The slow, methodical approach Oleg employed when he tortured an enemy was unsurpassed. There were twenty-seven bones in the human hand. Oleg had been known to spend hours meticulously breaking each one before he turned to other methods of torture. Few made it past the hand torture without talking.
“I only ask, my Pakhan…that you allow me a front row seat.”
“Of course, Oleg. I’m certain my daughter will say the same.”
“You and Roksana are some sick motherfuckers—like natural born killers or some shit.”
Oleg’s only response to Novak’s remark was a faint smile. When it came to torture, he and Roksana were like matches and gasoline—feeding off one another—igniting explosions and leaving ruin in their wake. To say they were well-matched was an understatement.
Glazov directed his attention back to Dmitriy. “Your woman has been something of an experiment, an expensive one. I expect to see a return on my investment.”
“Anastasia’s highly motivated to demonstrate her allegiance to her Pakhan and the Bratva.”
Glazov’s eyes were emotionless and his voice was low as he spoke. “As well she should be. My investment in her has been unprecedented. I certainly don’t like regretting past decisions. She is an investment I not only expect, but demand, to see dividends on.”
Novak, as usual, had something smartass to say. Cutting his eyes at Dmitriy, he said, “Roksana’s never going to let that happen. She took Anastasia on as a protégé and she would never let the girl make her look bad in her father’s eyes.” With a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he stared, unblinking, at Dmitriy as he concluded, “Roksana would kill her before she ever let that happen.”
Glazov watched Dmitriy intently to read his reaction and was pleased that he appeared unmoved. Dmitriy wasn’t affected by much and his easy demeanor concealed a deeply introspective nature. He was classically handsome with long, dark hair, chocolate brown eyes and a closely trimmed mustache and goatee. But looks can be deceiving; Dmitriy’s enemies never figured out that the bigger the handsome devil smiled, the more danger they were in.
“Oleg, the four of you have worked well together in the past. I want you to join forces again,” Glazov mandated.
Oleg stood, nodding stoically at Glazov. “Yes, Pakhan.”
Oleg knew that if he disobeyed the Pakhan by giving in to his sadistic nature and killing this enemy, he would be robbing Glazov of the pleasure of the kill -- and then two men would die. He didn’t want to be the cause of Glazov’s only daughter being made a widow.
“This meeting is over.”
Glazov didn’t bother looking up as the men filed out into the hall. He had said all he had to say—now it was time to act.
“Pretty, pretty, little bird,” the man whispered to no one in particular as he stared at the beautiful redhead -- the woman Glazov called his Ptichka.
There were other women sitting on the sofas, but none that compared to her. They were all attractive enough in their own way. Kathleen had at least twenty years on the other women and yet her beauty eclipsed them all.
The stranger watched her intently as she interacted with the women. He could tell by her body language and her hand gestures that she was a natural leader.
“Pretty, pretty, little bird,” he whispered again. He pushed down on his rapidly hardening cock as he thought of the things he would do to the pretty, little bird after he caged her so she couldn’t escape.
Pretty, little birds should be put in a cage so they can be looked at, taken out, and played with. I’ll clip her wings so she can’t fly back to him. He’s a monster, a bad man, but she doesn’t see that because he’s blinded her.
That’s what he does to people: he poisons their minds. His hands are stained with so much blood. He’s a killer, born into a life of violence and he must be stopped. Someone has to save the pretty, little bird.
The bad man has all the things that I should have. He lives a life of opulence and entitlement. He’s reaping the rewards that were promised to me.
It will take some convincing but she’ll see things my way. Getting her away from him won’t be easy. He’s obsessed with her. It’s going to hurt him deeper than any pain he’s ever known when I take her away from him. It’s going to hurt him the same way he hurt me.
She’s the only thing that can heal the hurt he has caused me. She is the balm for my tortured soul, payment for his sins. She is my pretty, pretty bird.
Fly, fly, fly, little birdie—fly away while you still can. The day is coming when you will no longer be able to fly because I’m going to clip your little wings and lay them on the altar of my vengeance.
Chapter Six
Kathleen hated it when trouble rumbled on the horizon, threatening all she loved. The foreboding fear that went along with being the wife of a gangster was something she would never get used to. When you loved as deeply as her family did, a piece of you died every time you thought about something bad happening.
No matter how brave or strong you were, in this lifestyle fear was a constant companion. Sometimes it was off in the distance, whispering, easily drowned out by the sounds of life and love around you. At other times, the roar was so loud nothing could obscure it.
But at times like these, when fear breathed raggedly down her neck and her inner demons whispered hot accusations in her ear, she easily assumed the cool, composed façade of a Bratva wife. Impervious to outside influences; supremely confident in the power she wielded at her husband’s side. She knew well how to go through the motions flawlessly, regardless of the chaos unfolding around her. She didn’t really do it for herself, though; she did it for them. To show fear was to expose her loved ones to doubt, and where confidence waned…death was inevitable.
But no matter how impeccably she maintained her outer demeanor, her intuition was raising a red flag, demanding to be heard. The personal nature of the recent attack was unprecedented, and everyone was reacting to it in their own way. For her husband, it meant facing down inner demons that hadn’t seen the light of day in years. His methods for dealing with them were…unconventional, but not altogether unpleasant, she thought with a satisfied sigh. But for her? It meant an unexpected and persistent dash of paranoia. At the oddest moments, when she knew perfectly well that her privacy and safety were assured, she felt like she was being watched. Silly, really. There was no way that someone could infiltrate Glazov’s compound, which was the equivalent of a fortress in terms of security. And yet…
No. She was imagining things. That, or she was more sensitive than usual to her husband’s discreet yet utterly obsessive eyes on her every move. She never asked him if it was him watching her because she knew what he would say. The answer was always the same: I’m watching you, Ptichka…always watching. She had resented those reminders in the early days with him, but now the words soothed her nerves and helped put her mind at ease. And yet, the hair on the back of her neck still prickled for no reason.
Of course, her fears were not totally unfounded; after all, Glazov had put the Bratva cell on high alert and she, for all intents and purposes, was on lockdown. She had managed to slip out briefly that afternoon, but had been diligently herded back to the compound like a wayward sheep. A glance in her rearview mirror confirmed that the black SUV containing her contingent of Bratva guards was stubbornly ensconced behind her car.
Maybe Glazov was right; she needed to be able to fly. It was the reason he called her Ptichka—his little bird—it was also the reason he had clipped her wings just enough to keep her close.
She ignored the goosebumps on her arms and the prickly sensation at the back of her neck as she passed through the gate and proceeded along the driveway. As she parked, she noticed there were no cars out front, which was unusual. So was the eerie silence as she stepped from her car. Glazov must have insisted that the cars be parked neatly in the garage, which he did sometimes. To say the man was OCD was an understatement.
As she neared the landing at the top of the front steps
of her home, she turned to wave off her security detail, but they were nowhere in sight. Strange. She unlocked the front door and crossed the threshold into the foyer, preparing to take the grand staircase to the suite of rooms she shared with her husband.
As she turned to close the door, a massive hand clamped over her mouth and she was pulled back against a massive wall of muscle. She clawed at the hand only to have another hand pinch her nose closed, cutting off her air. Before she had time to panic from the lack of air, her attacker pressed his thumb against her carotid and then…blackness.
When she awoke, she was kneeling precariously on a stool, her wrists restrained above her head. She was nude, her wrists shackled to a heavy chain that was fastened to the basement ceiling—the same basement Glazov used as a fully functional dungeon, complete with iron shackles bolted to the walls, a long table with cuffs dangling from each corner -- and, last but not least, the enormous meat hook in the center of the ceiling, which was the source of her current predicament.
She grunted as her captor kicked the small stool from beneath her. Her arms were pulled tightly above her head and the tips of her toes barely touched the floor, leaving her to swing as she tried to regain her footing.
This was not the lavishly furnished playroom next door. No, as Kathleen spun slowly from her chains, she was getting a nice 360 of the dungeon that was usually reserved for high-level interrogations…and, apparently, recalcitrant spouses.
Every Glazov wife could expect to visit this dank, sparsely furnished room at some point in her relationship with her Glazov man, even if only on rare occasions. And it looked like it was her turn.
Well, hell.
The technical term for her current circumstances was ‘predicament bondage’.
She’s in a predicament, alright—one of her own making, Glazov mused as he circled her slowly, not bothering to hide his admiration for the womanly curves that were so perfectly displayed for his pleasure. Her head bobbed on her chest as she whispered, “Glazov.”
The sleepy, husky quality of her voice dripped over him like hot wax, shooting heat straight to his cock. Oh, the woman did do something to him, there was no doubt about that. They fed off each other sexually, their years together only intensifying their need for each other. They were perfectly matched. Not once in over two decades had the woman used her safe word—Firebird—the name of the club that had housed one of Glazov’s gambling operations back in New York, and the place where he had first seen her.
Even on a grainy security tape, his first look at her feminine curves had brought his world to a shuddering halt. But when she had turned her face toward the camera and playfully – and unknowingly – blew him a kiss, she tilted his world on its axis and shattered any ideas he may have entertained of ever touching another woman.
He kicked the stool one more time, sending it flying across the room. When she flinched as it clattered against the wall, he was pleased -- and more than a little aroused. He wanted no obstacle in his way. He was ready to play with his little Ptichka. He slowly circled her, taking in every inch of her body. After nearly 25 years together, Glazov knew every detail, every nuance of his wife’s flesh better than he knew his own.
He deliberately walked behind her where she couldn’t see him. Anticipation needed to be built slowly. He leaned into her ear, releasing the slightest wisp of a breath, and humming with satisfaction at the goosebumps that appeared on her skin.
“Whose dirty little toy are you, Ptichka?”
“Yours. Only yours.”
He fisted her hair, jerking her head back as he growled, “You better fucking believe it.” He immediately loosened his grip and began to pet her hair ever so gently. Rough, soft, passion, pain, pleasure…by the time he was finished mixing his concoction she would no longer be able to distinguish between the sensations.
Each time he led her into subspace was like an abstract painting he created; it was never the same. Some would probably view their brand of lovemaking as brutal, even cruel, and he supposed they were right. But, nonetheless, he used every means at his disposal – be it a vibrator, anal beads, a dildo, or even a meat hook in his dungeon. If he ever failed to arouse her to a fever pitch, he would be doing her a grave injustice. That would be unforgiveable, as far as he was concerned.
Sometimes it took hours to take her through his carefully constructed scenes. He never rushed these things; every orgasm that shook her, every quiver of her sex, every incoherent sound that escaped her lips, was his masterpiece. He would lavish her with attention and sensation until he was the center of her universe. After all, it was only fair since she was the center of his.
He knew how to keep her guessing. After years of making love with Alexander Glazov, it was never the same. The only thing that remained the same was the need that sparked between them. He had spent years stoking the flames of her addiction to his touch, his mouth, his cock. These chains added to her pleasure but they didn’t keep her bound to him—she and her husband were as one.
He occupied the shadows of her mind, that place she kept hidden from all others but him. Whether he was in her presence or not, she could feel him and was certain that, God forbid, his death would sweep through her soul like an arctic blast without her needing to be told. She would just know.
Sometimes something as simple as a song on the radio would bring him to mind and, as his spirit whispered all his dirty secrets in her ear she would flush with embarrassment. She had stood in grocery store lines, pressing her legs together because she swore she could feel him there at the apex of her thighs, even though he was nowhere in sight.
He pushed her limits but it wasn’t the things he did to her that frightened her—it was the thought that he would stop doing them. Even though the possibility of ever living without him was unthinkable, she knew that even in death he would still be with her. Because he was in her.
“I’m watching you, Ptichka—always watching.”
She gasped as he bent down and lifted her bent knees into the air before sliding her legs over his shoulders. He spread her open like a smorgasbord to be devoured. Her legs quaked as his tongue slowly explored her slit, those blue eyes locked on hers through thick lashes.
“You’re a dirty girl, you know that? I’ve made you my slut.”
He used his thumbs to pull her pussy lips apart, revealing the entrance to her slick core. With a groan of pleasure, he slipped the tip of his tongue inside to lick her plush, sensitive, silky flesh.
Her body betrayed her when it quivered and she knew he’d felt it. A low chuckle escaped his mouth, causing her to blush with embarrassment and humiliation. He pulled away slightly, still cupping her ass in his hands, his lips glistening with her arousal.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I did it on purpose,” he murmured as he reveled in how good her ass felt in his hands. The womanly flesh was so deliciously plush yet firm as he squeezed and kneaded, occasionally letting his fingertips graze the sweetly puckered rosette. She groaned when he slipped his thumb inside her pussy and lapped at her clit.
“The rest of the world sees the impeccable hostess, the nurturing wife and mother.” He paused just long enough to slip one, then two, fingers inside her rear opening, his heavy-lidded gaze never wavering from hers. With his thumb still firmly anchored in her pussy and his fingers filling her from behind, his hand gripped her, front and back, in an utterly primitive gesture of ownership. “But only I get to see you when your civility has been stripped away. Only I get to fuck and debase my dirty girl.”
As he lowered his mouth to her clit, she surrendered to his touch, fully prepared to go as high as he wanted to take her before crashing down into breathless waves of pleasure. He worked his digits in and out rapidly, not giving her a second to catch her breath. Her body abruptly jolted, her back arching as if targeted by a thousand volts of electricity. After she came down from the climax, he wrapped an arm around her and released her from the chains. He carried her into the adjoining room and gently laid her down.<
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The basement had always been a dungeon, but Glazov had converted the adjoining room into a more extensive BDSM playroom. Her husband was a moody, unpredictable man when it came to sex so options were important. Custom-made BDSM furnishings and every sex toy imaginable were at his disposal, including a king-size bed.
There was one thing she could always be sure of, whether he was fucking her like he wanted to kill her or gently making love to her: in the end, he consumed her. Glazov would not be satisfied until his inner fire completely devoured her. But fire was a funny thing; whether it smoldered, blazed, flickered or torched, it still burned.
To those he loved, he could be a warm, reassuring ember on a cold dark night; but to his enemies, he was the equivalent of an incinerator, easily capable of reducing them to soot and ash.
“So. Fucking. Beautiful,” he whispered as he thrust his cock inside her. He held her head between both of his hands and stared into her eyes like he could see into her soul. Probably because he could. In that moment, she felt like he had absorbed her into himself. They were no longer Glazov and Kathleen—they were one. Always, one.
She could never love another man. As far as she was concerned, other men didn’t exist. All others paled in comparison to Alexander Glazov.
She had no way of knowing when she took on a friend’s debt all those years ago, that she would encounter the man who would forever change her life.
She still heard the ominous thunder in the distance but she refused to run from the storm. She would, as a Bratva wife – as Glazov’s wife -- do what she had always done. She would fight. She would survive.
Diamond Days (Born Bratva Book 6) Page 4