by Bella Rose
I couldn’t help but laugh. Boris had never beat us. We’d been too damn scared of him to give him any reason to. I strode into Boris’s office with Antonin at my shoulder and felt a sense of pride. I could remember being a boy and sitting in the corner of the office to watch Boris talk to the Vory about their tasks. I’d never wanted anything else. Now I was the one coming for my orders. Surely this was the meaning of success.
“Pekhan,” I murmured as I accepted his bear hug. “What is it you wished of me?”
“Sit, sit,” he urged as he waved at a chair.
It felt a little strange to sit while Antonin stood at the door behind me. We had been equals in my mind, and yet we were not. Not really. I was a blooded assassin within the organization. I was sent all over the world to take care of whatever Boris determined to be a “problem.” Antonin’s place was here at home as one of Boris’s trusted Avtoritet. As a captain, he commanded his own soldiers to enforce Boris’s will all over the city.
Boris sat back in his chair and pressed his fingertips together. He looked almost pensive. “You know my daughter, yes?”
“I know of her, yes.” I hadn’t seen Anya since she was quite young. Boris kept her away from the men.
“She is a headstrong woman.” Boris sounded annoyed, and I had to hide a smile. But he wasn’t done venting his frustration with his offspring. “If only she would have been born a boy, this independent streak would have been a good thing! As it stands, in a woman such things are annoying as hell.”
“Send her away to school, then,” I suggested with a dismissive shrug. I failed to see how Anya’s behavior was my problem.
“I could,” he agreed. The cadence of his speech was the first thing to tip me off.
I shook my head, feeling more than a little emphatic. “I’m not a babysitter!”
“She’s not a baby,” he argued. “She’s a grown woman who just needs someone to look after her. There have been threats, and she’s too stubborn to stay home and do something feminine like sew.”
“Sew.” I couldn’t quite keep the incredulity out of my voice. “Did you actually suggest that to her?”
“Yes.” He shrugged. “It seemed reasonable.”
I was laughing now. “I suppose she flew into a tantrum?”
“Something like that.”
“Women these days don’t like to be told they can’t take care of themselves,” I tried to explain. “Perhaps you could have phrased it differently to protect her pride?”
“That’s your problem now,” Boris said with obvious glee. “You’re her protector.”
I cursed in a low voice, applying every Russian epithet I could imagine to the situation. Boris was only laughing. And now behind me I could also hear Antonin chuckling as well.
“But,” Boris continued, “you cannot let her know that I’ve assigned you to be her personal guard. You must find a way to do your job without compromising my involvement.”
I felt my mouth drop open. “This is insane.”
“Perhaps.” Boris shrugged. “But you will find a way.”
Chapter Two
Anya
I love the library. I love the smell, the sounds, and the way it is possible to lose myself in a book until nothing of the real world is left at all. Sometimes I think that’s why I bought my little house. It’s only three blocks from my front door to the city library.
Usually it is research that brings me to the old stone building with the beautiful old-world facade. Tonight I finished my research for this week’s history lesson very quickly. I was on my way out when I happened upon a display at the front of the library. The label read NEW FICTION, but it was the cover that got me.
The instant sensation was dark but also delicious. I could not resist picking up the book. The jagged font of the title complemented the shadowy image of a man on the front. The title was In Command. In command of what? I could not help but wonder. A quick perusal of the dust jacket told me that it was an erotic thriller.
I glanced around, wondering who had seen me looking at this naughty piece of fiction. There was nobody else in the library. I could not resist. I took the book to a tiny reading area not far from the library’s entrance and settled into an old leather chair. I opened the book somewhere in the middle and began reading. Within minutes I felt an achy wetness settle between my legs. I looked up from my reading and glanced around again, wondering who was bearing witness to my guilty pleasure.
He ordered her to disrobe. She obeyed instantly, knowing that he would give her exactly what she needed. She held out her hands, and he wrapped the silken rope securely about her wrists. As he lifted her bound arms and fully exposed her body, she quivered in anticipation…
Ordering. Obeying. It wasn’t like I was totally naive. I knew there were men out there who took the alpha thing to a whole new level. I’d just never met any that weren’t complete assholes. I had enough guys ordering me around in my life; I didn’t need another one trying to do it in the bedroom.
Except…
I read a few more paragraphs and found myself almost gasping for air as I tried to stifle my whimpering. I obviously needed to get laid. There was no doubt in my mind about that. It had been a while. In fact, I couldn’t really remember the last time I’d had sex. That could have been because it wasn’t that memorable, though, not necessarily because it had been years or anything.
The guys I dated were all fellow middle school teachers or friends of friends. They were nice men. They were just—I’ll call them lukewarm. I’d certainly never met a man like the guy between the pages of the book in my lap. He was hot and alpha, and he never took no for an answer. It was almost like he took complete possession of a woman. She wasn’t just an accessory. She was the sole focus of his thoughts and actions. It was sort of titillating to imagine. What would it be like to be willingly powerless in the arms of a man who wanted nothing more than to bring you the most unimaginable pleasure?
My nipples were hard. Sitting there in the library, my breasts were positively aching with the need for pressure or something. I squirmed in my seat. My pussy was swollen and wet with juices that soaked the insides of my thighs. It was so tempting to slide my hand up under my long skirt and fondle myself. I could come that way. In fact, I had a feeling that I would come quickly. I was so turned-on right now that only the barest touch of my fingertips across the hood of my clitoris would have me gasping with an orgasm.
I practically jumped out of my seat. I needed to go home. Right now. I would go home and I would close my bedroom door and turn out the lights. Then I would think about what I had read and touch myself until I didn’t feel so hot and achy anymore.
I put the book back on the shelf. I didn’t want to read it. Not now. I had already decided what the solution to my problem was. There was nothing else needed. I slung my bag over my shoulder and pushed my way out of the library as though I were running from a burning building. I was in such a hurry to get home that I barely registered anything about my surroundings. In fact, I did not notice that there was someone following me until I turned the corner less than a block from my little house.
My first instinct was to hurry home. Except I didn’t want someone following me there and knowing where I lived. My brain was spinning. What should I do? There was a police station two blocks south of here. Should I go there? And tell them what? That I was the daughter of a Russian mafiya boss who had claimed less than forty-eight hours ago that his mafiya rival was going to try and use me against him? It sounded preposterous no matter how I spun it.
I stopped walking and turned around. Maybe I just needed to be firm. Maybe it wasn’t mafiya at all. There were plenty of obnoxious kids in this neighborhood. Perhaps it was just one of them pestering me. I could tell the little buggers off and then go about my business.
I glared at the two men on my tail. They were perhaps twenty yards behind me and dressed in long trench coats. This did not look promising for me, but it was too late to change my mind now. “Why are y
ou following me?” I demanded in a voice I hoped sounded more confident than wary.
Vasily
Stalking targets was nothing new to me. I did surveillance all the time. I learned everything I could about the habits of my target. It was the best way to discover their weakness. It helped me uncover the moment when they would be most vulnerable. I exploited that weakness, and it became their cause of death—so to speak.
Following around a target with an eye toward making an attempt at inserting myself into her life was completely foreign to me. So far I had been following Anya since the night she left her father’s house almost two days ago. I had discovered that she was a total creature of habit, something that made her an easy mark. It hadn’t taken me long to discover that Anya was already being followed by at least two other groups. One was quite obviously the Orlovs. They were sloppy, but Anya was too oblivious to notice. The other was an entity I could not quite identify.
I sat on my bike and watched Anya exit the library. She looked strangely in a hurry. Her face appeared flushed in the bright light of the library building. Then she quickly bounced down the steps and lit out for home as though she were a woman on a mission. I wondered what had gotten her so obviously worked up, but there was no time to ponder that. Two Orlov soldiers closed in on Anya’s position and began moving in fast. If I had been hoping for an opportunity to weasel my way into her life, I had just been presented with a very timely moment in which to do so.
Then Anya whirled around to face her stalkers. I realized that she had actually known they were behind her. That was more than I had expected from the girl. I had to give her a grudging moment of respect for that.
“Why are you following me?” Anya demanded.
Her tone was steady. I admired that too. Her body language was firm. Yet I could see the fear in every line of her body. I threw my leg over my bike and left it in a shadowy alley. Emerging slowly, I let things play out as they would. The two men stared at each other briefly, before getting even closer to Anya.
“Hello, Anya,” the taller one said.
I recognized him from the Orlov crew. His name was Pyotr. He was quite a bastard on the streets and known for his rough treatment of women. The Pekhan of the Orlovs had certainly chosen his candidates well.
“How do you know my name?” Anya pulled her satchel even closer to her body. She looked as though she might be thinking of fleeing. That would have been the equivalent of a deer running from a couple of wolves.
“It’s too bad your father left you unprotected,” Pyotr mused. He took a few steps closer. Any second now he was going to lunge. I could see it in the way he moved. “It makes you such an easy target to take.”
Anya curled her lip. She was reaching into her bag. “I’m not a fucking target!”
Pyotr lunged and Anya screamed as she unloaded an entire can of mace right into the man’s nose. Pyotr roared in pain and anger, backing off. Unfortunately, that left his shorter compatriot with an opening. The man reached for Anya, a knife in his hand. My fight instinct kicked in, but I reined it in and waited. Nothing in the man’s body language suggested he wanted to kill Anya. A few cuts might actually shake up her mind-numbingly boring existence, and it would give me a chance to see what the woman was made of.
So I waited in the shadows to see what would happen.
“Such a pretty little thing,” the short man muttered. “You think you’re so much better than the rest of us, but I bet you bleed red just like I do.”
“I-I don’t!” Anya protested.
But her attacker didn’t really care what she had to say. He grabbed Anya and pulled her flush against his chest. I felt my hand twitch. I wanted to hold her that way. But that could wait. The man put his knife against the creamy top of her breast just visible above her neckline. I saw the flesh bulge slightly below the blade. The metal gleamed in the glow of the streetlamp overhead. Blood welled to the surface and beaded against her breast. My protective instincts rose to the surface and overwhelmed everything else.
I braced my foot on the pavement and sprinted toward Anya as hard as I could. I felt my body crash into the bastard holding the knife to her throat. I staggered a bit, but he went down in shock. Beside him Pyotr was still whining and whimpering as he crouched on his knees and rubbed at his face like a wild animal in a trap.
“Back off,” I snarled.
One thing about working in the shadows, nobody knows who I am. Nobody knows to fear me more than the others. I am the one who stalks the night with death in my hands. So when this asshole came at me, I was ready. With a set of brass knuckles in one hand and a knife in the other, I knew I would come out the winner.
Chapter Three
Anya
My heart was beating so fast I thought it might come right out of my chest. Dread left me feeling ice-cold. The cut on my breast burned. I glanced down and saw the blood dripping down toward the neckline of my shirt. The man could have cut me deeper. He could still do it. At any moment my spontaneous rescuer might fall to these two Orlov thugs, and then I would be at their mercy. They could make me kneel right here on the street and slit my throat. Hot blood would rush out of the wound and soak my front. My life would drain onto the pavement, and I would be able to do nothing to stop it.
Fear wound icy tendrils around my soul and squeezed tight. My breathing grew shallow. Sweat beaded on my upper lip, and I felt almost light-headed as I froze in place. I should run. I should flee this horror scene and hide in my house. But that would lead them right to me. They would know where I live. They would know how to find me in my bed. I would never be safe again.
Then a grunt brought me forcefully back to the moment at hand. I wasn’t dead. Not yet. This total stranger was fighting off my attackers. But why? What if he only wanted something else? What if I was trading my moment under the knife for being raped in the street?
I watched the men grapple like wild dogs. My protector batted away the first attack, spinning with such agility that he could have been a dancer. I saw a flash of something shiny on his right hand. Brass knuckles. He used them to come up underneath my attacker. There was a grunt, and I felt my own ribs tingle in sympathy as my protector began brutally punching my attacker.
The fight was short and absolutely lethal. This stranger gave no quarter and asked for none. He punched hard and when his opponent slashed at his arm, he did not flinch when the knife cut through his dark jacket and the layer of cloth beneath. The sound of ripping fabric made me cower backward. What if this unexpected protector went down? What if I was alone out here with two crazed lunatics? I should be running, and yet I was riveted to the spot as though my feet had been pinned to the ground.
The second attacker hit the ground. My protector went down on one knee and continued the beating. My mouth popped open in horror. It would not stop! There was a noise in the street. I was shocked to realize that I was making the sound. I was screaming. Screaming for this man to stop.
“Stop!” I shouted. “Just stop! He’s done! Can’t you see he can’t fight anymore?”
Then the stranger stood up. He wasn’t even winded. I caught a glimpse of him in the glow of a streetlamp. His hair was cut so short I could not tell the color. His eyes were black pits of hell, and he was smiling. Yet his face—it was the visage of an angel. His features were so handsome that I could not describe them.
That was when I knew. This man was an archangel sent to protect me in my darkest hours. I felt so odd. My fingers and toes were tingling. I watched the stranger step a bit closer to me. He held out one hand. The knife and the brass knuckles were gone. How odd. I hadn’t seen him put them away.
“It’s going to be all right,” he said. “My name is Vasily. I won’t let them hurt you.”
Vasily
She was going into shock. At least that was my first observation. I tried to be as nonthreatening as possible when I gently took her hand and started leading her away. I headed toward her house automatically, then realized that I wasn’t supposed to know
where she lived.
“Can I take you someplace?” I murmured near her ear. The scent of her was mesmerizing. Sweet and feminine, it tickled my senses and made me almost drunk with her essence. “Where were you going when you were attacked?”
“I live just there.” She gestured weakly, her hand barely lifting from her side. “Number twenty-two.”
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
She tried to look behind her at the men on the street. “I don’t want them to know where I live.”
I appreciated her spunk. She was actually going to argue with me when she was barely moving under her own power. I could respect that sort of fierce independence. “Don’t worry,” I said quickly. “They’re down for the count. Look.” I gestured to Pyotr and his companion. “They’re in no shape to pay any attention to you now.”
“Oh.”
Her expression suggested that she was disturbed by their sad state. Did she actually have compassion for the men who would have raped and kidnapped her for no other reason than that they’d been ordered to? How strange.
I cleared my throat. “I’ll help you home, then I’ll stay by the door to make sure they don’t come back.”
“I don’t want to be alone,” she whispered. “Please don’t leave me.”
“I won’t,” I assured her. The panic was setting in. Once she got her wits back together, she would be tossing me out on my ass. I knew. “I’ll stay until you tell me to go.”
“Thank you.”
We were nearly to her door. I could not help but notice the details of her neat little home with the white picket fence, flower garden, and green shutters. It was picturesque. There was no doubt in my mind that she was trying to put anything to do with her father’s business behind her. It was sad really. The mafiya didn’t allow family members to make a choice. You were in or you were dead. That or there was the third option, which was to be a target. For someone gentle like Anya, the lifestyle would consume their life until nothing remained but bitterness and hatred.