Deadly (Born Bratva Book 5)

by Suzanne Steele

  Roksana slinks over to me, holding the cattle prod she retrieved from a storage cabinet. Her smirk tells me she’s getting a thrill from taunting me, holding the implement high as she dangles it between two fingers. Her hips sway as she walks, just enough to draw my attention to the sweet apex of her thighs and away from the man’s wide-eyed horror. He just figured out that he’s dealing with a pair of sadists, and he’s not taking it well.

  Roksana doesn’t stop until her body is pressed snug against mine. She begins to do what she does best—work me into a frenzy. Her voice is like silken seduction, her hot breath against my skin reducing me to a creature driven by pure instinct. My craving for violence and blood is vying for dominance against the simple need to fuck. I never tire of this agony that she alone can inflict on me with her relentless teasing.

  “I think a hot-shot would be appropriate, love,” she murmurs against my neck before stepping away.

  She taps the button that releases the blue spark of current. It isn’t the electricity coming from the end of the device that excites me; it’s the fear in the man’s eyes when he sees it. My fingers fist a handful of Roksana’s hair and I use it to tug her toward me again. “Give. Me. The. Cattle. Prod.”

  “What do I get?” She presses into me and a smile crosses her face when she feels my erection at full staff. Fucking tease. Her body rubbing against mine is making my cock so hard that I’m sure the outline is visible in complete detail.

  “Don’t fuck with me right now, Roksana.”

  She pouts and turns away, directing her attention to our guest who is suspended from the ceiling. I push a button on a winch that lifts him until he’s barely able to stand on his tip-toes. The strain on his body puts him where I want him—in distress. How you position your subject is of utmost importance during an interrogation. You want them to know they’ve lost all control.

  Roksana removes the man’s shoes and socks. When he attempts to kick her she interlocks her hands together and forcefully punches up, hitting him in the nuts. She smiles when she hears his muffled scream. Well, that won’t do at all; I want those screams unhindered, so I remove the gag.

  I take my knife from the sheath on my upper arm and hand it to Roksana. “You know what to do with it, baby.” The ticking in my jaw intensifies as she grabs the top of his jeans and begins cutting them off of him. My hand shoots out so suddenly that my vice grip on her upper arm startles her.

  “Relax, baby, I have no intention of touching him. Unlike someone I know,” she coos as she strokes my engorged cock through my pants, “getting hard will be the last thing on his mind, considering the circumstances. I do so love it when you get jealous though.”

  She raises her hand and lays it on my face, stroking my cheek with her thumb. If she’s trying to soothe me, it’s having the opposite effect. But the adrenalin surging through my system is a welcome sensation.

  She wields the knife as if it’s second nature, slicing through his clothes like butter until he’s left in nothing but his briefs.

  “Would you like to do the honors?” I ask her, handing her the prod. Her only answer is to yank it from my hand. What she does next shocks even me.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Roksana

  “I believe the punishment should fit the crime,” I say, circling the man as he dangles there, pointing his toes as he struggles to maintain contact with the floor.

  “Fuck you, bitch!” he gasps. The look on his face is one of utter contempt. I’m beginning to wonder if this son of a bitch has a problem with women. Too bad for him; I abhor misogynistic men. Any man who can’t respect a strong woman is no man in my eyes.

  I tutt at the sweaty man who’s looking at me with pure hatred. “Do you have a problem with women in positions of authority? I bet those aren’t the positions you prefer them to be in, are they? Head down, ass up, isn’t that how it goes?”

  When he attempts to mouth off at me again, I just shake my head and cut him off. “No, no, no -- you know what your problem is? You have a big mouth.” I take the prod and place it against his lips as I hit the trigger. They instantly begin to swell when the streak of blue electricity hits them.

  The puddle of urine at his feet lets me know just how much pain he’s in. The sight of it excites me more than his screams. The body has more than one way of crying out for mercy and the release of the bladder and bowels is a sure sign of distress. Yes, we have our enemy in agony, and that’s when they begin to talk. It doesn’t matter who it is, a person can only stand so much pain before they would rat out their own mother just for a little relief.

  Most pray for their end to come with a bullet between their eyes so they can go quickly. But a trip to a secluded spot like this can mean hours, even days, of agony and torture before the sweet release of death.

  I’m not after this guy for information, although I’ll take what I can get from him; mostly, I want recompense. This man has done what any Bratva soldier finds unthinkable—he’s spoken against the Pakhan. He has only himself to blame for his current circumstances because he invited a curse. I. Am. That. Curse.

  “I love my father very much. Hearing you talk about him like he’s a washed up old man really pissed me off. That’s right, you’re spending quality time with the Pakhan’s daughter.” I lean in and whisper conspiratorially, “I had to exercise a lot of patience in that alley, you know. Everything in me wanted to blow a hole through your fucking head.”

  “Why didn’t you?” His tone is pensive as if he wishes I had, and in all reality we both know he probably does. “I’m sorry,” he whispers with an air of sadness.

  “That’s sweet, but too little, too late, I’m afraid. You’re sorry because you got caught. You street thugs have no respect. My father…he’s the real deal. Bratva, baby. But you? You’re nothing more than a weak-ass replica of the real thing. You don’t have the brains to be a real gangster.”

  I turn to Anastasia with instructions, “You and Dmitriy get the incinerator fired up.” Their footsteps echo across the floor as they get to work. The man’s eyes follow their progress and he begins frantically shaking his head as a tear rolls down his cheek. I waggle my finger in his face, reminding him, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

  “You really are going to kill that bastard for something he said,” Dmitriy observes with some surprise. You’ve got to now, you just referred to me by name.”

  I roll my eyes at Dmitriy. Seriously? As if I would ever let someone speak against my father and not demand justice for such disrespect.

  “You know it. This ain’t my first rodeo.” I smile and bat my eyelashes in his direction. “Speaking of names,” I say with a frown, turning to our guest, “what’s your name? No, forget it, I don’t care. You won’t need a name after tonight.”

  “What do you mean, incinerator?!” the offender shrieks, panicking as he looks at each of us in turn, as if deciding where to best direct his pleas for his life. “Man, you can’t do that shit. I have to be buried.” Ahh, criminals; superstitious right to the end.

  I lean in with a smile of pure hatred. “You should have thought of that when you were shit talking my father, hmm?”

  Oleg approaches the guy and the combination of his feral expression and predatory body language causes my inner walls to clench with a surge of liquid heat that takes my breath. I’m already slick and ready for him. Oh, the fucking is going to be so good tonight.

  “She’s not a man. I am.”

  “I don’t think he meant it literally, Oleg,” I chuckle, directing my attention back to the man who’s now standing in his own piss. “You know,” I begin dramatically, using the deepest masculine voice I can muster, “electricity and piss don’t mix, so this is probably going to hurt. Time for you to man-up.”

  I circle him and let the tip of the prod graze his body as I move, smiling at his writhing efforts to elude it. I let this go on for a while, knowing how Oleg enjoys it. Eventually, the guy exhausts himself and his body dangles in utter stillness. I point the
prod right at his crotch, ignoring his whimper as I slide the tip inside the front flap of his briefs. The fabric is drenched in urine and clings to his flesh, so the outline of his flaccid dick isn’t hard to find. I press the prod against his limp flesh, lazily stroking the end of the implement up and down his length. Not that there’s much going on there, and really, who can blame him? But the human body instinctively seeks relief in any form when it’s in distress, and eventually I can see the telltale signs of an erection pushing against his piss-drenched briefs.

  I meet Oleg’s eyes over the guy’s shoulder, knowing he’ll be furious with me. He gives me a searing look that promises a raucous fuck session later. Making a sexy show of biting my lip, I press the cattle prod against the guy’s scrotum and hit the switch. Oleg’s groan of pleasure echoes off the walls as the swinging body lights up like a Christmas tree. Eventually the carcass stops twitching, leaving us with only two things to do: incinerate his ass and call the cleaner.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Oleg

  The job went well. Any time you get away with murder it’s a good day. That son of a bitch deserved what he got. These young wanna-be’s have no respect. His disappearance will send a message to the rest of his boys. They need to stick to dealing cocaine and leave the diamonds to the Glazovs. They also need to shut the fuck up when it comes to talking about things so far out of their league.

  I clear my mind of such thoughts and focus instead on my woman, who’s pinned beneath me and still putting up one hell of a fight. She’s twisting and turning on the bed as I straddle her and enjoy the view as her flat abs tighten and her tits bounce under her silk blouse. Holding her wrists in one hand, I use my free hand to poke the tip of my knife into her creamy porcelain skin, just enough to bring her to heel and get her undivided attention.

  “I don’t like it when you touch another man, even if it’s only to prepare him to die. This knife and the prod should have been the only things touching him.”

  “That knife was the only thing touching him until I socked him in the balls for running his mouth.”

  “And now the only thing it’s touching is you.” I slowly trail the razor-sharp edge up the front of her silk shirt. “He got hard for you.” I slice through her bra until the fabric flutters open to expose those gorgeous tits. Her creamy skin is the perfect contrast to her flaming red hair.

  “He got hard for the prod, not for me,” she replies breathlessly.

  “I looked your name up once,” I murmur, entranced by how her nipples are getting hard without me even touching them. I lean in and swirl my tongue around one before continuing, “Roksana means star of magnificence and Rufina means woman with red hair—it fits you perfectly.”

  Her eyes are locked on the knife in my hand. She shows none of the fear that asshole displayed earlier tonight, only fascination and, yes, pleasure.

  “We’re natural born killers, you and me—we’re meant to be together,” I remind her as I have so many times before. She wriggles beneath my blade as if there’s no danger of it slicing her open. I lay it to the side and relieve her of her tight jeans. “If these weren’t skintight I’d be cutting them off too.”

  “Scared you’re going to cut me? When has a little bloodshed in the bedroom ever bothered you?”

  “I’m not the one who should be scared. You know how I like frightening you. You get so slick and taste so sweet that way…”

  I pull at the ends of the tiny pink bows on either side of her white lace thong. As the fabric falls away, I press her knees far apart and stare down at her slit that already weeps for me.

  “I must taste your fear,” I rasp just before I dip my tongue inside her.

  Roksana

  Sex with Oleg is always so good, always different, always off-the-charts amazing. The only thing that remains the same each time is the brutally sexual beast that quietly resides inside him. It’s always there, waiting for me. It’s the beast that drives his tongue so deep inside me now, laving my inner walls with forceful, lush licks, driving me wild as he tastes me from the inside out.

  He pulls away and I squirm, trying to get his lips and tongue back where I need them to be. He chuckles as his mouth trails lazily up and down my inner thigh. I’m unable to manipulate him by the dance my body is doing so I do something I’ll never do for any other man—beg.

  “Please, baby, I need to come. Run that tongue of yours over my clit and quit fucking around.”

  “I do love to hear you beg me for what you need. You’re too proud to beg anyone else for anything. But with me, you beg and cry for my mouth, for my fingers, for my cock.” He bites down on my shoulder, hard, and then meets my eyes as he whispers against the broken skin, “When I break you down like this, that’s when you are the most beautiful to me.”

  I hear his words but feel disconnected from my body, as if I’m somehow hovering over these two people as they consume each other, a silent witness to their most intimate moments.

  He assaults my senses with the perfect mixture of licking, biting, and sucking. His long fingers stroking and exploring deep within me take me where I so desperately need to go—over the fucking edge.

  He rises up on his haunches and pushes my knees back until they are resting by my ears. My helpless position gives him unfettered control over when and how he’ll penetrate me. His face flushes as he bears down with no warning, seating his massive cock to the hilt with an animalistic grunt, in one powerful thrust, filling me with his breathtaking mixture of pleasure and pain.

  I rake my fingernails down his back, inviting him to annihilate any sexual boundaries I may still possess. As he grinds relentlessly into me, my hips rise up to meet his unforgiving rhythm, and he soon has me shuddering with another orgasm. He follows me over and comes with a shout, our bodies merging, bleeding together as one.

  It’s only as I hold him and stroke his back, whispering filthy words of praise in his ear, that I notice something: our hearts are beating in time. We live as one. I can’t help but wonder if we’ll die as one.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Anastasia

  I open my eyes, squinting and blinking rapidly against the morning light that’s streaming through the window. Thoughts of last night’s events flood my mind.

  I’m convinced Roksana and Oleg are crazy—the whole fucking family is. It’s not a bad thing because, frankly, I don’t think I could ever make it in mainstream society again after the things I’ve done. I’m no longer the conventional suburban cop’s little wifey; now I’m a cold blooded killer. No one else could ever understand the things I’ve done or why I’ve done them. The Glazovs might be viewed as criminals by polite society, but to me they’re kindred spirits. They are quickly becoming my people. My tribe.

  I press the button on the intercom.

  “Yes, Miss Anastasia, I bring your coffee now.”

  Alyona’s broken English crackles through the device, promising blessed caffeine before I even ask for it. I smile to myself as I amble over to the shower. Maybe I do fit in around here after all. The thought brings a chuckle. The Glazovs aren’t the type to embrace outsiders. Just because Alyona knows what I want before I ask for it doesn’t mean anything is written in stone. It’s probably best that I remember that and take nothing for granted.

  I quickly get through the shower and throw on some jeans and a t-shirt before I sit down to enjoy my coffee and go online to check the morning’s headlines. Who knows, today I may very well be part of a front page scandal.

  During Emily Finley’s killing spree, I learned that the authorities can control a lot of things but they usually can’t control the press. The old saying ‘the pen is mightier than the sword’ is true; reputations are made and destroyed at the media’s whim. It’s one of the reasons Glazov has Novak’s wife, Katrina, working at the newspaper. The Pakhan even has his own reporter and from what I can tell that’s the closest you can get to controlling the written word.

  Katrina focuses on Glazov’s good works, such as his ge
nerous financial support of the library. According to Roksana, the Pakhan has a deep love of literature and if you can get him talking about a book, he’ll entertain you for hours. I tuck that thought away in a mental file for future use. The guy intimidates the shit out of me so if I can ease the tension by talking about books, I’m all for it.

  “Hey, are you dressed yet?”

  I look up to see Roksana staring at me inquisitively from the doorway. “Would it matter if I weren’t?”

  “Nope,” she says, popping the ‘p’ at the end. “Come with me. We’ve got trouble.”

  “Oh, great,” I groan. Sounds like the Pakhan has gotten wind of our activities from last night. I look back longingly at my steaming cup of coffee as I follow her out the door. This house is huge and I still get lost at least once a day, but damned if I don’t have the way to Glazov’s office memorized now. I get called on the carpet here more than any job I’ve ever had.

  By the time we reach Glazov’s office, Oleg and Dmitriy are already there and have assumed their standard, respectful positions, hands folded behind them. Novak’s lurking off to the side in his usual chair.

  Glazov is, as always, holding court from the ornate chair behind his desk. Dmitriy says everything in this house has a story; I’d love to know the story behind that fantastic chair. At first glance, the Pakhan’s posture appears relaxed, even serene. But I now know him well enough to recognize that his elegant, muscled frame is utterly still, like a panther waiting patiently before leveling its prey.

  I’m jolted from my reverie by the commanding presence of a man I’ve never seen before. He’s immense but seems tightly muscled. His face is cut in severe lines and jet black hair curls slightly at his collar. His dark eyes are so intense that they practically glitter with caged energy, prompting me to avert my eyes when he looks in my direction as we enter.