“On his knees?” I ask, arching my brow.
No Russian falls to his knees for anybody, that is why they have stars tattooed there. At least this is how it was explained to me by Yakov.
“On his knees, Ashley. He would move the earth for you,” he explains. “Had I known Tatyana was alive for all those years, I would have moved mountains to get to her. Absolutely nothing could have kept me away.”
“I’m too damaged for any man to want me permanently—as a wife or as a mother for their children. Too much has been done to me. I’m not clean. I’m dirty,” I whisper.
“You are none of those things. Do you know where you were when Mika first saw you?” he asks. I look up at him with wide eyes. “South Africa.”
Just the name of that country sends shivers down my spine, and not in a fun sexy way, but in a terrifying way.
“South Africa?” I whisper.
“South Africa,” he confirms with a nod.
“How? Why?” I stutter.
“Mika saw you then. He liked what he saw. He’s waited, and now he wants more from you. I’ve not let him approach you because you were healing, but Yakov isn’t coming back.”
Kirill doesn’t let me say another word. He straightens his body and then strides away, leaving me with this information that I have no clue what to do with. None at all. Mika and Yakov are night and day in the looks department.
Mika is tall and broad, built like a tank, clean shaven, and blond.
Yakov is tall with long, lean muscles, black hair, and a scruffy face.
Night and day.
Dark and light—and I have a feeling that it goes beyond hair color.
I’m sitting in the exact same place, in the same position, when I hear a deep, rich voice fill the room.
“Are you ready, mishka?”
I jump and look up to find Mika watching me, a smirk tugging his lips and his dark eyes dancing. On closer inspection, I see that his eyes are very dark blue. He holds his hand out and I slip mine inside, feeling the roughness of his palm. When he closes his palm around mine, it feels like it engulfs my hand.
“I’m ready,” I murmur.
I let his hand go and then power down my computer and pick up my purse from the bottom drawer of my desk, closing it gently before I straighten.
“I neglected to tell you how very beautiful you look today,” he says as he places his hand at the small of my back and guides me into the elevator.
I don’t say anything. Beautiful? Me?
“Thank you, Mika,” his deep voice rumbles.
“Thank you,” I squeak as my eyes automatically shift to my feet.
A second later, I feel his hot breath on my ear before he whispers.
“The only time I want you looking down at your feet, mishka, is when we’re in bed. You are not a slave. You are a woman. You are not an animal. Know your worth. If you don’t, I’ll show you,” he murmurs against my ear. It makes my insides melt.
Completely and totally melt.
He straightens his torso and continues to hold his hand against my lower back.
You are not an animal. Know your worth.
I straighten my own body, and look ahead of me as I think about his words, letting them roll around in my head. I’ve been a slave since I was seventeen years old, and I’ve been in a variety of different positions.
With Yakov, my slavery was easy. He showed me the gentility and affection that I needed, along with the carnal things I had been taught by Gregori, carnal things I craved. The other situations were not easy; they were not pleasant; and they were not enjoyable, not one second of them.
“I would like to take you out on a date tomorrow night,” Mika announces as we step out of the elevator car.
“A date?” I ask.
“Yes. I’ll knock on your door, we’ll go to dinner, perhaps dancing or a show, and then I will escort you home,” he explains as he opens the car door for me.
I sit down and think about his words. A date. I don’t know when or if I have ever been on one. Yakov didn’t allow me to go anywhere with him. Kirill’s wedding was the first time I had ever been out in public with him socially, aside from the few times we travelled for his work; but he always left me in the hotel.
“What happens when you escort me home?” I ask as he slides into the driver’s seat.
“A man can hope that he’ll have a goodnight kiss, can he not?” he asks with a grin as we pull out onto the street.
“A goodnight kiss?”
“And nothing more, Ashley,” he murmurs.
“I don’t…”
“I have desired your company for a long time, but I know that his leaving you hurt. I’ll not rush you at all; so for tomorrow night, let me feed you, let me take you dancing, and let me give you a kiss on your doorstep.”
I don’t think any girl on earth could resist any man who offered those things. Especially any man who looked like Mika, sounded like Mika, and wrapped his big hulking hand around her hand and squeezed so gently like Mika.
“Yes,” I agree.
“I’ll pick you up at seven,” he announces.
“Seven,” I confirm.
I gasp when he picks my hand up and gently presses his lips to it. Then he turns it around and presses his lips to my wrist.
“Beautiful,” he whispers.
The club is dark when I enter. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t really want to be here, but what I want doesn’t matter. I’ll ruin it. I’ll ruin her. I don’t deserve her—nobody does. She’s sweet and good. The life of being a Pakhan’s wife would chip away at her, and then what that didn’t destroy, being the wife of a man who carries Ivan Chekov’s blood in his veins would fucking decimate her.
I can feel his evil flowing through my body. It’s there, waiting to be released. I don’t know when, and I don’t know how, but it will happen, and I don’t want it to be toward her.
When I found Ashley, she looked like a wounded animal. Dirty, scared, and fucking helpless. I gently removed her from her cage, promising her that I wouldn’t harm her, and I cleaned her body. It took me weeks just to learn her name, just to hear her voice, and when she spoke to me for the first time, I felt like I was king of the fucking world. An emperor. Every fucking time she opened up just a little bit more felt like a giant victory.
Then she was taken from me.
Ripped from my home.
Keeping her isolated and away from the rest of the world had done no good. Someone took her from me anyway. I hardly slept or ate for the months that she was gone from my side.
I had made her a target.
My father Ivan had allowed her innocence, her mind, and her body to be broken by Gregori, but it was me who allowed her to be stolen. Allowed her body to be used by countless men. Allowed her to be violated and beaten repeatedly. That was all my doing. Because I was too selfish to let her go. I loved her, but not enough.
I wanted to keep her, because I’m selfish. At Kirill’s wedding, surrounded by all of our friends, I looked around and I realized—all of the men love their women; but they’re selfish because those women can be, and have been, taken because they are the wives of Bratva men.
I couldn’t allow Ashley to be a target any longer. She didn’t deserve it. My selfishness does not outweigh her safety, and my love for her is so great that I would rather live the rest of my life without her rather than have her be taken and hurt all over again.
I never told her how I felt about her, how much I loved her. I just left her, saving her from me, from the evil blood that runs through my veins, and from ever being a target again. I just didn’t realize that it would destroy me in the process.
I make my way toward a cage, drawn to it like a magnet. There’s a brunette inside, completely nude, save for a collar around her neck with a chain dangling from it.
“On your knees,” I order.
Without hesitation, she rises to her knees. I walk around the entire cage and look her over. Curvier than Ashley, brunette to Ashley�
��s blonde, and pretty, but not a knockout like my Ashley. She isn’t for me. I shake my head and turn from her.
There’s another cage in the corner, and I can see the blonde hair of the woman inside. I make my way over to her and I don’t even ask her to go to her knees. No, I bend down, petting her head for a brief moment before I wrap my hand around her chain and tug on it.
This little blonde girl is mine tonight.
I have so much pent up tension inside of me, and I need to release it. I need to paint her ass and thighs red, then I’m going to fuck her, use her and try not to think of Ashley the entire time.
I fail.
I’ve failed every time I’ve tried for the past six months.
I drive home, my body sated but my mind a roller coaster. Once I’m inside of my lavish apartment, I open my refrigerator and take out my favorite vodka. I walk over to where the glasses are and take a shot glass from the top shelf. Then I make my way over to the breakfast room table.
I take out my new phone and click on the picture icon. I had all of my information uploaded from the old phone, so I’ve not lost one single contact or photograph from my tantrum. I scroll through the pictures until I find the one I’m looking for.
Ashley.
She’s lying in bed, the sheet pulled up to her bare breasts, and her hair a complete mess from my hands gripping it. She’s smiling at me—a lazy, satisfied smile. Her face is free of makeup, but she’s absolutely stunning with the light shining down on her from the window.
I pour some vodka in my glass and shoot it, repeating it three more times before I feel brave enough to scroll through the other pictures I have of her.
On her spread knees, her head bowed, her arms behind her back—my perfect little submissive slave. Her nipples were pebbled in anticipation of what was to come. That was how I found her one day when I came home from work. In fact, that was how I usually found her when I entered the apartment. Naked and on her knees, fucking perfect.
I take another shot before I’m brave enough to look at my absolute favorite picture of her.
She was wrapped in a blanket on the back deck. Her feet were on the seat of the chair, and her cheek pressed to her knees as she looked out at the sunrise. I had kept her up all night long, teasing her, fucking her, spanking her, and then bringing her to orgasm more times than I could count.
She was so exhausted, physically and mentally, but when she heard the door open, she pressed her cheek to her knees and she smiled at me. The look of love on her face took my breath away.
That was when I realized that I could not keep her for myself.
I STAND AT MY mirror, looking at myself but not really seeing me. My blonde hair is down and straight, my bangs a slash across my forehead. My makeup is light, except for my eyeliner and mascara, which are a bit heavier than normal. My lips are a deep burgundy, which makes my face look even paler than usual, and I exhale a shaky breath.
I make sure that my cream, satin cami is tucked in and billows out all the way around my mauve, high-waisted, extremely tight skirt that skims my knees. With one last look in the mirror, I slide into my matching cream high heels.
The knock on the door alerts me to the fact that it’s time.
A date.
My first date.
I’m nervous, and excited, and just plain scared all rolled into one.
I quickly grab my little hot pink clutch and hurry toward the front door.
I check the peephole to make sure that it’s Mika at the door, and gasp when I see him. Tall and broad, hulking and devastatingly handsome in a dark blue button down dress shirt and light gray slacks. I close my eyes and take a deep breath before I open them and then open the door with a smile on my face.
I watch as Mika scans me from head to toe and then back up to meet my eyes, his turning into molten lava right before me. He clears his throat before he speaks.
“You look absolutely stunning, Ashley,” he murmurs. I feel my cheeks blush at his appraisal, and approval.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Shall we?” he asks, holding out his hand.
Without even thinking about it, I accept his gesture.
I close my door before locking it behind me and then we leave, arm-in-arm. Mika doesn’t say a word as we walk toward the car that is waiting for us. He opens the door for me and waits until I’m seated before closing it and walking over to the driver’s side.
“I made reservations for Italian food, is that okay with you?”
“Umm, yes, that’s fine,” I murmur.
“If you don’t want it, we can go elsewhere,” he says, furrowing his brow at me.
I bite my bottom lip before turning to him. I actually love Italian food, or I used to. It isn’t something I’ve had in a long time; not at a restaurant, at least. Yakov would order-in sometimes, but only occasionally Italian. Usually he would order from a Russian restaurant he enjoyed. It surprises me that Mika’s even asked me what I want. I’m not used to making decisions, not anymore.
“I like it, I just haven’t had it in a really long time,” I say.
“Then tonight you shall have good Italian—bread, wine, and dessert,” he announces with a smile.
“Everything but the wine,” I say with a smirk.
“Why not?” he asks as his mouth moves into a frown.
“I’m not legally old enough to drink yet,” I inform him.
“You’re a woman, how can this be?”
“In America, you have to be twenty-one. I’m still twenty,” I say, smiling at his confusion.
“That’s ridiculous,” he grumbles.
We don’t say anything else as we pull up to the valet station. A man opens the door for me and holds out his hand to help me out of the car.
I don’t make a move to take his hand. I turn my head and look over to Mika for instruction. I don’t know the rules of dating, but I know the rules of being a slave, and those rules are that no man touches you without permission from your Master.
Mika nods to me for approval, and only then do I turn and take the valet’s hand. I allow him to help me out of the car and then I smooth my skirt down and wait for Mika to join me. He does, placing his hand at the small of my back and gently applying pressure to move me forward.
Once we’re inside of the restaurant, he gives his name to the hostess. She says something to him, but I’m not listening. Listening and eavesdropping only causes trouble. I’ve been taught never to do it, and taught harshly.
“Our table will be ready in just a few moments; would you like to join me at the bar for a drink?” he asks.
I open my mouth to protest, to remind him that I’m not old enough to drink, but he shakes his head and wraps his big hand around mine before he tugs me toward the bar.
I close my mouth and follow him. He sits down on a bar stool but he doesn’t guide me to the empty seat next to him. Instead, he spreads his thighs and pulls me between them before he wraps his hands around my hips.
“Mika,” I whisper.
“You are so beautiful, Ashley. So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs.
His hands slide from my hips to my waist and encircle my ribcage just below my breasts. I feel his thumbs slide back and forth just under my bra, and I suck in my lips as my eyes look directly into his.
“Thank you,” I say shakily.
“I haven’t had a lot of beauty in my life. You standing here, it has to be the most beautiful thing to have happened to me,” he mutters.
I blink. His words—they’re heartbreaking. I don’t understand how a man as handsome as he hasn’t had beauty in his life. If I’m the most beautiful thing to have happened to him, that makes me sad. I’m filthy and broken.
I shake my head and open my mouth to speak, but he places pressure against my ribs and I snap my lips shut.
“I don’t want to hear anything negative pass those gorgeous lips. You are beautiful, inside and out,” he says before he turns and orders a beer from the bartender.
“H
ow do you know? That I’m beautiful inside?” I ask.
“I’ve been watching you from afar,” he shrugs.
“That doesn’t really answer my question,” I sigh.
“Haleigh, Emiliya, and Tatyana adore you. All three of them worry after you, and their men do the same. Nobody who is ugly on the inside would have so many people who care so very deeply about them.”
I stare at him in disbelief. Then I think about the things he’s said. I do have people in my life; beautiful, wonderful people that have taken great care of me. I love them and they’ve expressed love for me. But they’re just being nice. They feel sorry for me. They don’t adore me.
They can’t.
They don’t know the filth that resides beneath me, only seeing my clean skin and shiny hair. They don’t know how scarred my body is, how many men have used and abused me; and they don’t know the things I was forced to do with them. They may think that they have an idea, but none of them truly know.
“You don’t believe me. That’s okay. I’ll show you,” he says.
Mika takes one of his hands from my ribcage and wraps his fingers around his beer before he lifts it from the bar and drinks from the bottle. I find it odd that he isn’t drinking vodka. I’ve seen the other men drink nothing but.
Yakov drank nothing but vodka.
“No vodka?” I ask.
He grins as he sets the bottle down and then shakes his head slightly.
“To tell you the truth, I don’t care for it. I don’t care for any hard liquor, really. I’ve never developed the taste for it,” he shrugs.
“I’ve never known a Russian to not like vodka,” I point out.
“I’m not a typical Russian,” he replies.
“Aren’t you, though? Other than your choice of cocktail, that is?”
“Maybe I am like some typical ones, but I’m nothing like the men you’ve encountered,” he mutters before taking another drink of his beer.
I want to ask him what he means by that, but I’m unable to as the hostess informs us that our table is now ready. I step to the side and wait for Mika to stand before he places his hand at the small of my back and urges me to walk.
Living for the Badman (Russian Bratva Book 4) Page 3