The Russian

by Isabella Laase

“Uh... you did that when you pushed me into the car, big guy.” She should pull away to firmly establish her independence, but the skin to skin contact had left a layer of tingly goosebumps. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.”

  “Koshka,” he said with a tilt of his chin. “It’s time we establish a few ground rules. In my world, women don’t speak to men with that tone. They mind their manners, and do what they’re told. Do you understand?”

  “Where exactly do you think you are again?” she said with a tilt of her own chin in an attempt to match his arrogance. “Last I saw, this was America and the twenty-first century. You’re paying for medical support and no questions, remember? You can’t add to the deal after the fact with some medieval, misogynistic dictate.”

  He straightened, six feet of solid muscle towering over her without a hint of a smile. “Actually, I very much can add to the deal. And I take mouthy little girls over my knee until they learn their place, without the benefit of those scrubs to protect their all-too delicate skin. Is a red and painful ass necessary to settle this debate once and for all? Because I assure you I am willing to deliver that message.”

  Mia stared. Did this man just threaten to spank her? And if he did, why wasn’t she outraged, demanding a full accounting of his motives before insisting she get the hell out of there?

  He tapped her chin to shut her mouth. “That... is a much better reaction. Now take your shower before I decide you need help.” It took exactly seven long steps to get to the bathroom where she slammed the door shut and leaned against the frame, but he spoke almost immediately. “You are very quiet, koshka.”

  “I’m fine,” she squeaked with a tremor, turning frantically but failing to find a lock on the bathroom door. Using her shoulder, she pushed her weight against the frame as though she had a chance in hell of stopping him. She waited a second or two before adding, “What does koshka mean?”

  “It is the Russian word for cat, a pet name to describe somebody who plays games when they don’t understand the rules.”

  “Oh,” she said. “That’s nice.”

  Just stay on the other side of that door, she thought, her mind still spinning. Gunshots. Dark street corners. Veiled hints of power and sex and threats of bare bottom spankings. Monstrously huge houses with backward rooms that locked from the outside and bathrooms with no door locks at all. She desperately want to ask what kind of place they were in, but from what she’d seen, nothing good could come from the question.

  The bathroom was well stocked with fresh towels of a higher quality than anything she’d ever bought. Several choices of equally expensive soap and other toiletries had been left on the counter along with a clean pair of yoga pants and an oversized navy blue t-shirt. Images of busty Russian girls who must have come to this house before her shut her down almost as effectively as his strangely locked doors and veiled threats.

  The knobs and buttons on the huge multi-headed shower stall were overwhelming for somebody who had to keep one eye on the door, praying he wouldn’t come in to ‘help.’ She quickly gave up and used what settings were already there, still too rattled to enjoy the hot, pulsing water that pounded against her tense muscles. There were no bras, panties, or even socks in his little stash, and she wrapped her clothes into a tight ball, tying them together with her cotton camisole. She dressed quickly and pulled her wet hair back into her standard ponytail.

  Stalling for time, she opened the curtains to reveal an expansive view of Lake Ontario’s gray, choppy waters and a small gravel beach. The unique red, craggy peak from Chimney Bluff State Park appeared in the distance, but there wasn’t another house or person in sight, just a few seagulls flying low over the water.

  Locked away with a man she couldn’t begin to understand, she’d never felt so isolated from the real world, but the feeling wasn’t entirely unwelcome. Instead, she negotiated a confusing mixture of emotions ranging from a childish emptiness she thought she’d defeated to an achy, physical vulnerability she’d never experienced. She steadied her nerves before opening the door, determined to get this over with as fast as possible and return to her tiny house in the city where she understood what her body was trying to tell her.

  Chapter Five

  In a house filled with secrets, her nighttime confinement had been necessary, but his choice of that particular locked bedroom hinted at a clandestine world of sex and pain. The thought of her sleeping just a few feet away from the extensive equipment and boxes of brand-new sex toys hidden behind one of the closed doors had kept him restless enough to check on her during the darkest hours of the night. He’d found her sleeping like a baby, curled into a cold ball with a spare pillow snuggled to her chest like a beloved teddy bear. He’d covered her with the thick blanket and removed those horrible wet boots without her even rousing.

  For a man who’d calculated every move he’d ever made, he regretted his impulsive threat to spank her. She was here to do a clearly defined job, not to satisfy his need to dominate, but her sassy attitude continued to eat away at his resolve to remain at arm’s length. If she was going to engage in verbal sparring, he’d respond with the same, but she’d best heed his warnings to watch her attitude before she pushed him too far. Despite his enjoyment of her company, he was a man with limitations.

  Within the hour, she had the bullet out of Anton’s leg, but not before Yuri had vomited in the wastebasket and Slavic had grown lightheaded despite possessing limited medical experience. His stomach had turned queasy when she’d cut into the muscles, but Luka had stayed strong, handing her bandages and supplies as needed and tuning out her gentle teasing about big Russian men who struggled to look at a little blood. “And tissue,” she added cheerfully, enjoying her moment of triumph. “Check out his quadriceps here.”

  A slightly pale Slavic stayed to monitor Anton’s recovery, and Luka moved her to the kitchen where she rummaged through the large subzero refrigerator that matched the dark cherry cabinets. “He should be fine,” she said. “I’ll stay another hour or two, but you should be able to move him tomorrow. I trust you’ll get him the help he needs? I did a Band-Aid job, and he’ll need follow-up care.”

  “My aunt and uncle will make sure he gets what he needs. This is their vacation home, but I’ll get him to their primary residence in Brooklyn.”

  She nodded, kicking the refrigerator door shut while balancing a cartoon of eggs and a package of sausage he’d purchased at a local grocery run by a family from Ekaterinburg. “I’m sure his mother will take good care of him,” she said. “Do you mind if I make something to eat? Breakfast is pretty much the limit of my culinary ability, and it’s been awhile since I had a real meal. Anton’s not going to wake up for a few hours, but I’ll make enough for you and the other boys, if you’re hungry after that little bit of blood.”

  Luka put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. With Anton settled, his stress levels had dropped, and having a last chance to observe her moving around his kitchen with her pale pink toenail polish and rounded bottom was a welcome gift. “Make enough for the two of us. My cousins live in New York City and won’t be coming back to this part of the state anytime soon, so they have work to do. And my aunt Zoya isn’t Anton’s mother. She is Slavic and Yuri’s stepmother. Anton’s mother and father were killed in a car crash when he was very small.”

  “What about you?” she asked without making eye contact. “Do you plan on going home, too?”

  “Home for me is St. Petersburg. My father will likely demand I return before spring is over, but I have a job to do, as well. And right now, that job is managing you.”

  “Managing me, huh?” she responded dryly. “I guess that job also includes getting shot at. I hope you’re careful. I don’t want to do this all over again. And you speak English very well for somebody who wasn’t born here. Your cousins barely even have an accent.”

  “My cousins were raised in this country from the time they were small boys, but our grandmother was an American, so her children coul
d speak English from birth. It was important to my father that his children do the same, so I started an English-speaking boarding school near Moscow shortly after my ninth birthday to perfect my skills. What is important to my father will always happen.”

  “Nine is pretty young to go to boarding school,” she said, whisking the eggs with a fork. “When I was nine, I was feeling like a tough guy being chased out of the local convenience store for shoplifting cupcakes. Grab some milk out of the fridge there, would you? And honestly, you make your father sound a little like a dick.” He certainly couldn’t argue with that summary, but it wasn’t often anybody openly criticized a man as powerful as Damir Petruskenkov.

  Pointing a second time at the refrigerator, she added an arched eyebrow. Her demands continued to agitate him, but she’d made an innocent request and her hands were full, so he complied as she monitored the sizzling sausage in the cast-iron frying pan, sending the smell of smoky, spiced meat throughout the house. She placed a full plate in front of him, adding some toast she’d made from a stale loaf of rosemary olive bread.

  They ate in silence, watching the brewing storm through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the adjoining family room. The wind whipped the gray waves across the lake, swirling in circles before crashing onto the gravelly sand then regrouping and starting the next attack without a break.

  She pointed her fork at the large portrait over the fireplace. “She’s beautiful. Is she your grandmother? The one who was an American?”

  “It is,” he said. “That’s a very good guess.”

  “It’s not totally a guess. The formal portrait makes her important to this side of your family, and her clothes kind of give the era away. I love that necklace by the way. Do you think those were real emeralds?”

  He considered dismissing her with silence, but those big brown eyes looked at him expectantly. “Yes. The jewels belonged to the imperial Russian crown at the turn of the last century. It’s been in my family since the revolution and has been used to identify our most prominent female member dating back to my ancestor who was a Russian princess when circumstances forced her to accept the protection of a common thief.”

  “You’re kidding, right? That’s the stuff fairy tales are made of. The best family stories I have are of bootleggers trekking across Lake Ontario during prohibition, although there are some good ones.”

  “Believe me,” he said with a scoff, “ there is nothing fairy tale about my family history. My mother is dead, but I believe it bypassed her even though my father had been groomed to be the head of our family since his birth. Aunt Zoya has the necklace now, much to the anger of my stepmother who would like nothing better than for me to take it to her in Russia, but Zoya will never give it up willingly.”

  “Would you really steal something like that?”

  “If it was something I wanted...” he said with a noncommittal shrug. “But I wouldn’t cross the street to make my stepmother happy, so it is unlikely I would betray Zoya’s trust.”

  “Remind me to never tell you where all my family jewels are hidden,” she teased. “Except you’ve already taken the only real thing of value I own.”

  He was confused, but she continued. “My knife. It was left to me by my dad, and I know it’s worth something. I think it was a family piece and might have come from Switzerland or Germany.”

  She left it there, lowering her eyes with a blush. She never asked to have it returned nor did she offer any criticism of his decision to take it. He rose, leaving the plates for her to deal with when she cleared her throat. “Uh, in my world, when one person cooks, the other one cleans up. You can put those in the dishwasher, big guy.”

  With another twisting of her attitude, the alternating personalities between submissiveness and independence continued to make his head swirl. He should be angry and deliver a final message of authority that would cement their association once and for all, establishing himself as the master and her as the servant. It was the relationship he’d sought with women, the clearly defined roles bringing order to his chaotic world. But she was temporary and not his concern, and clearing away a few dishes didn’t change that fact.

  The next few hours passed without any true purpose, but nobody made any plans to take her home. She checked on Anton several times and wandered through the big house on a self-guided tour, asking Luka questions about square footage and window coverings that he didn’t know. She finally settled into the expansive family room and turned on the television. Scrolling through the channels, she found a classic science fiction movie and curled under a blanket in the corner of the sectional. The genre surprised him. He figured she’d choose a romantic comedy or even a teenaged vampire film.

  He should return to the library and finish analyzing next month’s shipment of New York wines to Moscow or even open the flash drive to evaluate its merits versus the costs to Anton’s safety. Instead, he turned on the gas fireplace and sat next to her for the next two hours, watching the movie while neither of them said more than a word or two. By the time the movie ended, darkness had firmly sheltered them in the remote lake house.

  Nighttime changed a person’s definition of safety and routines, and her previous contentment turned to nervous anxiety as she chewed on her bottom lip. “I guess you should take me home now,” she said as he turned on a few lights. “The snow’s really coming down and the roads are only going to get worse. I’ll check on him one more time, but Anton’s going to be fine.”

  She was right. She’d done her job. He should pay her the ten thousand dollars from the cash stockpile tucked in the library safe and take her far away from his lifestyle, both professional and personal. She was clearly an innocent, a youthful soul buried inside of the professional packaging and needed to be sent on her way. But there was only one response as his cock pushed against his zipper.

  “No,” he said. “Stay with me. Here.” He should have asked, but demands came much more naturally. Fucking her had clearly been his vision since he’d grabbed her on the street. Her bottom would decorate beautifully with a bright red staining from the paddles and whips of his choice.

  She didn’t seem to be surprised, but she didn’t answer either, staring at the blowing snow piercing the dark void on the deck. “Slavic and Yuri can take Anton to New York,” he added. “I’ll get you back to your work by Wednesday morning.”

  “Stay?” she questioned as she continued to bite her bottom lip. It was an endearing habit, but one she should minimize to avoid bruising that would mar her looks. “That would be a bad idea, Luka. Just take me home.”

  “It doesn’t work that way, koshka, I take what I want. And right now, I want you. Stay.”

  * * *

  No means no, she scolded herself as she backed away from him. So tell him no. Going to bed with a Russian mobster who’d faced a potentially deadly shooting less than twenty-four hours earlier was the worst idea of her life. Flee. Run. Even hiding out in her mother’s trailer, the place of so much past unhappiness, would bring more security than staying here with this angry man, locked doors, and too many secrets.

  Instead, she froze when he reached under her borrowed shirt to cover her nipple. The skin to skin contact had a direct tie to her clit, making her gasp as he toyed with her nub before taking her full breast. Pulling down the oversized t-shirt, he freed her mound through the V-neck, sliding his hand down the front of her yoga pants and stopping short of the curls protecting her mons.

  Her panic increased with every warm touch. She shouldn’t do this. She should scream. She should grab her cell phone from wherever he’d stashed it and call 911 or find the nearest exit and run. Far. And scream. She should definitely scream, but she couldn’t find the strength to deny his demands. Her clit pulsed with need and her channel filled with wet readiness. Instead of defying him, she stood still, allowing him to play with her breasts and waiting for him to speak.

  He scraped the edge of her nipple with his thumbnail, the slight pain causing her to whimper, and her knees buckled. �
�Good girl,” he said. “You are behaving beautifully. This is what I demand in my bedroom, a woman who knows how to submit to my desires. I am a predictable master. If you do your job well, you will be rewarded. If you do it poorly, you will be punished.”

  She’d had a hint he’d played at some of the darker sex games from the moment he’d stared her down in the elevator, and certainly when he’d threatened to spank her, but the knowledge didn’t lessen her fears nor did it gift her with a voice to ask questions. To gain perspective, she needed to break his hold, so she pushed him away and backed up a few steps. The cold emptiness washed over her in waves, but separation was necessary to move forward.

  “Just wait,” she said, adjusting the t-shirt to hide her breast. “I understand what you’re asking, but shouldn’t there be some sort of negotiation? Limits? That sort of thing? I don’t think you’re supposed to start this without talking it all through so nobody gets hurt.”

  Luka freed her breast a second time, but the additional force took her breath away, and the subtle pain returned her to his control. “Don’t misbehave, koshka, or we will start with punishment instead of enjoyment. And as much as you are reacting to a little pain by drawing your thighs together as though it would hide your wetness, I don’t think you would like that.”

  “But...” she added, trying to force her tone above a whisper. “This isn’t a good idea. We should talk about how far I’m willing to go. That’s the way it’s supposed to be done.”

  Still grasping her breast, Luka returned to the front of her pants, sliding further to finger her vagina. Tantalizing and teasing her clit, he never gave her the pressure she needed to counter the multiplying ache, and her body begged for more. “There is no reason to make rules because this isn’t a game,” he said. “This is my expectation, and you will come to me willingly because you have no resources to deny me. You don’t entirely trust me, but you are too far gone to leave me now. You want to know how I will turn your pain into ecstasy.”