Beyond Measure: A Dark Bratva Romance (Ruthless Doms)
Page 10
I sit on the edge of the bed fuming, when he stands right in front of me and chucks a finger under my chin. “Look at me, Caroline.”
I look into his deep brown eyes and see something that surprises me: compassion.
But he isn’t trying to get my attention or control me. This time, he’s actually looking at the scar on my chin in the light of the bedside table.
“Who did this to you?”
I swallow, weighing my options. “If I tell you, what will you do?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Punish them.”
“Is that what you do to anyone who doesn’t do what you wish?”
Meeting my gaze, he nods. “Yes.”
“Is there no one more powerful than you?” Is he that arrogant? I have sense enough not to ask the second question aloud.
“Of course there are,” he says. “But even the mighty can fall.”
Does he consider himself one of the “mighty” ones? Is he capable, then, of falling?
My chin still in his hand, I watch as his eyes wander back to my scar.
“Do you consider yourself infallible?” I ask him.
Still focusing on my scar, he shakes his head. “No man is infallible, Caroline.” His eyes wander to my hair. “And I changed my mind. We won’t need Eliott. I’m capable of helping you get ready myself.”
I look at his thick fingers and imagine they’re clumsy. And hell if I know how to put on makeup or fix my hair. The traditional Russian women fix themselves up to perfection and I pale in comparison. But if I’m to be paraded around in front of all of the visitors he has coming, I want to look my best.
“Are you sure about that?” I ask.
With a chuckle, he drops my chin and grabs my elbow, lifting me to my feet and doesn’t answer. He leads me to the bathroom by the hand, and it feels intimate, holding his hand, somehow even more intimate than what he did to me sexually.
I hate that he manipulated me that way. After what I’ve been through, the abuse at Andros’ hands, I hate sex. I don’t want to like it. Damn Tomas for making me want more.
Damn him.
But when he leads me to the bathroom, I begin to quiet a little. He’s preparing to take me to present to his brotherhood. To local politicians and wealthy leaders. When I’m ready, it will be time.
My stomach clenches with fear and nausea. He instructs me to stand in front of him and releases my hand, oblivious to my worry.
“This is a beautiful dress,” he murmurs. “Fitting for the woman who will wear it.”
“Why do you keep saying that?” I whisper. “Is it, like, your duty or something? Are you trying to seduce me?”
He gathers my undergarments, and when he returns, he gives me a curious look. “Seduce you. Of course I’m trying to seduce you.” He takes the panties and tosses them into a basket in the corner of the large bathroom. “You won’t be needing those. The bra I’ll allow.” He hands it to me to put on.
“You’re not even going to deny it?” I ask while I fasten the strap. Then it dawns on me he just said no panties. “And what do you mean no panties? What if I… I don’t know, need them?”
“Why would you need them?” he asks, but his back is to me while he’s getting the dress off the hanger, so I’m not sure if the tightness in his voice means he’s amused or impatient.
“To keep me… clean or something. It feels terribly indecent.”
“I don’t want you decent,” he says, as if that’s explanation enough. My eyes roll heavenward, and I’m grateful he’s occupied taking the dress off the hanger, because he probably wouldn’t be cool with me rolling my eyes at him.
When he turns to me, I can’t help but admire how pretty it is. The pale blue gown with silver and lace accents dips into a low vee in the front, and I wonder if it will even cover my… ample assets. A filmy overlay gives the gown an almost ethereal appearance, as if I’m wearing something made of fairy dust. I don’t know how much this is worth, but I know I’ve never even touched anything worth what this is in my life. How did they know it would fit me?
He bends with the dress in hand. “Hold onto my shoulders.” With a sigh, I comply, stepping into the dress and allowing him to dress me. In silence, he gently spins me around so he can zip me up and fasten the little buttons in the very back.
“Turn around, now,” he says. I do, not looking at him. My bust looks good, I guess. It sure feels ample and… bare. But the sleeves don’t hide my arms, I still have a rounded belly under which there are curves upon curves. But when he takes me to the full-length mirror in the corner of the massive bathroom, I stare.
I don’t recognize the girl staring back at me. Beneath the makeup I’m wearing, I can still see the scar. This is me. Scars don’t just magically vanish. But I’m not this beautiful. What magic did he work? I turn around in wonder, alarmed at how some preening and this dress have impacted my overall appearance so quickly.
Standing behind me, he takes hold of my waist, his hands spanning either side.
“You are beautiful,” he says with emphasis, as if he’s already predicted my response and knows how uncomfortable this makes me. I prefer being hidden and unobtrusive. I hate the idea of attracting anyone’s attention, because God forbid, they think I’m worthy of attention.
I shake my head. “I don’t like this,” I tell him. “Not at all. Please don’t make me go.” I turn away from the mirror, unable to look at myself for another minute. But his grip on my waist tightens when I try to pull away.
“You have no choice in this.”
“Why not?” I say, my emotions rising. I swallow hard and stare at the floor. I don’t want to look at myself again.
“I’ve already explained to you,” he says tightly. “You’re expected to show yourself to others as my wife. And because I asked.”
To my surprise, his hand comes to my chin and he yanks my face back up, making me look back at the mirror. He grips my chin in his fingers. “You are beautiful. Say it.”
I clench my jaw. His grip on my face tightens.
“Caroline.” There’s warning in his voice I’ve already learned to heed.
“I’m beautiful,” I lie.
He holds my gaze in the mirror, his full of determination and bossiness and mine full of anger and denial. He actually smiles.
“Keep that fire,” he says. “It colors your cheeks and I quite like it.”
I open my mouth to protest, when I realize his command to stay feisty makes my response complicated. Has he tricked me? If I snap at him or act like the little brat he calls me, I’ll be giving him exactly what he wants. I open my mouth to protest, even though I’m not sure what I’ll actually say, when he turns me to face him. Holding my gaze with challenge in his eyes, he lifts my face, bends down, and captures my mouth with his, not bothering to even ask permission with the brush of lips but plundering me with firm, purposeful lashes of his tongue against mine. My knees buckle and I move involuntarily closer to him, my arms grasping his neck for purchase before I swoon, and I will not swoon.
With his lips on mine, I can believe for a minute that he has the potential of being so much more than the man I’m shackled to for life. In my mind, I tell myself to resist this, not to allow him to seduce me and master my thoughts and actions so skillfully. But I can’t help it. Damn it, I’m only human and his kiss tricks me into believing there’s a hint of passion in all this.
As he kisses me, he yanks the skirt of the dress up, gathering the filmy layers in his fist and reaching underneath them to stroke me before he takes out the vibrator. I shudder, then pull closer to him and part my legs, welcoming the pressure and teasing, but he only ghosts a touch before he removes his hand.
“Good girl. I’ll give you good reason not to wear those.”
I’m panting and disheveled, but he quickly rights me and hands me a lip gloss.
“Fix yourself,” he says. I blink, startled by his cold tone. “And then we leave.”
Chapter 11
Tomas
It surprises me that I feel this level of intensity, this need to protect her as deeply as I do. When her brother’s man attacked her back in Atlanta, that was an obvious reaction. She belongs to me, and as such, he had no right to come anywhere near my woman. But why do I feel the way I do now so intensely? As if I need to tuck her against me and shield her from the eyes of the others?
When we step into the hall, I place my hand on her lower back and draw her close to me.
“Why do you keep doing that?” she hisses.
“Doing what?” Her angry tone and hissed voice give me pause.
“Touching me there.” I look down at my hand as if my body has moved of its own accord.
“On your lower back?”
“Yes,” she hisses. “It’s so… intimate.”
Her reaction amuses me. “Sweetheart, I’ve done a lot more intimate things than that,” I say. I don’t know why she finds the lower back touch that much more offensive, but I’ll note it. Her cheeks flush a bit at the reminder of what “intimate things” I’ve done to her.
“It’s like you want to make it clear to all of them that you own me or something.”
I don’t hesitate with my response. “I do.”
She stops walking and eyes me curiously. “You do what?”
“Own you.”
Those beautiful eyes narrow to slits. “You cannot own another human being.”
I snort. “How naïve of you.”
“It’s illegal!”
“Your point?”
“You’re sadistic. You know that?”
“I’m well aware.”
She breathes out an exasperated breath but can’t seem to form any words beyond a strangled, “Argh!”
“Easy, darling,” I tell her, allowing my voice to drip with condescension. “You don’t want to burst a blood vessel. And remember, Caroline. Your behavior determines a punishment or reward. Choose carefully.”
We’ve arrived on the main floor and she suddenly becomes much more subdued than she was before, bowing her head and pulling closer to me. I like this. Without her even realizing it, I’ve become her refuge when all else fails.
Sweet girl, I think. Beneath her barbed exterior, I suspect she’s a lot more innocent than she lets on. And inside, I bet she’s far more vulnerable than she cares to admit.
Her breathing grows ragged, and she closes her eyes. Christ, she’s gorgeous, so pretty I can hardly believe she finds herself unattractive. She has a scar, yes, but it’s rather unremarkable, and I’ve stopped really seeing scars long ago. For many within my brotherhood, violence that leaves marks is a way of life. For many, it serves as more of a distinction than blemish. She’d likely deny it, but there’s an innocence about her that can’t be refuted.
“Tomas.”
Yakov and Yvonne stand just a few paces away, entering the main room from a hallway ahead of us. Yakov wears a navy-blue suit. I haven’t seen him this dressed up since he got here. I appreciate the show of respect. Yvonne wears a soft pink dress, her hair pinned atop her head, silver earrings dangling from her ears. When she first got here, she was intimidated, so much so she could hardly speak. It’s taken some time, but she’s finally grown a bit more accustomed to our methods and our brotherhood. The men of my brotherhood like their women soft, feminine, yielding. Yvonne epitomizes a wife of Bratva leadership. Caroline will learn to do so as well.
“Yakov,” I respond, taking his hand with a firm shake. I nod toward Caroline. “Meet my bride.” I can’t hide the note of pride in my voice. It pleases me to walk into this room with her on my arm.
Yakov reaches out a hand to shake hers, and she reaches a shaky hand out to greet him. Stepping toward him, she gets flustered and catches her toe on thin air, trips, and nearly goes sprawling. Yakov reaches out to catch her just seconds after I do, and I pull her against me.
“Are you okay?” he asks. I have to school myself, so I don’t deck him for coming anywhere near her. I’d kill him if he treated her badly but treating her kindly is almost just as bad. Apparently, I can’t hide my gut reaction, because Yvonne looks at me with wide, terrified eyes. She quickly grabs Yakov’s arm as if to remind me that she’s his.
“You look beautiful, Caroline,” she says in her soft-pitched voice. “Like a princess.”
Caroline turns away and nods, visibly uncomfortable from the praise. “Thank you,” she says. “I’m not sure what they did, but I—” she looks at me and closes her mouth, contemplating, before she continues. “Thank you.”
Yakov steps aside so that we can enter ahead of them. The anteroom to the ballroom is filled with guests just arriving, and a hush goes over the crowd when we enter. I want to leave this room. Just like before, I want to pick her up and whisk her away, away from the eyes of men who do wicked things. Away from the eyes of women who help them. To my private suite where no one can touch us.
“Tomas,” Yakov says in my ear to my left. “Did you invite her brother to join us?”
“Of course not,” I say tightly, smiling at our guests despite wanting to punch someone. What the hell is he asking me this for? “Why?”
“Just asking,” he responds, then moves to the side before I can ask him any questions. He isn’t just asking. For Christ’s sake, you don’t plant an idea like this and leave. Is her brother here? I’ll fucking kill him for showing his face. But Yakov is already gone, and that quickly, people fill in his place. Well-wishers and the like swarm around us so heavily, I feel her tense beside me, her breathing heavy and labored. I will not do this again with her.
Why the fuck did Yakov ask me that?
I need to anchor Caroline to me, so we don’t get separated. I look to my guards and snap my fingers, and instantly they part the crowds. Caroline breathes more easily as we finally enter the main room, but only for a second. I beckon one of the guards over. “Get Yakov back here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Cheers erupt all around us. Our guests are on their feet, clapping to welcome us, the sound of the applause deafening. So many people have arrived, I don’t recognize them all. I snap my fingers to Lev, who’s standing to the side watching us all.
“I want a detailed list of how many guests we have,” I tell him. “This is far more than I was expecting.”
“I think we had more show up than we planned for,” he says apologetically. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Who the hell was in charge of this? Heads will fucking roll for the haphazard way this has been put together. I don’t like the way she looks at me, pale and trembling. It takes me a second to realize she’s too still. She isn’t breathing.
“Breathe,” I whisper in her ear, and she gasps for breath, clutching my arm. She moves so easily from one feeling to the next, but her anxiety gives me pause. I don’t think she’s as defiant as she initially appeared. Her disobedience masks something else. Something hidden. It will be my job to unearth the reason for her anxiety, and I suspect her scar is my first clue.
A waiter offers me champagne. I take two flutes from the tray and hand one to Caroline. She downs it in one big gulp, then hands me the empty flute. I feel a corner of my lips quirk up. I order a second and hand it to her. “Drink.”
She drinks champagne while music plays and guests mingle. I allow it because the flutes are small, and I reason it will help her relax. I lead us to our seats, a small table at the far end of the room adorned with a large vase of red roses.
“Sit.” She sort of wobbles when she takes her seat, but she
obeys.
“Good girl,” I praise. “Just follow my lead.”
“You make it sound so easy,” she says through pursed lips. She sways a little.
Is she more of a lightweight than I expected?
“Then don’t follow my lead. Disobey and earn a punishment.”
Her eyes narrow.
I shrug. “You know what’s on the table.”
“Looks like a bottle of wine,” she quips, pretending I’m speaking literally. I suddenly realize that she’s slurring her words. Is she that sensitive that three small flutes of champagne have her tipsy?
I smirk, open the bottle, and pour her a small glass.
“My dear sir,” she says through thick lips. “If I didn’t know any better, I would think you’re trying to get me drunk.”
Drunk, no. Relaxed and in good humor? Yes.
“Just be sure you drink a glass of water in between each glass of champagne,” I tell her.
“Then looks like I need a six-pack of water,” she mutters.
“Are you serious? You drank that much already? Did you take more when I wasn’t looking?”
She bites her lip and puts her fingers out, counting clumsily. “Maybe,” she mutters. “I can’t exactly remember.” She frowns. “I never drink much. I promise. I just didn’t know it would taste that good and help me feel so nice. Did I drink too much?”
I reach for her wine glass, because it’s time I cut her off, but someone comes to say hello, and after we’ve spoken, I see her polishing off yet another drink.
“Caroline!” I say in surprise.
She tips her head to the side, like a little curious puppy. Her hair falls in her eyes. So fetching and innocent. “What? You have your angry face on.”
I grunt. She’ll end up earning good spanking if she doesn’t stop.
“You shouldn’t have had so much to drink. You’ll give yourself a hangover.”
“What I’ll do is give myself courage,” she says. “Courage, said the lion!” She pitches off in a sing-song voice, “If I were king of the forr-ressst…”