THE RUSSIAN THUG: Abducted by the Bratva ~Krasnov Brothers Book 1~

by Warren, Rie

  Even Sasha’s baba was there. She shored everybody up with delicious-smelling treats. She tried to feed me, but food was the last thing on my mind.

  My stomach turned sour—there was no way I could keep anything down.

  At least I hadn’t said hateful things to Kirill last night.

  The opposite.

  I’d confessed all the horrific ways I’d been used against my will. All the disgusting, sordid things my father not only hadn’t tried to prevent but had forced me into.

  Kirill hadn’t looked at me with pity.

  He’d made me feel powerful.

  He’d finally shown me pleasure I’d never known, and his dominating ways didn’t turn me off.

  The opposite.

  I could still feel him—so hard and long and thick—inside of me.

  And I could still feel his final kiss.

  That last brush of his lips against my forehead before he left hours earlier when he thought I was still sleeping.

  I was just about to get to my feet and start pacing around the nightclub—do anything other than just sitting there while my nerves frayed like rope coming apart at the ends—when they all marched inside.

  Kirill, Arkady, Grigor, and an army of Bratva soldiers.

  Gasping loudly with relief engulfing me, I jumped to my feet.

  I started to run toward Kirill, but he held up a hand, warding me off from across the room.

  His eyes swam all over me, though, concern bringing an even sharper edge to his features.

  Baba hushed me with gentle pats. “There, there, malenkiy. He is good.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that.

  He looked like he’d singlehandedly survived a bloody, violent war.

  A deep gash on his eyebrow crusted over with dried blood. The right side of his face swelled and his eye ringed with purple. He walked stiffly—not his usual prowling gait—to Yury.

  Lifting a blood-soaked duffel, he presented the bag to his papa. “For you.”

  “The Yakuza vultures were behind this, da?”

  “This was their doing, but one of our own fed them information and handed me over to them.” He hefted the duffel higher.

  “You do the honors.” The pakhan’s lips flattened, and unconcealed fury roughened his voice.

  As soon as Kirill entered, the returning soldiers had joined the rest, and they lined up in front of their enforcer in strict formation.

  Everyone in the room stilled, tension falling heavy on all shoulders.

  Kirill stood, stoic and stony-faced, even though he looked like he’d been beaten half to death.

  I knew how that felt though never so bloodily.

  I didn’t look away from him, not even when the full gruesome realization of what he’d brought back in the bag hit me.

  Setting the duffel on a table with a sickening wet squelch, he opened the carrier.

  He reached inside.

  He pulled out . . . a man’s head, showing the decapitated body part to his soldiers.

  I will not look away.

  If he could stand there and demand loyalty after having been through hell, then I could be brave enough to witness his undeniable strength.

  “You all know who this was.” Kirill’s tone held deadly intensity. His dark gaze gleamed with lethal restraint.

  “We gave Luka his position in return for absolute allegiance to the Bratva.” Shaking the head that he thrust out at arm’s length, Kirill looked like he was ready to kill again.

  I knew without doubt the beheaded soldier wasn’t the only man he’d done away with today.

  Not a single soldier flinched.

  Sasha didn’t even make a sound as if this were just another daily occurrence in the middle of The Cat and the Sickle club.

  “You are all dispensable. Let this be a lesson to anyone who would dishonor the Zolotov Bratva.” Kirill unceremoniously dropped the head onto the table with a stomach-turning meaty thud.

  Stalking past the soldiers who parted for him, he paid no attention as they thumped their fists to their chests in a show of allegiance and solidarity.

  I rushed to him then, and awareness shot through me that he wasn’t even dressed in his own clothes. He wasn’t even wearing shoes.

  What had he been through?

  Stopping right in front of him, I softly skimmed my hands up his arms and onto his neck.

  I met his lowered gaze—so stark and powerful, he took my breath away.

  I was just so glad he was okay, but I didn’t want to embarrass him in front of his men.

  Everyone pretended not to watch—except Baba who openly stared at us.

  Finally, I snapped at the rest of them. “Don’t you have anything to do?”

  Arkady crossed his arms over his chest.

  Yury gave me the kind of severe look that might’ve frozen a weaker woman.

  And Maksim grumbled something like, “Something better than watching over you all morning anyway.”

  “Someone can at least take care of that damn head and burn it. Or put it on a stake or whatever you do with such trophies. Unless that’s a new nightclub centerpiece.” I gave my own orders to the malingerers.

  Kirill cleared his throat.

  I couldn’t tell if he wanted to spank me or kiss me.

  Then he darted a look across the room, and everyone sprang into action.

  “I’m taking him upstairs now,” I announced in a reversal of how things had played out last night.

  Maksim raised his eyebrows.

  I tugged Kirill’s arm over my shoulder.

  He gave in reluctantly then stumbled for half a second, and Arkady tried to step in.

  I hissed, “I’ve got him!”

  “You’re going to carry him upstairs.” His flat intonation infuriated me even more, because I was frazzled, relieved . . . all things at once.

  “He does not need to be carried.” I glared at the oldest Krasnov brother while Kirill said not a word. “But he does need to be cleaned up, and I can certainly take care of that better than you can.”

  I didn’t even care that a woman putting her foot down didn’t fly in their world.

  I just cared about tending to Kirill.

  Cheeks sucked in, Arkady barely bent his head in assent.

  Sasha crowed, “Go sister.”

  Tugging me closer to his side, Kirill said, “Joanna and I will be fine.”

  And I knew, at least for the moment, I’d gotten away with my bossiness.

  Boris tagged along, as eager to be with his master as I was, and I sighed in relief before trudging toward the private corridor. Once we passed through the doors and out of sight, I pushed Kirill against the wall and sagged against him.

  “You’re not going to carry me then?” His voice came muffled at the top of my head.

  I ran my arms around his middle. “You’re not funny, you know?”

  He chuckled from deep in his chest, hugging me closer.

  After a few moments steeped in singular solace, he shoved away from the wall.

  He held me up, all the way to the apartment with the dog remaining as close as possible.

  He leaned against the sofa where just last night I’d ridden him to my shuddering completion.

  Kirill pulled me to him, drawing me into his arms again. “You should know, your brothers were there today too.”

  I coiled back. “They were working for the Yakuza?”

  “No.” One of his long fingers came up to trail down my cheek. “They came to fight the Yakuza because Arkady asked them to.”

  Another wave of relief soared through me. “They did?”

  He nodded.

  After the crushing anxiety of the past hours, I leaned into him, and tears overflowed.

  I glanced up. “They’re okay too?”

  He nodded again, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “I was most worried about you. That this had something to do with your father, Jo, and I couldn’t protect you.”

  “I was so scared for you,” I admitted, cl
utching his unfamiliar shirt in my fingers.

  “Don’t ever be scared for me. Just promise not to risk yourself.” His husky voice thickened.

  “What does this mean?” Blinking back lingering teardrops, I tried not to sniffle.

  Everything I’d never expected was happening with him, and I couldn’t . . .

  There was no way to explain it.

  Us.

  I trembled against him, hurting every time I glanced at his handsome so-bruised face.

  “It means we’re both safe.” Cupping both sides of my face, he gently wiped tears away. “And I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  A sob broke through.

  I’d meant to be strong for him.

  Instead I folded myself against him, cradled in the harbor of his arms.

  After a while, I pulled myself up.

  I took a step away.

  I looked him over from his marred face to the large logoed T-shirt to the too-tight, too-short sweatpants and his bare feet. “What happened to your clothes?”

  “Between getting drugged and waking up, I’m not quite sure.”

  Drugged unconscious.

  Of course, like they’d mentioned downstairs earlier.

  I doubted anyone could take Kirill down without a lot of extra help.

  “And what are you wearing now?” I wrinkled my nose, injecting some small bit of humor into my question.

  He plucked at the shirt. “Castoffs. Disgusting.”

  We laughed tiredly, and he captured one of my hands loosely between us.

  Then I spied the strap across his shoulder, and I tugged on the leather band. “And what is this?”

  Straightening up, Kirill, lifted the item off.

  He presented an intricately designed scabbard.

  “Better trophy than the one downstairs.” With a rasp of metal, he pulled out a honed katana steel sword.

  I almost drooled. A real samurai sword.

  I reached out instinctively. “Can I have it?”

  “Nyet.” Kirill sheathed the katana blade of gods.

  “It won’t fit in your safe, you know.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t press your luck, malyshka.”

  He moved off, taking the sword with him. Reaching high above the fireplace, he set the thing of beauty on a conveniently placed pair of hooks way out of my reach.

  I scowled.

  Returning to me, he gave a smug grin, and I couldn’t even be angry.

  I placed my hands on his lean hips, searching his bruised face again. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

  “Thirsty.”

  I began to step away, but he stopped me.

  “What?” Peering at him, I couldn’t decipher his grave expression.

  “I just want to look at you right now.”

  His warm low whisper made my heart skip.

  “I just want to look at you too.” My voice emerged, instantly breathy.

  Kirill again cupped both sides of my face, strong fingers caressing along my temples.

  Seconds passed.

  Time stilled.

  We didn’t move until that heated undercurrent sparked to life between us.

  Kirill’s gaze dropped from my eyes to my lips.

  My hands began roaming up his front.

  Then he winced.

  I drew back. “You idiot. How long were you gonna stand here, in pain? Until you collapsed?”

  “I am not about to collapse, Jo.”

  “Whatever. I need to get you cleaned up.”

  “I’m still thirsty,” he said with a teasing note.

  I couldn’t believe this guy.

  Any other man probably would’ve been bellowing in pain like a wounded buffalo. Instead, Kirill flirted and teased and still looked sexy as hell.

  “Water?” I asked.

  “Vodka.”

  In the kitchen, I poured him a triple shot.

  I also gave myself a healthy portion of whiskey.

  “Drink.” I clinked my glass with his, watching over the rim of my tumbler as he poured the alcohol down his throat then backhanded his mouth.

  “Now I’m gonna tend to you.” I tried to tug him by the hand.

  At least three times as big as me and immovable as a block of stone, I couldn’t budge him.

  I glanced back.

  He winked.

  Russian idiot.

  “Kirill, if you pass out on the floor there’s no damn way I’ll ever be able to move you. I just want to get you into the bathroom so I can look you over properly.”

  “You want to look me over, do you?”

  “Did your head get hit or something?” Exasperation leaked through my voice.

  “Probably. And the tranqs.”

  Great.

  He finally came along, letting me lead that time.

  In the bathroom, I peeled off all his secondhand clothes. He watched my every move, lips twitching with a hint of humor the whole time.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  He was starting to get hard. In his state!

  For once, I ignored the large, mouthwatering cock stiffening from his groin.

  “You can burn those.” Motioning toward the discarded clothes, he leaned against the long sink counter.

  “Like you did with my things?” I pursed my lips, thoroughly inspecting him everywhere except the big bold rod of flesh capped by a plump head.

  Besides the cut across his brow and the purpling bruise on his cheek, I couldn’t miss the huge reddish bloom across his ribs where he must’ve been struck hard enough to crack bones.

  “I bought you new things though,” he murmured, his deep timbre becoming husky.

  “Hush,” I ordered.

  Tenderly running my fingers over his ribs, I watched his face.

  His jaw clenched. He refused to flinch.

  Tough guy.

  “Does it hurt when you laugh or cough?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Make me laugh.” Despite the hurt that had been put on him, he smirked.

  I rolled my eyes.

  Unbelievable.

  “What did they do to you?” Gently pulsing my fingers over his ribcage again, I felt for anything fractured.

  I was no expert, but I’d been there once or twice myself.

  “I’ve survived worse.” He stood up straight, drawing back his shoulders.

  “How many were there?” Another jolt of fear lanced through me.

  His life had to be in danger almost every day, and he didn’t even seem to take that into consideration.

  “Are you trying to figure out what size force you’d need to take me out?”

  Tipping up into him with my hands resting on his chest, I rubbed my nose against his whiskery jaw. Then I kissed him, my halting breaths warm against his firm lips.

  “Nyet.” I placed another kiss against his throat.

  Kirill snorted.

  “Is it over with the Yakuza now?”

  “Da.” He threaded fingers through my loose hair. “That particular gang is over. Dead. Gone.”

  “Good.” I chewed on my lip. “Lean down so I can get at you.”

  A half smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “I’m pretty sure if you lean down, you can get to where I want you most.”

  “Impossible man.”

  His throaty chuckle shouldn’t possibly make my knees weak, my breasts swell, my sex slicken, but it did.

  Putting starch into my spine and shrillness into my voice, I pointed a finger at him. “Sit down right now, or I’ll get Baba up here to take care of you.”

  “Women.” He sank down onto the counter, his countenance in full glower.

  I located alcohol swabs, bandages, antibiotics . . . an entire med kit complete with sutures and needles. “Do you stitch yourself up much?”

  He grumbled some more.

  I cleaned off the blood dried halfway across his brow and placed a butterfly strip across the diagonal cut.

  Kirill sent me a glare.

  I prodded his tender ribs
once more, swabbed the rest of his face, made sure he hadn’t gotten his eye socket or cheekbone bashed in.

  He groused the entire time, never once looking like he was anything less than alert or admitting he might be running on empty.

  “You’re a terrible patient.” I slapped a hand against his unbruised ribs, and he snarled at me.

  “Do that one more time, and I’ll have you over my knee again.”

  Ignoring him, I tossed bloody swabs into the trashcan. Then I wriggled out of my clothes and turned on the shower.

  He definitely perked up at that point. “Is this another way of tending to me?”

  Opening the shower door wider, I gestured him up. “Get in.”

  He stepped under the spray that instantly washed more dirt and diluted blood down the drain.

  His tanned skin gleamed, muscles strong and dripping with tension.

  Joining him, I pulled in a deep breath when water from the three showerheads coursed over my body.

  “Ahh.” I threw my head back.

  Suddenly his strong hands were there, working through the tangles of my uncontrollable hair.

  His position brought his front against mine. His cock against my belly. His muscled thigh in between one of mine.

  Breath left me altogether.

  He shampooed me. Rinsed me. Slathered on conditioner he massaged all through my wild tresses.

  The whole time, Kirill’s body caged me between him and the shower wall.

  I could only hang onto him, lifting glazed eyes. “I was supposed to be taking care of you.”

  His sizzling kiss skimmed my lips. “You will, more, later.”

  Forcing him back in the huge stall, I watched a glimmer of a grin slide across his lips. The grin only faltered when I slathered more soap across my breasts.

  His eyes followed every single motion of my hands—pinching my nipples, dropping to my stomach, rising up my inner thighs.

  Moving against him, I rubbed all over his body.

  Soap foamed.

  Hands roved.

  We crushed and crashed together, and I dropped my palms to the flexed crescents of his ass.

  He captured the nape of my neck in his hand, guiding my mouth to his.

  Wetness.

  Heat.

  Blind to everything else as the shower thundered rain down upon us.

  “Out,” he ordered huskily against my lips.

  My feet obeyed.

  My heart knocked.

  I had not known anything like this. Any man like this.

  Kirill moved out behind me, snagging a big fluffy towel. After pivoting me around, he started drying me off. The towel swept all the way down my hair before he drew it to my front. His eyes remained locked on mine, and he gently brushed the cloth from my neck to the very tips of my breasts.