The Bratva's Bride

by Jane Henry

  Wait. What? I’m so heady with want I haven’t fully processed anything at all. I’m standing, aroused and alone, and he’s already walking toward his room to get dressed. I stifle a whimper. I’m so turned on and used, and he just… left me like this. On a holding pattern. No pleasure granted unless I earn it.

  In a mindless fog, I go to my room and allow him to dress me again.

  He tells me the names of the politicians and their wives and what to expect, but I barely process anything. I can’t think beyond the physical right now. My focus is on the bundle of nerves between my thighs, the pressure and heat I can’t staunch. I’m dying for some relief. Something. Anything. Not only does he not grant that to me, but when I’m dressed, he produces a little contraption from his pocket with a wicked gleam in his eye. Hot pink, the bottom is small and egg-shaped, with a tiny neck and probe-like thing at the end. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life, but still feel trepidation rising. I know it’s something dirty and wicked.

  Standing me in front of him, he lifts my dress and pulls my panties down. I begin to tremble when his warm, strong hand glides between my thighs. I want him to grant me the release I crave, but he doesn’t. Parting my legs with the back of his hand, he gently fingers my swollen folds and glides the egg-shaped part in my channel. I gasp, holding onto his shoulders, when he manipulates the slender neck of the device so that the little probe part presses up against my clit.

  Oh my God. It feels as if he’s shoved his fingers inside me and pressed his thumb to my clit, and I’m already ready to lose my mind. I tremble, holding tighter to his shoulders.

  “What are you doing to me?” I whisper.

  “Merely exercising a little control.”

  A little?

  To demonstrate, he flicks a switch in his palm and my lower body throbs.

  Oh, God.

  He can’t very well take his belt to me in a room full of people at an event, so instead, he’s going to control me in another way.

  “You’re crazy, you know that?” I say in a little voice, trying not to snap out the words that will earn me trouble. I’m not at all relishing the thought of orgasm torture in public.

  He grants me the ghost of a smile before his lips twist, and a shadow crosses his features. “We’re leaving soon,” he says. He opens the door and the team that prepared me the night before comes in.

  I stand in front of the mirror, miles away with my main focus between my thighs, while they pin my hair and run a mascara brush through my lashes, glide on lip gloss, and spritz with me something that’s softly scented like lilacs.

  I don’t really know what they do to me. I can hardly focus beyond the sexual arousal that heats my veins and makes my mouth dry. He’s manipulating that fucking device, and I can hardly think straight.

  “You know very little Russian, Calina,” he says behind me. “Do not forget that.”

  “Mmmph,” is all I can say, because he’s right. I can hardly speak at all. I blink at the beautiful woman in the mirror in front of me and wonder at the glossy eyes and parted lips, the flush along her chest and cheekbones because I’m so fucking turned on and needy.

  Soon I find myself tucked into his car, and he’s buckled me in. There are people in uniforms who open the doors for us, and a driver in the front. It’s opulent. Luxurious. I’ve never been in a car like this, never been treated like royalty. But my mind is hazy and unfocused. He told me he’d grant me pleasure tonight, and I might die waiting.

  “You know,” he says with a casual shrug, holding a drink to his lips. “I might allow just one before we arrive.”

  I don’t need to ask what he means. I hold my breath when he pulls me onto his lap. At the feel of his cock on my ass I squirm, so hot and ready and needy, but soon I forget everything but the vibration in my most private parts.

  “Go ahead, kisa,” he whispers in my ear. “Just one before we arrive, with the promise of more to come.”

  He lifts my skirt, drags his hand between my thighs, presses his thumb to the little device manipulating me, to my throbbing clit, and I fly apart. I’m so primed and ready, my climax rips through me like lightning, crashing my senses and stealing my breath. I hold onto his neck as I rock in his lap, wantonly shoving my hips against his hand until the last spasm of ecstasy shudders through me and he in my ear, “Sladkaya tugaya pizda. So pretty when you come. The flush of your cheeks as pink as your nipples. Your sweet gasps like the breath you draw when I spank you. Sweet, naughty little girl.”

  “Oh, God,” I pant, shaking from the aftermath of the orgasm. “God.”

  The car cruises to a stop and he scowls at me. “Don’t make me regret that, Calina.”

  I’m still shaking when he helps me out of the car. I blink at the crowd of people. My mind is slightly more focused than it was before, but now I feel every nerve when I move. Cameras flash and whispered voices surround us. Most are in Russian, but I am able to translate a few whispered phrases.

  Demyan Federov.

  Future wife.

  Bratva.

  I hold onto his arm out of self-preservation. He tucks me to his side and slides one arm across my shoulders. Shielding me. Holding me. Still tender from the events of the day, I let him.

  “Cast your eyes down,” he whispers. “Remember, you know no Russian.”

  I nod. “Yes, sir.”

  The stimulator vibrates. I whimper, still so fresh from my recent orgasm, I’m too tender for this. He isn’t going to make this easy. He knows exactly what the hell he’s doing. He warned me earlier that I needed to behave, and this was the best way he could come up with to ensure my obedience.

  I follow his lead into the museum, still holding onto him for stability and protection. There are dozens and dozens of people, all paired couples, all as elegantly dressed as I am, but no man is more attractive than the man whose arm I hold. None have his stature and presence, the fiery blue eyes or hardened jaw. None have his powerful physique, and I’m not the only one who notices. I don’t miss the way the ladies look at Demyan. I don’t miss the way they part for us, giving us wide berth, while surreptitiously sneaking glances at my striking captor.

  Dressed impeccably in a fine suit, he holds himself erect. The cut of the fabric can’t hide the breadth of his shoulders, his tattooed neck, his chiseled masculine features. With his dark blond hair and the vibrant blue of his eyes, I’m reminded once more of a fallen angel. To my chagrin, my heartbeat accelerates when he draws me close to him. He may be an arrogant asshole, but he’s stunning.

  I blink in surprise when I realize we’ve been led to an entryway in the museum featuring a large display of icons hung on stark white walls. They startle me, somehow inharmonious among the elegance.

  “Sit,” Demyan orders in English, pulling out a chair for me at a small circular table. I obey, but my eyes are still searching out the icons. Sober faces, and darkly colored, some gleam and some are a matte finish, but all have similar facial features. One, a soldier with a sword, complete with powerful, inhuman wings, catches my attention. He holds the sword at the throat of a demon.

  “Who is that?” I ask. Demyan removes two flutes of wine from a silver tray and hands one to me.

  “Take your time with that,” he admonishes, before he looks to where I’m pointing. “That’s Saint Michael, the archangel.”

  I frown. “Why would an angel have a sword?” I ask.

  “To fight, of course. Saint Michael the archangel avenges God.” His lip curls. Is he mocking me, or the very idea of avenging a God he doesn’t believe in?

  It surprises me that he knows about church things, but I know very little about his upbringing. His past.

  “Does he?”

  He merely nods.

  “Do you know a lot about icons?”

  “More than I’d like to admit,” he says.

  “And why’s that?”

  He takes a long pull from his glass before he responds. “Because they remind me of my mother. She taught me.” But the clen
ch of his jaw forbids me from asking any further questions. Why would religious icons remind him of his mother?

  Demyan smiles easily at the people who approach us and introduces me as his nevesta.

  His fiancée.

  Somehow, hearing him say those words makes me a little uneasy. I smile while he tells people I don’t speak Russian, and feign complete ignorance when I hear them talking about us. He stands a few feet apart from me, talking to a group of men, and I’m pretending I’m looking at the icons. I overhear a few women behind me talking about him in low tones, likely thinking I don’t hear a word they say, and though I don’t understand much, I gather they’re not saying anything they could repeat in polite society.

  I’m casually looking at one woman dressed in red who’s taller and more voluptuous than I am. I’m struck with her elegance and beauty, the upsweep of her thick black hair and almond-shaped eyes, her creamy complexion and exquisite features. Unlike my muted looks, hers are bold and fierce, with dark eye makeup and vivid crimson lipstick. She’s eyeing Demyan as if she wants to eat him with a fucking spoon. My fingers clench around the stem of the champagne flute when suddenly a jolt of electricity zings through my panties. I gasp and almost lose my champagne, my head whipping around to Demyan. He’s smiling at the man in front of him but his hand is in his pocket.

  Oh my God. He wasn’t joking. He has every intention of teasing me right here, in this public place, filled with prominent members of society and the media. I school my features and stare at him. When I look his way the stimulation immediately ceases. He’s just reminding me he can do this. Reminding me to pay attention. Even without the vibration, my body hums with need. I lift the flute of champagne and take a long pull, emptying half the glass, when his eyes meet mine. He raises one brow in warning and I remember him admonishing me to drink it slowly. With a sigh, I stop drinking.

  Demyan is speaking animatedly to a large, formidable-looking man I recognize immediately as Prime Minister Amaranov. With dark brows and heavy jowls, and large, fat hands, he makes me tremble a little inside. I know very little of his public reputation or history, and only recognize him from the news. I chide myself for not knowing more.

  Uniformed men stand all around us bearing firearms. They wear all black, from head to toe, save a small patch bearing the Russian flag on their arms. Black caps complete their outfits, and all bear large, intimidating guns. I swallow hard. One thing that’s very different here than America is the widespread public display of weaponry from the military. They don’t even bother to conceal their weapons. The Russian Presidential Security Service takes protection seriously. When Demyan draws near Amaranov, I watch several of the uniformed men step a little closer.

  They think he poses a threat. Hell, he does.

  Demyan turns to me and beckons for me to come closer. “Come, kisa,” he says. It surprises me he uses my pet name in such a crowd, but when I draw closer, he slides his hand to the small of my back, pulls me to him, and kisses my temple. It isn’t until I see Amaranov’s cloudy gaze darken I understand what Demyan’s doing. In English, he introduces me, his hand still claiming me on the small of my back.

  “Prime Minister Amaranov, meet Calina. Calina, the Prime Minister.” I stare awkwardly for one brief moment before I take the Prime Minister’s large, sweaty hand and shake it, barely stifling a grimace, then bow my head in greeting. I open my mouth to greet him in Russian, as common salutations are something I do know, but immediately close it again and respond in English when I remember I’m not supposed to know any Russian. “Pleased to meet you, sir.” The gorgeous black-haired woman in the red dress joins Amaranov, who introduces her as his wife.

  So this is the woman they wanted him to sleep with. She gives Demyan such a bold once-over I blink in surprise before something vicious and angry takes hold in my chest. I want to pull her hair free from that up-do and yank it until she screams. I want to smear that pretty lipstick all over her too-perfect face and make her cry.

  Oh, God. I can’t believe I’m thinking these things.

  Am I… jealous? No. I can’t be. Yet, it was earlier today when one of Demyan’s men insinuated he sleep with this woman that I lost my temper.

  Amaranov speaks in such rapid Russian, I can’t really keep up with it. I look from Demyan to Amarannov and back again. When his wife realizes I don’t understand anything, her smile widens.

  Leaning toward Demyan, she places a hand on his arm—a perfectly-manicured, pretty hand on his arm and says something in rapid Russian, but her voice is low and seductive, barely above a whisper. His smile tightens, he shakes off her hand and turns to me, says something to Amaranov through gritted teeth, then turns away.

  Before I know what’s happening, he’s leading me away from her.

  “Demyan?” I ask. “What’s going on?”

  He finds a vacant alcove with a balcony, leads me outside, and closes the door behind us. When we’re alone, he drains his champagne in one gulp, rears back and throws the glass over the balcony. I gasp when it shatters into shards on the paved walkway below.

  “Ublyudok,” he curses. I know he’s speaking of Amaranov.

  “What?” It’s a vicious curse. What did Amaranov do to make him so angry?

  He huffs out a laugh and turns to me. “He wants to sleep with you,” he says. I blink in surprise and don’t know how to respond. “And his wife wants to be with me.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “He wants to trade partners for the evening. He wants to stick his filthy cock in you, and he wants me to fuck his hideous wife.”

  My shock at the image of that ugly man putting his hands on me quickly evaporates. Did Demyan just call that beautiful woman hideous?

  “So… okay, let me get this straight,” I say, frowning. “The Prime Minister of your country’s a… swinger?”

  This time, he really does laugh, a deep, sexy rumble that makes his shoulders shake and somehow transforms his dark features into something that stirs my heart.

  “Call it what you want, he’s a conniving son of a bitch is what he is.”

  “Did you… tell him no?” I wonder. Please, God, I hope he told him no. I can take anything—his brutal punishments and vicious fucking, his cuffs, his cage even, but I can’t bear the thought of anyone else’s hands on me. I can lay down my pride and take this… for Calina… but God, if he ever makes me be with another man…

  “He hasn’t officially asked yet,” he says. “But he’s implied it, and when he does ask, I’ll tell him to go to hell.”

  “But wait,” I tell him. “Does that mean our coming here tonight was in vain? That you’ll gain nothing from this?”

  Why do I even care?

  But he only bends over to place a kiss to my forehead. “You let me worry about that, kisa. We have much to barter, and you’re not on the table.” His gaze goes to my nearly-empty glass. “Didn’t I tell you to drink that slowly?” But he isn’t angry. He’s almost… amused? Shaking his head, he tsks at me. “You be careful to listen, Calina, if you want our evening to end well.”

  I nod, just before he takes me by the elbow. I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want the man with the ugly, beady eyes, and thick, sweaty hands to look at me. I know now what’s on his mind and I war against my internal battle. I’m standing closer to Demyan, eager for his protection. But I can’t lose sight of the fact that he isn’t my savior.

  “Come,” he says. “I need some time to cool off before we rejoin the party. I have many things I need to discuss with Amaranov, and I won’t be able to do so professionally if my thoughts are focused on how I want to cut off his dick and shove it down his throat.”

  I laugh out loud. I think it’s the first time I’ve laughed in days, or even… God, months. I don’t laugh when I visit Calina. I haven’t found anything funny in so long, I forgot how good it feels. How the heaviness I’ve carried since my father’s death and Calina’s injury lightens a little with laughter.

  His hand glides to the small
of my back, his own lips twitching as I laugh. I can’t seem to stop the giggling that bubbles up inside me.

  “What’s so funny, malyshka?”

  How do I tell him it’s his fierce overprotectiveness? That I like how he wants to keep me all to himself?

  “Perhaps you’ve had enough to drink,” he says, removing the nearly-empty flute from my hand and draining it himself. “I’d like you sober for tonight. No more alcohol.”

  I open my mouth to protest when my body zings with a shockwave again and I gasp. “You’re so mean,” I whisper, grasping onto his elbow to stabilize myself. “So mean.”

  He only chuckles and pushes open a door that says restricted.

  This room is darker than the rest. Smaller, and cool like a cellar. I take in a deep breath to steady myself, as he plays with the device in his pocket and tortures me.

  “That’s not fair,” I choke out. “I can’t… it’s like… how would you like it if I just randomly stroked your cock?”

  He shrugs easily. “Oh, I don’t think I’d object to that.”

  I blink when I realize we’re in another room with art displayed on large tables, hung from walls, and behind large glass fixtures. “What is it with you and the icons?” I ask. “You said they remind you of your mother. Can you tell me why?” I chatter on, eager to distract him from torturing me toward climax.

  He leads me to a stone bench on the side of the room, and pats the vacant place beside him. I sit gingerly, my body still primed for pleasure.

  “My father was a monster,” he begins, not meeting my eyes but running one finger along the glossy edge of the empty champagne flute. “Who somehow tricked my mother into marrying him. She was planning to become a nun, if you can believe it. She was a woman of strong faith and moral conviction. But early on, before she took her vows, she was seduced by my father. She became pregnant with me, and she left the church.”