His Captive Bratva Princess: A Bratva Captive Romance

by Cole, Jagger

  I grin. “Let’s learn the lines.”

  Celine beams at me and hugs me close. “That’s my girl. I love you, honey.”

  “Excuse me, Belle?”

  A man slips out of the door I just came out of. I turn and suddenly recognize him as the head casting director. My heart crawls into my throat, and my hand clenches my aunt’s.

  “Yes?” I squeak.

  “Unless you need to go, we’d love if you came back in and ran a few more lines.” He glances at my aunt. “Is that okay?”

  Aunt Celine looks down at me with a barely contained smirk. “That okay with you, honey?”

  I nod eagerly, beaming.

  “Then go get ‘em!” She blurts through a huge grin.

  I follow the man back into the audition hall. Ten minutes later, he and the other casting directors are standing with applause. An hour later, I’m being introduced to Jim, my new agent. An hour after that, I’m signing my name on a mountain of paperwork.

  Ten months later, the movie I have twenty lines in—my first acting job ever—is up for four Academy Awards, and my life is never, ever going to be the same again.

  Present:

  The motorcycle thunders between my thighs. My pulse is racing about as fast as the bike is down the long stretch of empty highway. And I’m holding on for dear life, wondering what the hell I’ve just gotten myself into.

  We left Chicago fifteen minutes ago. Then we moved from the interstate to a more rural, seemingly empty country highway. I have no idea where I am, and I’ve got my arms around a complete and utter stranger.

  I might be fucking deranged.

  Yes, the stranger I’m clinging to is completely gorgeous. And not in a Hollywood way. He’s not “fake bad boy” like Daniel and a hundred other young actors just like him. He’s a rough kind of hot. A damaged, dinged-up, long and dusty road kind of hot. The actual bad boy kind of hot.

  I can feel his back muscles coil against me as I cling to him. When he revs the engine, I can feel his shoulder muscles roll in a way that sends heat though my core. Between that, the masculine smell of his leather jacket, and the rumbling throb of the engine between my legs?

  I blush. It’s bad enough that I’m in the middle of nowhere on the back of a stranger’s motorcycle. Being hopelessly turned on while doing that makes it ten times worse.

  But the longer we ride, the more the reality of my situation begins to dawn on me. Or maybe the anger about Daniel that’s been clouding my ability to make sane, rational decisions is lifting. Either way, suddenly I’m very aware that, hot or not, I’m with a complete fucking stranger, going God-only-knows-where, and not a single person knows where I am.

  No, seriously, am I insane?

  This man could be a psychopath. A killer! I mean for fuck’s sake, we could be on our way to an abandoned cabin in the woods where he wants to wear my freaking skin.

  As the panic starts to grip me, I start to thrash. I’m looking around wildly, craning my neck to see if I can see any signs. I go to take a hand off of his waist to reach for my phone. But he grabs my wrist and yanks my hand back to him.

  Fear seizes me, and I yank my hand away again. The stranger yells something over his shoulder. But I can’t hear him over the wind. He grabs my hand and puts it back on his waist. Which just pisses me off, so I yank it back again.

  Then, I start to hit him. I’m screaming, pounding on his back as the bike veers wildly. He roars something over his shoulder. Suddenly, the motorcycle is slowing as he pulls it to the side of the highway. A cloud of dust kicks up as he rumbles off the pavement and onto the dusty shoulder.

  As soon as the bike comes to a stop—the engine still running—I suddenly rip my hands away from him and lunge off the back of the motorcycle. My heart is racing as I stumble back from him. The stranger turns off the engine, angrily kicks down the kickstand, and swings his leg over the bike.

  He whirls on me and yanks his sunglasses off. His dark, brooding eyes pierce into me furiously as his lips curl.

  “What the fuck!?” He roars.

  “Get the fuck away from me!!” I scream, backing away from him.

  “Do you have any idea how insanely fucking dangerous and stupid it is to hit a rider while you’re on the fucking back of the bike!?”

  He swears and turns to angrily kick at a tuft of dusty grass. He whirls on me, looking absolutely furious. “What the hell is your problem?! I offered to give you a ride, not go out in a blaze of fucking glory with you!”

  My eyes narrow. My hand drifts to the back pocket of my cutoffs. I start to wonder if I can call 911 before he can take it from me. I also wonder if I’ll even survive long enough to be rescued by them.

  “Hey! Psycho!”

  I snap out of it as he takes a step towards me.

  “You still with me there, crazy girl?”

  I glare at him. “So what was your plan, huh?!”

  He frowns. “What? My… what are you talking about?”

  “Taking me someplace like a secluded cabin? That it?!”

  His brows knit. “Are you fucking unwell?”

  My lips purse, and I eye him warily as my hand creeps back for my phone.

  “Okay, you jumped onto my bike, sweetheart,” he growls. “But yeah, sure. I was just hanging around downtown Chicago for a random girl to literally get on my bike herself without warning, so that I could kidnap her. You got me.”

  I roll my eyes. “Random, huh? You’re seriously going to try and tell me I am just a ‘random girl’ to you?”

  He frowns. “What?”

  “Yeah, well, looks like your plan isn’t going to work.”

  I yank my phone out. My eyes drop to it and I groan. No service. Of course.

  “What are you, calling the fucking police?”

  “Yep!” I snap.

  The man rolls his eyes. “I don’t need this shit,” he grunts to himself. He takes a deep breath and turns to glare at me. “Well, since you’re so eager to be off the bike, here you go. Here’s the end of the ride.”

  He spreads his arms, glancing left and right up and down the utterly deserted, dusty highway.

  “Maybe Bubba the trucker will give you a lift if you’re real friendly with him.”

  I purse my lips. “Where were you taking me?”

  He rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t ‘taking you’ fucking anywhere. I was going someplace, and you tagged along.”

  I sneer. “Oh, like you’d have said no to me.”

  He stares at me. “Wow, that’s…” he shakes his head. He raises his hand and rakes his fingers over the dark stubble on his perfect jaw. “That’s something alright.”

  “Oh please, don’t even try. You probably can’t wait to go brag to your buddies about who you had on your bike today.”

  His brow knits. “Princess, I’d rather not tell a single person I know that I was dumb enough to let some random crazy chick ride on my bike and almost kill us both.”

  I frown. That’s the second time he’s called me a random girl. In a way, it’s refreshing that he’s not being weird about me being famous, like most people are. In a conceited way though, it’s kind of annoying.

  Suddenly, he turns and strides back to the bike. My heart skips.

  “Whoa! Hang on! What the hell are you doing?!”

  “Leaving.”

  My jaw drops. “You can’t just leave me here!!”

  “Yeah?” He glances over his shoulder at me as he tightens the buckle on the saddlebags. “Watch me.”

  The desperation starts to clutch at my throat. “Please! I’m sorry, okay? Where were you—”

  “Are, not ‘were.’ I’m still going there.”

  I purse my lips. “Fine, where are you going?”

  He looks up at me with a big grin. “A secluded cabin.”

  I swallow. “Look, I told you I’d pay you twenty-thousand—”

  He laughs. “I’m sure.”

  “You think I’m lying?”

  “Yup.”

  I stare
at him. “You seriously don’t think I have twenty grand lying around? Have you not seen my house?”

  He laughs. “You’re off your fucking meds, princess.”

  I stare at him. Holy shit, there’s a chance this man actually doesn’t know who I am. I know it sounds conceited as hell, but how is that even possible?

  “I’m not joking! I can seriously give you twenty-thousand—”

  “I don’t want or need your fake money, sweetheart,” he growls, swinging his leg over the motorcycle.

  I glare daggers at him. “Anyone ever tell you you’re an asshole?!”

  “Probably.” He shrugs and looks at me. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a brat?”

  I start to open my mouth, but he cuts me off. “PS, whatever the answer is, believe, it’s not enough.”

  My nose wrinkles. “Fuck you.”

  He sighs and turns back to me again. “You know what, sweetheart?” There’s a savage edge to his voice. I tremble as he swings his leg over the bike again and gets off, turning towards me as my skin tingles.

  “I might.”

  I shiver as his gorgeous eyes pierce into mine.

  “Fuck you, that is.”

  My pulse thuds.

  “You… you wouldn’t dare touch—”

  “Yeah, I would,” he growls. He steps even closer to me. Part of me wants to turn and run. Or at the least, back away. But it’s like my feet are stuck and unresponsive.

  The man smirks at me. “I honestly think it might improve your fucking mental state, to say nothing of your attitude.”

  My jaw drops. “You arrogant fucking—”

  “That what the problem is, princess?”

  “Stop calling me tha—!”

  “You just need to get fucked?”

  I swallow. My face is burning fiercely. My skin is tingling all over. A heat throbs and pools between my thighs. We’re so close, too. He’s actually right in front of me now, looming over me, glaring down into my eyes. I could raise my hand and touch his chest.

  My body trembles. My breath comes heavy. My heart is racing, and I can feel my nipples hard against my top.

  I’ve suddenly gone from a kidnapping panic situation to the hottest, most explosive moment of my life.

  “The thing is, princess,” he grunts quietly. His eyes spark as he leans down. “I would.”

  My breath catches.

  “I’d fuck you right here and right now on the side of this road.

  I tremble all over with heat. My legs feel like jelly, and my panties are soaked.

  “You—”

  “I just don’t know if there’s enough room.”

  I frown. “What?”

  He grins widely. “What with the giant ego and that huge stick up your ass—”

  I slap him, hard. His head snaps to the side, and I watch in horror as his jaw grits. His eyes burn hotly, and a growl rumbles in his throat.

  “What’s that, princess?” He hisses quietly, turning back to me. “I didn’t quite catch—”

  My hand flies up to slap him again. But this time, I gasp when he grabs my wrist in his hand. He yanks me into him, and I fall against his big, muscled chest. My pulse is racing. My head is swimming. My legs are weak as I look up into his gorgeous eyes.

  “Take your fucking hands off of—”

  “No thanks.”

  His mouth crushes to mine, and I moan as the kiss sends fire through my very toes. But I don’t hit him. I don’t push him away or try and run.

  I kiss him back.

  Now I know I’m completely fucking insane.

  4

  Nikolai

  Eighteen Years Ago:

  Thudda-thudda-thudda-thudda…

  The ball bag bounces of my fist rhythmically. Over and over, it beats again and again, like a drum matching my heartbeat.

  “Niko!”

  I don’t hear Mr. Palmer’s voice. All I hear is the Thudda-thudda-thudda-thudda. All I see is the boxing practice bag bouncing off the back rim, then back to my fist.

  Every hit almost throws me backwards off the stool. I’m big for my age, but I’m still only nine. The stool gets me to the bag’s height a lot easier than jumping for every swing. My eyes narrow. My jaw clenches as I count the repetitions like a mantra.

  Thudda-thudda-thudda-thudda…

  “Hey! Niko!”

  Thudda-thudda-thudda-thudda…

  A weathered, scarred hand suddenly juts out and stops the bag. My fist swings wildly through thin air, almost taking me off the stool before the man steadies me. He chuckles as I whirl to look at him with a snarl on my lips.

  “Whoa, whoa! Easy there, Ali.”

  I relax when I focus and realize who it is. My mom and I live in the second floor Queens apartment above Mr. Palmer. When she’s working late, which is most of the time, he watches me—completely voluntarily, too. My mom used to fight him on that and try and give him some cash. But she and him both know how scarce money is.

  “Besides, I get to train the next heavyweight champ here!” He says every time.

  That’s a lot of what we do, out in the garage. After he showed me the Rocky movies, I was hooked. And since Mr. Palmer used to be kind of a big deal in the New York boxing scene when he was a lot younger, it’s a perfect arrangement.

  “Ali?” I snort. “Nah, Tyson, Mr. Palmer.”

  He chuckles and rolls his eyes. “Kid, Ali woulda mopped the goddamn floor with Tyson.”

  “No way!”

  “Yes way. And fix your stance.”

  I grumble and shift my feet around on the stool. “Mr. Palmer, all due respect, but you’re so wrong. Look at Tyson versus Frazier! He destroyed him!”

  He chuckles again. “Yeah, well Ali woulda wiped his tuchas with Frazier. It’s a no contest, kid. The golden oldies are golden for a reason. Now c’mon, square those shoulders and let me see that machine-gun routine we practiced last week.”

  I refocus and harden my gaze. Then I’m right into it. Left-right-left. Left-left-right-left-hard right. Mr. Palmer nods, coaching me along.

  I like our sessions. I mean there’s not a whole lot about life right now that’s all that good. My mom works three jobs, we’re poor, we live in a pretty crappy, small apartment, and I get shit on daily by the other kids in the neighborhood for being “foreign.”

  That’d be on account of my mom being Russian. I was born here, but the name “Nikolai” doesn’t jive all that well in our predominately Irish-Catholic neighborhood. Everyone around here’s poor. But if you’re poor and your mom speaks English as a second language? Forget it. You’re a dead man walking.

  Mr. Palmer says that’s about to change, though. Apparently, I’m about to have a growth spurt. Plus, he’s got me enrolled in my first tournament fight—an all-borough division thing with trophies and everything.

  “Malysh.”

  I grin when I turn and see my mom standing outside the open garage door in the driveway.

  “Hey mama!”

  She smiles wearily. She looks beyond exhausted after her double shift at the diner and then her other job cleaning hospital rooms. My mom doesn’t talk about her life back in Russia, but I know she was going to be a doctor. That’s kinda out of the cards here, but I think she likes at least working in a hospital. I hope so, at least.

  I jump down and run over to give her a big hug. She smiles and holds me tight, bending to kiss my head.

  “Were you good for Mr. Palmer, solntse?”

  I groan and roll my eyes. “Mom! Stop calling me that!” I mumble, glancing at Mr. Palmer.

  He just chuckles. “Hey, you let your mama call you whatever sweet names she wants,” he winks at me. “Sunshine.”

  I groan. “See? Now everyone’s gonna know what that means!”

  Mr. Palmer laughs. “Your secret is safe with me, kid.”

  My mom smiles at me. She holds out a canvas bag. “I got you something between shifts.”

  I grin and open the bag. Inside are half a dozen library books with those plastic
-y dust jackets on them. All of them are about World War 1, the Russian Revolution, and pre-war European history. I freaking love books like this.

  “Wow! Mom!”

  She beams through the exhaustion on her face. Then she reaches out to tap my forehead gently. “So when you’re not being a boxing champion, you can make your brain strong, too.”

  She sighs heavily and turns to smile at Mr. Palmer. “Thank you for watching him. Honestly.”

  “It’s never a problem. You know that, Masha.”

  She wrinkles her brow. “I was thinking I might be able to short my double on Wednesdays and come clean your place as a thank—”

  “Masha, c’mon,” Mr. Palmer shakes his head with a smile. “We’re all good, I promise. Besides, you know what I say. I get to—”

  “Train the next heavyweight champ,” my mom rattles off alongside him with a smile. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop asking.”

  “Please do.”

  My mom ruffles my hair. “Let’s go make you some dinner—”

  “I ate.”

  She groans and looks at Mr. Palmer sharply. But even I can see the gratitude in her eyes.

  “Nothin’ crazy. We went wild on some Big Macs, didn’t we kid? Oh, there’s a McChicken sandwich up there with your name on it, Masha.”

  “I owe—”

  “No, you don’t. Besides, the Champ here has to eat to train.”

  She smiles again and glances down at me. “Well, time to come up for bed.”

  “Aww, mom! One more minute?”

  She rolls her eyes with a small smile.

  “You go get off your feet, Masha. I’ll send him up in a minute to work on that brain of his,” Mr. Palmer grins.

  “Okay, one minute, solntse. Okay?”

  “Da, mama.”

  My mom trudges up the wooden outdoor staircase to the upstairs apartment door. I climb back onto the stool and focus. When we’re finished with the drill, Mr. Palmer ruffles my hair with a grin.

  “You coulda given Frazier a run for his money with that one, kid.”

  “Joe or Marvis?”