I turn to my phone and dial the agency’s number.
I’m going to give the woman a piece of my mind for sending me some bullshit girl. Then I’m going to visit a club and get my craving satisfied. Then maybe, just maybe, tomorrow I won’t think of Ashley.
“We’re going to go inside, we’re going to dance, and then I’m going to bring you home. Tonight, you’ll have fun, mishka,” Mika grunts.
“What does it mean? Mishka?” I ask.
“Little mouse. It’s a term of endearment,” he shrugs.
I close my eyes and think about Yakov. I was his pchelka, his little bee. I don’t know if I can do this; if I can put myself out there for another man to destroy me all over again. Suddenly, I feel sick, really sick.
“Nyet, we’re going to go inside and we’re going to have fun,” Mika barks.
I watch him get out of the car and come to my side. Without a word, he wraps his hand against my lower back and guides us inside of the club. We don’t have to stand in line, or even give our names at the door; he just walks right inside. Once we’re past the door, he turns to me with a grin.
“Russian owned club,” he shrugs.
The room is full of people. My heart starts to race, beating so rapidly inside of my chest that I fear I’m going to have a heart attack.
“Let’s dance,” Mika shouts over the loud base of the DJ’s music. I nod, afraid to speak or even attempt to open my mouth.
Mika leads me into the middle of the dance floor and slides behind me, his strong chest all the way down to his hips pressed against my back as his fingers wrap around my hips. I freeze. I’m completely frozen, unsure of what to do next. I’ve never danced before, not with a man, ever in my life.
“Loosen your body, mishka, you have to move with the music. I’ll guide you,” he offers, his lips just a centimeter from my ear.
I close my eyes and let my hips sway to the deep thumping of the bass. Mika’s fingers stay firmly planted on my hips, even when I decide to become brave and lift my arms over my head, before wrapping them around the back of his neck, as I notice the other couples are doing around us.
“You’re so beautiful,” Mika’s deep voice rumbles against my neck.
His words, his breath, and his big body pressed against me sends a shiver of excitement through my entire being.
Throughout the night, Mika dances with me, but he doesn’t dance every song. I watch as he walks over to the bar, his eyes glued on me.
I dance, swaying my hips to the beat and although I feel a bit awkward at first, as the night progresses I feel more and more confident inside of my own skin, letting the music take control of my movements. Not one man walks up to me, and though I find it odd, I’m grateful.
“Did you have fun tonight?” Mika asks, his hand lifting and wrapping around the frame of my doorway.
It’s three in the morning. We closed the dance club down, and now he’s walked me to my front door, like a real date.
My first date.
“I did. But I have a question,” I murmur. He nods as if he wishes me to continue.
“Why did nobody bother me at all while I was dancing alone?” He chuckles at my question and moves his arms, wrapping them around my waist before he pulls me into his chest.
“Because I made sure there was security around you, nobody was allowed to get within five feet of your person. I knew it would be very difficult for you to be there, to be in that club surrounded by all of those people. I didn’t want a man to frighten you, and I didn’t want to have to beat some asshole’s face in for touching you,” he shrugs.
I open my mouth to speak but am unable to as Mika’s lips crash against mine, his tongue diving between my parted lips. I wrap my own arms around his neck and press closer against his body, letting him further into my mouth and whimpering at the want that is coursing through my body. It’s a feeling I haven’t felt since Yakov walked out of my life all those months ago.
“Get some sleep,” he murmurs against my lips with a few gentle, sweet, kisses before he steps back. I let my arms fall to my sides and nod before I put my key into my lock and open my door.
“Thank you, Mika. I had fun,” I whisper, turning my head to face him.
“The pleasure was mine, Ashley.”
I walk into my apartment and close the door behind me, flipping the deadbolt securely before I grin wildly into the room in shock, awe, and excitement.
Tonight was the best night of my life.
The only thing that was missing was Yakov.
I feel guilty just thinking about him, thinking that it would have been better with him rather than Mika.
Because it’s a lie.
Yakov would not have danced with me. He would not have even taken me to a club like that. Perhaps we would have gone to dinner, but dancing at a nightclub? Never. I don’t know if he even can dance.
I open my eyes and groan at the harsh light that is shining into my bedroom. Mika and I stayed out way too late last night. Once he forced me to look into the bathroom mirror, forced me to tell my reflection that I was beautiful and clean, we finished eating dinner. The meal was delicious and I indulged far too much.
There’s a knock on my door and I hurry out of bed and look through the peephole to see Mika standing there. Without a second thought, I unlock and pull open the door. He’s standing with a grin on his face, a holder with two coffees, and a white bag dangling from his fingertips.
“I thought you might like breakfast?” he asks.
“Coffee?” I breathe.
“And donuts,” he chuckles as I step aside and let him inside.
I look down at my clothes and gasp. I’m wearing an extremely thin, white tank top and a pair of dark blue, extremely short sleep shorts. I know my hair is a mess, and my makeup is probably smeared. I watch Mika’s back as he passes me on his way to the kitchen. Instead of going inside, he stops at the bar.
“Just let me… fix this,” I mutter, waiving a hand down the length of my body.
I try to hurry past Mika, who is leaning his hip against the countertop, but he doesn’t let me pass. He wraps his hand around my wrist and yanks me toward him. I crash against his chest and look up into his pretty blue eyes. They look as though they’re dancing.
“You better not fix a thing. Don’t deprive me of your just woken up look. It’s perfect,” he murmurs as his face dips down and then his lips touch mine in a brief, gentle kiss.
“I’m sure I look like a mess,” I whisper.
“Aside from that being impossible, you look, absolutely beautiful,” he says softly.
I feel one of his hands wrap around my hip and squeeze gently before he releases me completely. He then takes a coffee and the white bag and hands them to me.
I stand frozen, unsure of what to do. I’ve not eaten a meal privately with a man since Yakov. I hardly ate at the table, usually on the floor. He’d feed me, from his hand or his fork. It was normal to me. It was loving and caring. Now, I don’t know what to do.
“Let’s eat on the couch, unless you’re not all right with that?” Mika asks.
His question makes me nervous. I don’t know the right answer. Is he testing me? Is it a trick? I feel tears gather in my eyes as the feeling of being overwhelmed takes control of me. Mika doesn’t say another word to me. I feel his hand at my elbow as he tugs me toward the sofa.
Once he’s seated, he pulls me down onto his lap and he wraps one hand around my hip, the other around the back of my neck. He holds my body firmly, but not harshly.
“This is your home, Ashley. Your body is yours. You make the rules for your home and your body. You do not have to second guess anything when I ask your opinion. There is no right or wrong answer to the question I asked you. Whatever you want, it will be fine. If you prefer not to eat food on your couch, then the table is fine,” he announces.
“It wasn’t a test?” I ask shakily.
“Did he do that, test you?” he asks me as his eyes narrow.
“Y
akov didn’t ask me questions,” I murmur. “Gregori tested me, often.”
“If I could kill him all over again, I would,” he says in a low rumble.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Now, let me hold you while you eat the breakfast I bought you.”
“On your lap?” I ask, raising a brow.
“I would prefer you in other positions, but I’ll take you right here for now,” he grins.
I return his grin with a smile of my own and open the little white bag. Inside is a delicious looking chocolate cake donut with chocolate icing and sprinkles. It’s my absolute favorite kind, and I haven’t had it in years.
“How’d you know?” I ask with watery eyes.
“Last night. You don’t remember whispering to me that you really missed those types of donuts?” he asks, watching me.
“I must have been really tired. I talk in my sleep when I’m tired,” I murmur.
“Eat up,” he grunts.
We don’t say anything else while I eat my donut and drink my chocolate mocha coffee. Both my favorites. I wonder what else I said in my sleep that I don’t remember on the ride home last night.
MIKA LEAVES SHORTLY AFTER my donut and coffee are consumed, but not for long. He informs me that he’ll be back at my door within an hour, and we’re going to spend the day on the beach.
Our apartment building is only a short walk to the shore, and it’s been a lifesaver for me. Nobody can be angry, sad, or depressed with the calming waves of the ocean so near.
I shower and quickly change into my swim suit. It isn’t as sexy as some of the ones I’ve seen, but I have far too many permanent scars to put my body into a skin-baring bikini.
My swim suit is a one piece. It has a halter style top that wraps around my neck to tie, but the front is more like a wrap, showing just the top swell of my breasts, thankfully not dipping low enough to show my scarring. It is all black and has a cute half inch sash that wraps around my waist.
I take my light blue, sheer cover-up and throw it on before I put my big, floppy hat on my head. I’m pale. Twenty minutes in the sun is enough for me to burn to a crisp, so my hat protects me, along with my 50 SPF sunblock.
I’m hiking my oversized beach bag over my shoulder when I hear a knock at the door. Sliding my feet into my flip flops I hurry to answer it. I don’t look in the peephole; I’m too excited for the afternoon. Standing there with a smile is Mika, wearing swim trunks, no shirt, and holding a bag of his own. He’s also got a big umbrella dangling from his hands.
My eyes scan back to his shirtless torso and I whimper slightly. He’s bronze and big, really big. His body looks like it was carved from stone. It’s perfect. Every single muscle is impeccable. He’s like Michelangelo’s David, utterly and completely flawless.
“Ready?” he asks after a few moments.
I lift my eyes to meet his and see that he’s smiling down at me. He’s caught me checking him out. My cheeks pink with embarrassment as I step out of my door and lock it behind me, depositing my keys into my beach bag’s side pocket.
“Are you from LA?” I ask as we make our way toward the beach.
“No. I was born in New York. I lived there until I was twelve, then I was sent to Russia. I lived there until I was twenty, and then moved out here, to work for Kirill,” he explains as I watch him stop and set down our things in what he’s obviously decided is our spot for the day.
“Why did you move at twelve?” I watch as he sets up the umbrella, and then I go about laying down the towels waiting for his answer.
Now I understand why sometimes I hear an accent, and other times he sounds like he’s from America. I spread my beach towel out under the umbrella and then arrange my things around it. Before I sit, I remove my cover up and sandals, then stretch out on the towel.
“My father sent me for training,” Mika rumbles, sitting down next to me.
“Training?” I ask, turning to face him.
“In the Bratva,” he murmurs. His hand raises and his fingers trail the top of my thigh.
“I thought—I thought the boys were taken,” I whisper. My body breaks out into goose pimples and I shiver, all from his light touch.
“Hmmm, yes, many boys were taken, as were the girls. My father sent me away to a Pakhan he knew would train me, and train me properly,” he explains as his fingers continue sliding over my bare leg.
“I know the girls were taken,” I murmur.
Mika’s fingers grip the top of my thigh as his eyes rise to meet mine. His dark blue irises are almost black and swirling with anger. Then he sits up and wraps his hand around the side of my neck.
“You weren’t taken like the other girls. You aren’t Russian. You were taken as a debt to be repaid,” he informs me.
“I know.” I whisper.
“I doubt you do,” he murmurs as his angry gaze stares directly at me.
“I’ve been around for a few years. I know why Haleigh was kidnapped. I know what they were going to do to her baby, and I know they took Maxim’s sister when she was a small child. Regardless of why I was taken, I was taken, and I was given the same treatment, if not worse than a lot of the girls who were actually Russian,” I grind out through clenched teeth.
“It’s a touchy subject for me. We should stop,” he murmurs.
“Why is it such a touchy subject?” I ask, looking at him with confusion.
“My sister was taken when I was thirteen. There was nothing I could do to stop it; I was in Russia. There was nothing my father could do to stop it, either. He tried, and all that got him was being butchered. My mother was raped and then she was butchered herself,” he explains.
I feel like my heart has been ripped in two by his words. He was a world away and his whole family was stolen from him.
“How old was she?” I softly ask.
“Ten,” he grunts.
I take his hand in mine and thread my fingers through his, holding him, knowing that this must be the most difficult thing he’s ever told someone. I feel honored in a way. He knows much of my horrors, and he’s trusting me with some of his own.
“Did you find her after Ivan went down?” I ask.
Ivan Chekov, Yakov’s father, was one of the main masterminds regarding the children being taken. Boys were raised to be soldiers for the Bratva and girls for sex slaves, prostitutes, or wives—all dependent on their parent’s position in the organization, who wanted them, and for what purpose.
Maxim’s father was hated by Ivan, so his sister was taken by Ivan himself. She happened to be his own niece, yet that didn’t stop him from the despicable acts he committed toward her.
Yakov wouldn’t tell me much, but he remembered Maryia. He also remembered the dozens of young girls and women that followed her, all tortured by his father’s hand.
“I searched a little. I had Kirill do some digging. I found out she was sold, not lucky enough to be sold into marriage, but instead into slavery. Her owner kept her for a few years and then she was sold to a whore house. I went there looking for her, but couldn’t find her,” he says.
The defeat he wears is apparent throughout his entire being. I squeeze his fingers with mine until his eyes lift.
“She’s lucky to have parents who died trying to protect her, and a brother who cares so deeply that he would search for her. Even if she’s never found, you’ve looked,” I whisper as my eyes fill with tears.
“Your story has a different beginning, but the outcome is similar,” he murmurs.
“My father gave me to Gregori. He owed the Bratva money and couldn’t pay. He thought that if he moved us to LA that they wouldn’t find him. When they did, Gregori said he could strike a deal. I was the deal. He could pay them the money, or he could hand me over. He didn’t even think twice. He shoved me into Gregori’s arms. I was blindfolded and taken on a plane. I actually didn’t see sunlight again for over a year,” I confess.
I don’t know the reason, but talking to Mika is easy. My story is so much easier to
tell him, easier than it has been telling any other person.
Perhaps it’s his eyes, the way he’s looking at me, or the way he’s holding my hand with his. Maybe it’s because of the soft rumble to his voice, or that his sister has experienced much of the same things I have. I don’t feel the emotion of pity rolling off of him as I tell my story. Possibly, he’s just a fantastic listener.
“Have you gone back to see your father since you’ve been in the city?” he asks as he watches me.
“I’ve thought about it. I don’t know what I would say, though. What’s done is done and I cannot change the past,” I shrug.
“You must have anger toward him,” he says.
I think about his words. Tatyana asked the same thing. I don’t have anger toward my father, though. Not really.
“I feel sorry for him. I feel pity that he’s so selfish he didn’t love his child enough to sacrifice himself to try and keep her safe,” I say.
“Her? You mean you?” Mika asks, furrowing his brow in confusion.
“No, I mean her. That seventeen-year-old Ashley Riggs is dead. She died as soon as Gregori wrapped his fingers around her bicep and dragged her away from that shitty high school on the shady side of town, in broad daylight. She’s dead,” I whisper, tearing my eyes from him. I look out toward the waves of the ocean instead.
“You’re not even Gregori’s Ashley anymore. You’re Ashley, the strongest fucking woman I have ever known.”
“I’ve survived. That doesn’t make me strong, Mika. It makes me a survivor. Women like Haleigh, Emiliya, and Tatyana—they’re strong.”
“Don’t you see it? You are just like them, Ashley. Strong and gorgeous,” he mutters before he rolls his body to rest on top of mine.
I look up in surprise and into his blue eyes. His elbows are resting next to my ears as he uses them to hold most of his weight off of my body. His hips are nestled between my thighs, and he’s looking at me with an intensity I have never seen before.
“I want you, Ashley. I’m not going to pretend I don’t. I want to fuck you, and spank you, and make you beg for me. I want you to submit to me, when you’re ready, and when I’ve earned it,” he murmurs as his nose slides against mine before his lips travel to my ear. “I want to bruise you with my mark, make you come and make you scream for me.”
Living for the Badman (Russian Bratva Book 4) Page 5