my right lead down to a sunken living room. I’ve never lived in a two-story house before and now this one seems to be infinite levels. That’s when you know a house is nice—it changes elevation for every room.
“Do you want a drink?” Dmitry calls over his shoulder as he walks through a door under the stairs and into a massive kitchen.
I nod without saying anything, but he must have seen it because he pours me a glass of whatever he is having.
I move to follow him into the kitchen, but I can’t. It’s too white and bright and right now, I need to sit down. My head feels fuzzy.
I walk back down the hallway and turn into the sunken living room. There’s a gray stone fireplace and deep sofas with matching footrests. I drop down into the nearest one and take a deep breath.
It’s comfortable, and I hate that.
This place should be a miserable dungeon. I should be chained to a wall and starved.
Instead, I’m sitting on the most comfortable sofa I’ve ever sat on while Dmitry makes me a drink in the other room.
Part of me wonders whether he isn’t drugging it, but at this point, being unconscious might be a solace. My nerves are fried.
Dmitry walks into the room, saying nothing about the fact that I’ve made myself at home in his house, and hands me a drink with an amber liquid inside, one large ice cube in the middle. I take a sip and wince. But the burning helps me focus.
He sits on the sofa across from me, takes a sip, and then lowers his chin, staring up at me from beneath blond brows. “Your father said you’re a dancer.”
It isn’t a question, so I don’t answer it.
If memory serves, my father has been in “business” with Dmitry and his little gang for at least years eight. I wonder how much my father has told him about me during that time. Certainly, more than he told me about Dmitry.
“What does your bratwurst do?” I ask, clutching my hand around the glass.
Dmitry shakes his head. “Bratva,” he corrects. “And I ask the questions.”
“You didn’t ask a question,” I say. “It was a statement.”
“Fine, then here’s another one.” He puts his glass on the end table next to the sofa and leans forward, blue eyes smoldering. “Dance for me.”
My stomach drops, and I instinctively shake my head. “That’s a command.”
“I also give commands,” he says, sitting back on the couch and letting his legs fall open. “So, dance for me.”
Everything inside of me wants to run. I want to flee out the front door and disappear into the trees that surround this mansion.
But I can’t.
Not unless I want my father to suffer the consequences. Not unless I want Dmitry’s muscled meatheads to hunt me down and kill me.
Dancing is a better alternative to dying, so I set my drink down and stand on trembling legs.
Usually, I stretch before I perform. I limber up and listen to music.
Now, there is no sound but the thunder of my heart in my chest, and my muscles are cold and stiff with dread.
Dmitry raises his eyebrows, encouraging me, and then curls a finger to usher me forward.
I walk over to him stiffly, and he sits up and grabs my hand, holding it out to the side before dropping it, letting it slap against my leg. “Loosen up.”
I scowl at him and begin to sway my hips, moving like a nervous teenager at a middle school dance.
He tsks softly. “You can do better than that. Don’t make me return you to your father. Believe me, neither of you will like that option.”
The threat is like a shot of adrenaline, and I turn around and roll my body in front of him. I stretch my arms above my head and shimmy down in a serpentine motion before pressing my backside out and standing up.
“Closer,” Dmitry says, his voice lower and rougher than it was only a moment before. It’s clear what he wants.
My limbs feel like they don’t belong to me as I step between his legs and press my hands into his thighs for balance. I circle my body into him and ignore the jolt of electricity that shoots through me when he places his hand on my hip. His skin is warm on me, even through my clothes, and I grind down onto him, hoping to get this over with as soon as possible.
Dmitry begins breathing more heavily, his grip on my hip growing tighter. And rather than relaxing, I grow stiffer. More unnatural.
Suddenly, Dmitry wraps his arm around my waist and drags me down onto his lap. I can feel him pushing against my lower back through his jeans.
“You are so stiff,” he whispers, his lips pressed against the shell of my ear. “Either you are not much of a dancer after all …”
I don’t say anything. I can’t deny it, and I’m not in the mood for a snarky remark. My tongue feels too big for my mouth, and there might be a hummingbird flapping in my chest.
“Or you just need to relax,” he says, easing his grip and sliding his hand down my stomach until his fingers are wedged between my legs.
He uses his other hand to press my thighs apart, and I’m a mannequin in his lap. I watch what he’s doing with a disconnected kind of curiosity, as though it’s happening to someone else.
“Let me help you,” he says, dragging his fingers up to flick open the button of my jeans and push the zipper down. When his hand slides inside of my pants, I’m amazed at the warmth, and I shiver from the pressure.
Dmitry massages his other hand up my body, sliding underneath the bottom of my sweater to lay his large hand across my stomach. He pins me against him and then slides his finger across my opening.
I can’t help it. I gasp.
I try to shift away from his touch, but he presses his hand harder into my stomach, making it impossible to move, and circles his finger around the apex of my thighs, massaging my most sensitive area.
Immediately, I begin to squirm.
Sensation builds in my abdomen despite my attempts to stop it. I would love nothing more than for Dmitry to feel like a failure; than for him to think he can’t please a woman.
However, that isn’t possible.
As soon as he slides a finger inside of me, he knows my dirty little secret:
I’m wet for him. Wet and ready.
He presses one finger in and then two, using his thumb to continue the slow circles that are driving me wild.
I hold my breath until my vision goes black around the edges, and I have to gasp so I don’t pass out. I lay my head on his shoulder, my body feeling heavy and drunk.
No one has touched me like this in so long. For the last several months, it has just been me under the covers of my twin bed in the precious few moments when Dandan left the dorm room and gave me a second of privacy.
Now, there is a beautiful, horrible man rubbing away every ounce of restraint and self-respect I have.
He’s flipping my moral compass on its head.
He’s turning my world inside out, and when he adds a third finger inside of me, pulsing to the rapid rhythm of my heart, he sets it on fire.
I moan and grab for something, anything to help me keep my grip on the world. I bring my arms up, and I don’t realize I’m wrapping an arm around Dmitry’s neck, my fingers finding his silky blond hair, until I’ve already done it.
As the climax comes, it’s too powerful to move. Like a raging storm, it’s better to shelter in place.
So, I curl my fingers in his hair and moan, squeezing my eyes shut as heat washes through me in pulsating waves.
Slowly, the waves begin to ebb, taking with them my power to move or walk or speak.
I just lie there on top of Dmitry, staring up at the ceiling, his arms still around me, his fingers still inside of me, completely spent.
“See?” he says, his breath
warm against my neck. “I told you I wanted you to have a good time.”
Then, he slides me off his lap, stands up, and walks out of the room.
5
Dmitry
The lights in the parking lot burned out years ago and trash lines the bottom of the chain-link fence and the grimy stone walls. The abandoned warehouse is annoyingly far out of town, which makes it the perfect place for a covert meeting.
Rurik lights a cigarette and leans back against the car, his feet crossed at the ankles. “Where is this guy?”
“We’re early,” I remind him.
I like being the first at a location. It gives me the upper hand and helps ensure I won’t be surprised.
“But he’ll be here. He’s always on time.”
My family has been working with Nico since I was a kid. Nico was one of the few people in this world my father truly trusted, which means I trust him as well.
“I just don’t want to stand in this lot all night,” Rurik complains. “There shouldn’t be this many bugs this close to winter.”
He swats at a small gnat flying around his face, but I can’t think of anything to say.
I’ve been distracted.
Courtney has been living at my house for a week, and I haven’t touched her except for the first night I brought her home.
When she sat in my lap and ground her tight body against me.
When I slipped my fingers between her legs and felt her fall apart.
I have to shift my position so Rurik won’t see the small tent I’ve pitched.
And that’s exactly why I can’t focus. I’ve never thought about a woman like this. She has a fire that I admire. Usually, it’s directed at me, which I could do without, but I still respect her drive. Her ability to speak her mind, no matter how the deck is stacked against her.
Also, her flawless fucking body.