The King: Bratva Blood: (A dark mafia romance)

by SR Jones

  THE KING

  Bratva Blood Duet Part One

  by SR Jones

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  MORE BOOKS BY SR JONES

  Copyright ©2020 The Scandal by SR Jones

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or used without the written permission of the publisher.

  All events depicted are fictional, and any resemblance to places and persons is coincidental.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks go to my amazing editor, Silla Webb, and early betas Tami Lund, Jessica Fraser, and Ana Rita Clemente

  Big, big thanks to Silla for organizing me!

  Also thanks to the Addicted to Alphas girls! You ladies are the best!

  Thanks to Obeithion Design for the absolutely gorgeous cover!

  This book is for Isabella Starling for sprinting with me and also helping me solve an intractable plot point!!!! You rock, lady.

  PART ONE

  Come not between a dragon and his wrath.

  William Shakespeare

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cassie

  Pain. Pain and nausea. I daren’t even open my eyes. Am I sick? My throat hurts, dry as the dessert, and my eyelids are heavy.

  Shit, maybe I’ve caught the flu?

  Everything is groggy.

  My eyes blink open, and I slam them shut at the unwelcome intrusion of light. I’m going to be late for work at the coffee shop.

  Then my mind catches up with reality, and I remember I now work for Bridge Tech in my dream job. Except my stupid fiancé, ex fiancé, has ruined it for me. I now must go to work every day and see his disgusting face, and I hate him so much it burns.

  God, where am I? I move and nausea hits me. Oh, Lord, did I get drunk?

  I try to remember last night.

  I sit up and stare at the opulence of the room I’m in. Huge bed, with me in the center of it like some lost child. There’s heavy, expensive furniture everywhere. Am I in a hotel?

  Clubbing… I went clubbing.

  It all comes rushing back. I’d been clubbing, drank far too much, and pulled a total hottie.

  Then more of my memory comes back. Ugh, the total hottie had been terrible in bed. Truly awful, he’d humped away on top of me, no rhythm at all, and then collapsed on me after he came, and I didn’t.

  I glance around me. Where is the hottie now?

  I never have one-night stands, and this is why. I imagined they’d be awful, and the reality was even worse. Shitty sex, even shittier morning after.

  I need to get out of here. I check my watch. Nine in the morning, on a Sunday. I should be able to get a train, but I have no idea how far we are from the station. I remember arriving here. The hottie brought me to this house with his friend, a quiet, pissed-off guy who was supposedly celebrating his stag night, but seemed about to go the gallows. From what I remember, this is the friend’s house, not the hottie’s house. Shit, how awkward.

  The outside of the house struck me even in my drunken stupor last night. This place is like some sort of modern stately home, a grand design in the middle of nowhere. Humpmeister must have rich friends.

  At the grand old age of twenty-four, I’ve pulled my first toy boy. In fact, I’ve just had my first one-night stand, and it has been disappointing to say the least. Probably a mutual agreement on that score, because Humpmeister has gone. The epic shit.

  It’s a pity that my first walk on the wild side and first ever one-night stand proved as disappointing as I feared. For a moment I let myself indulge in a fantasy of how different it might have been if only my one-night stand had been with the man of my dreams.

  The sexy Russian who used to frequent the coffee shop I worked at before finding my IT job. He was gorgeous. He used to come in regularly and then one day he just … stopped. It was a sad day because I really missed his visits. Even after I left the coffee shop and started working in an office, I would find myself thinking of him often.

  And here I go again, pining for a man I never really knew, but built up to some fantasy in my head. I yawn and sigh. Time to get moving.

  I slide out of bed, taking care to be quiet. I don’t want to wake anyone else in this house. I need to get out of here, and the friend of Humpmeister who lives here won’t want to be bothered with me.

  Hardly daring to breathe, I pull my clothes on. Shorter than short skirt, strappy glittery top, and high heels. All crumpled, of course. Then I head to the bathroom and take a pee. I try not to grimace at the state of my face and use the towel on the rack to wipe some of the worst of the black from under my eyes. I spy some toothpaste in the glass holder on the side and rub it around my mouth with my pointer finger, rinse and spit.

  I don’t normally wear makeup or, at least, not much more than a touch of mascara and a swipe of lip balm. I don’t normally go clubbing, and I hardly ever get drunk.

  Wetting my hands and tapping my face, I blow out a deep breath and try to get myself together.

  Feeling slightly more human, I tiptoe downstairs, attempting to avoid waking up the friend, the kid who probably owns this mansion. Or, at least, his parents do. I can’t see how the kid could have afforded this.

  Unless he’s a tech whizz or some such. But then I’m a tech whizz, aren’t I? And I’m not rich. I creep down the last few stairs. I suppose I could be. If I wanted to, I could go to the dark side and work as a hacker, but I’m too much of a goody two-shoes. Too scared. Hell, this is only my third time being drunk, the second man in my entire life that I’ve slept with, and I’ve never taken drugs. I don’t even drink all that much caffeine. I’m pathetic.

  I hit the downstairs hallway and look around, spotting an open door into what looks like the kitchen. I slide into the room and fish my phone out of my bag. I open my phone and click on my cab ordering app, then as it loads, I balance the phone between the crook of my neck and use my free hand to open the fridge.

  Checking the app, I sigh; it’s not working. No WIFI, and no cell service. Shit, the sticks sucks.

  I need a drink. A non-alcoholic drink. I rarely drink alcohol because I’m a boring wuss, but also it makes me feel shocking. Always has.

  Staring in the fridge, I smile.

  Heaven. A large carton of orange juice, with the bits in it too, sits temptingly in the doorway.

  I could go searching the house for the internet box and try to connect my phone to the WIFI, but I doubt there’s much of a cab service around here anyway. I’d be better off wandering down the lane and seeing if there’s a bus stop somewhere nearby. We’d driven through a tiny village to get here, I recall, so surely there will be a bus stop there? Then I can get to the nearest train station and get home to my tiny studio flat in Camden.

  I grab the juice and open a few cupboards looking for glasses, but find none in the first three, I look in and, shrug, impatient now. Feeling guilty but needing the juice so much it overrides my propriety, I unscrew the top and swig from the carton.

  As I drink, I turn to look out the
window. Nice! Large landscaped gardens surround the house and seem to stretch for miles. What an awesome place to live. So much space.

  “Do you always drink from the carton in a stranger’s house?” The deep voice washes over me. Sexy, rough, accented, and horribly familiar.

  I freeze mid gulp, and then cough and splutter.

  I daren’t turn around.

  It can’t be.

  This must be a nightmare because I know this voice, and yet this voice doesn’t belong here. Surely to God, not here, in this McMansion in a sleepy Surrey village.

  This voice belongs to the man who haunts my erotic nighttime adventures. The man I was only thinking about moments ago in bed. The man who calls to the alter ego in me, the girl who dreams of becoming the hacker she has the talent to be, of traveling the world, of being with dangerous men.

  This voice belongs to the man I haven’t seen for a long time. My Russian fantasy.

  Konstantin.

  Surely, it can’t be. Still, it must be. I’d recognize those harsh consonants anywhere. His Russian accent never failed to turn me on when I served him all those months ago, in that cozy little coffee shop where I lived my best life. It might not have been a dream job on paper, and the pay was crappy, but I loved Rigatto’s. It had such a great atmosphere.

  I tell myself, still not daring to move, that this can’t be the same man. Can’t be the Russian businessman I had the biggest crush on. That would be such a freaky coincidence.

  I must look a total state, last night’s makeup smudged all over my face. My hair is a mess. My clothes are crumpled. Still, I can’t spend the rest of my life staring out of this window at the garden outside, while I pray the man standing behind me isn’t my man-crush. Slowly, holding my breath, I turn.

  In the doorway stands the most delectable man I’ve ever seen.

  Yep, it’s him alright.

  Fuck my life.

  I’ve fantasized about seeing him again so many times, and not one of those fantasies involved me looking this shitty.

  London has a lot of hot men in it, but this one, Konstantin, beats them all.

  He’s over six foot and big, and he fills the doorway. He’s wearing a dark gray tailored suit, and it fits his body to sinful perfection. He always wears suits like this. Sexy, tempting suits. Or they are to me at least. He’s like a walking, talking, masculine porn show.

  His powerful biceps fill out his suit jacket where it hugs his arms, as if he could flex and rip out of the constraints of mere material, like the Hulk or something.

  The man always looks to me as if someone has taken one of the world’s top MMA fighters and put him in a sharp suit and told him to be smart for the day. Except, he’s always looked so damn comfortable and at home in that suit; he obviously wears one regularly.

  Thick dark hair, and deep blue-gray eyes are the cherry on his hotness cake. Although, this morning, his face is harsher than usual, and his eyes are grayer as if his bad mood has leached the color from them.

  I stare at him, heart pounding, and he stares back, his eyes widening as he looks at my face.

  “Cassie?” The word is a growl. “What the fuck?”

  I swallow past the lump in my throat and put the carton on the counter. “Sorry,” I mumble. “I was really thirsty, and I didn’t know where your glasses were.”

  What? That’s what I’m going with here?

  “What are the fucking odds?” he says, and his words make no sense. “The universe really isn’t being kind to you, little miss sunshine.”

  “Sorry?” I say stupidly.

  He doesn’t elaborate, but instead his eyes focus on the carton. “Were you going to put my juice back in the fridge after you drank from the carton?” He raises one eyebrow, his scowl deepening.

  “No, of course not.”

  “So you were going to throw it away?”

  “No, yes, I… Jesus, it’s just juice.”

  Why does he fluster me so?

  He pushes away from the wall and prowls into the room, near enough for me to get a whiff of his delicious scent. Not fresh and citrusy like the aftershave Humpmeister had worn, but sensual and spicy. God, what was the name of the boy I came back here with?

  Konstantin must be the father of the boy about to get married, and the owner of this amazing house. Although, I’m shocked he’s old enough to have a son of the age to be married. I mean, I always knew he was a lot older than me, but not this old.

  He clears up the confusion with his next words. “I presume you’re here with my son?” he asks.

  So he is the father of moody stag-do kid, and Humpmeister has dropped me right in it.

  I nod. Shit. How mortifying this whole situation is. I can hardly say I came with some other random kid, can I? I’ll look like a total slut. “Yes, we’re, erm friends.”

  “Cut the crap. You’re dressed like a stripper, with half of last night’s makeup still all over your face. I don’t think you and Michael were having a sleepover and watching movies.”

  Michael, of course, the name of his son comes back to me. “I, erm, well, we know each other, and…”

  “So?” He brushes past me and reaches into a cupboard, taking out two cups. My heart thuds with his closeness. “If you know him, then you know he’s getting married.”

  “Yes.” My stomach flips at his proximity, and I lie on autopilot, not really thinking about what I’m saying. Too shocked by his presence to think. I mean, what are the odds? My brain is unable to process his actual words.

  He always did a number on me when he visited the coffee shop, but here, in his territory, he’s so much more.

  “I need to leave,” I mumble, gathering my things.

  “How? Have you got a taxi coming?”

  “No, there’s no service on my phone, and it doesn’t look like the sort of place to have a big taxi service anyhow. We came through a village last night; I was going to walk in and get the bus.”

  He barks out a cold laugh, and my legs go all floppy because his smile is gorgeous even when it is tinged with disdain.

  Light laugh lines run down from his eyes, and he has more sexy lines around his mouth.

  I vaguely recall that Michael had been quite nice looking, but in a preppy, non-threatening way. This man is the polar opposite. Michael must take after his mother. Speaking of which, I don’t want to hang around until she gets up and joins in this roasting.

  I don’t want to see the gorgeous creature Konstantin is married to either.

  He never told me he was married during any of our talks, which we had quite regularly when I was seemingly his favorite barista. In fact, he gave the distinct impression he was single. Lying rat.

  I should’ve known he was married despite not wearing a ring. A man like this, so much power in him, so much damn charisma, he doesn’t stay on the market.

  It sucks.

  He’s been mine for the longest time. My secret, my dark little walk on the wild side. At night, when my cheating asshole fiancé was with his other woman, but I thought he was out with friends, I used to take my trusty vibrator in hand and imagine Konstantin doing all the things to me I’d never dare try in real life.

  Yeah, time to leave. I can’t bear to meet his wife looking like this.

  I start to walk toward the door, but Konstantin takes hold of my upper arm. His grip isn’t tight, but it is commanding.

  “You can’t walk to the village; at least, I doubt you can. Not in those shoes. It’s a good thirty-minute walk and muddy in places. No pavements a lot of the way.”

  “Oh.” I want the ground to open up and swallow me.

  My whole life I’ve never met a man I’ve been so intensely attracted to from the get-go. I swear if I’d been the sort of girl who gave in to her animalistic side, I’d beg him to take me here and now on his shiny kitchen counter top. I’m not, though. I’m the girl who crushed on him forever, used to giggle when I took his coffee orders like a stupid kid, and now is standing here, a bedraggled mess in his showroom kit
chen.

  “You look older dressed like this.” He sounds disapproving almost.

  While talking, he’s flipped the switch on a fancy coffee machine and now it’s making a hissing noise. He turns away from me to carry out the alchemy that turns mere water and coffee grounds into a beverage straight from heaven. Or it is for most folks. I prefer tea.

  He fills one cup and holds it out to me. “I know you don’t drink much coffee, but you like it in the morning, right?”

  Wow, he remembers.

  I thought I was the only one who remembered our conversations from all those months ago when he was a regular in the café. I hoarded the little snippets of information I gained about him like treasures. I swear, if they could be put in a box and kept safe, I would have.

  He remembers too. Then again, he strikes me as the sort of man who remembers a lot, who takes in the world around him, analyzes it, and stores facts. I tell myself not to take it personally and see it as anything more than him being observant. With a smile, I reach out for the coffee.

  “Milk?” he offers?

  I shake my head. I often drink coffee with milk if I have a second, but my first of the day? Always black.

  “Listen, Cassie, or should I call you jailbait these days, if this is how you dress now?” He smirks, one-sided, cold, but still as sexy as hell. “You’re going to be in for a long wait for a cab, there’s no buses from the village on Sunday, even if you could get there in your stripper shoes, and the trains are irregular at best. Where do you live?”

  “Camden, near the center of town, close to the coffee shop, but it’s miles away.”

  “I’m heading into town, got to work. I’ll drop you off.”

  I love how he calls London town too, like me. It makes me smile. One of the biggest cities in the world, a busy, noisy, chaotic mess, and we call it town. Another little thing we have in common, like our love of dogs, and interest in great Russian literature.

  He downs his coffee, and I watch his throat work in fascination.

  “Come on, jailbait. I’ll give you a lift.”

  I frown at him. “Which is it? One minute you’re telling me I’m dressed like a stripper and look older, but the next, you’re telling me I’m jailbait. It’s a contradiction.”