by Brynn Ford
Counts of Eight (The Four Families, Book 1)
Copyright © 2020 Brynn Ford
Published by Brynn Ford
Cover Design Copyright © 2020 Najla Qamber at Najla Qamber Designs
Interior Formatting by Nada Qamber at Najla Qamber Designs
Editing by Silvia Curry at Silvia’s Reading Corner
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews that are cited appropriately.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
More from the Author
www.brynnford.com
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For dark romance readers everywhere,
you are my people.
Thank you being unapologetically daring.
CONTENT WARNING
This book contains explicit sexual content, violence, and mature themes including scenes where consent is not sought or given. The author in no way condones such heinous acts, but rather seeks to immerse the reader in the true horror of the characters’ experiences. This is your trigger warning - reader discretion is advised.
SERIES NOTE
“Counts of Eight” is book one of three in the Four Families trilogy. It is not a standalone and the books must be read in order. The author plans to release books one and two in 2020 and book three by early 2021. The cliffhanger ending may provoke you to fling this book at the wall. Best of luck to you, daring readers.
BOOKS BY BRYNN FORD
The Four Families Trilogy
Counts of Eight
Dance with Death
Pas de Trois
The Black Ties Duet
Blue
Switch
Prologue
Anya
1 Week Ago
“Come with me and do exactly as I say,” Nikolai hisses into my ear.
My arm is already hooked through his at the four families’ talent reception as he drags me away from the crowd and down an empty hallway. I always go with him and do exactly as he says because I have no choice in the matter.
We’re following Vigo of the Vittori family down one of the many halls in the O’Shea family’s gregarious estate in Ireland. Nikolai steals surreptitious glances behind him to see if we’re being followed. Everything about this screams danger, but as his slave, so does everything else in my life.
I’m practically jogging to keep up with him. His strides are too long and sharp for my petite height to match. My high heels click with every step along the hardwood floor as he drags me along, echoing in the empty hallway. Nikolai huffs out a low grunt of agitation and stops abruptly. I nearly topple as he whips around to face me. He bends, shoving his shoulder into my gut and wraps his arms around the backs of my knees. He stands, lifting me, hoisting me up over his shoulder with ease.
“Must you always draw so much fucking attention to yourself?” he growls.
Being swept up over his shoulder catches me off guard and I feel lightheaded for a moment as the top half of my body is flipped upside-down and dangles over his back.
He strides off faster than before, presumably still chasing after the Head of House for the Vittori family. We turn into a room and I hear the door click and lock shut behind us. Nikolai tosses me off his shoulder carelessly, as always, and I fall onto a plush chair.
The room we’re in reeks of cigar smoke and my vision seems clouded. A fireplace burns bright orange in front of me and the air is warm. Nikolai doesn’t sit and neither does Vigo. Both men square off with each other in front of the crackling flames. I look back and forth between them as they stand seething.
“So,” Nikolai finally says, “what information do you have?”
“Information isn’t free, Nikolai,” Vigo Vittori replies in his heavy Italian accent with a sinful looking smirk.
Nikolai holds his hand out toward me. “You can take whatever payment you like from her as long as you return her alive and able to dance.”
My heart sinks low in my gut, rolling a wave of anxious nausea through my entire body. My neck muscles tense up immediately with the knowledge that I’m about to be used.
I’m in shock.
I belong to Nikolai.
He’s never shared me.
Vigo looks me up and down and nods his approval as Nikolai casually adjusts his cufflinks. “Deal. I’ll take her for the night.”
Nikolai laughs. “The night? I don’t even know if I can trust your sources, Vigo. Particularly since all signs point to your family as the ones who brought down that plane and my entire family along with it.”
“My sources? The information I have comes straight from the horse’s mouth. I have the recorded phone conversations to prove it.”
“Give me the recordings,” Nikolai demands.
Vigo laughs. A humorless smile twists his features into something that looks purely demonic. His deep, honey-brown eyes glow inhumanly with the reflection of firelight. Thick, jet-black hair frames his devious expression.
Black—a color that seems so fitting on him.
Dark and all-consuming.
“You think I’m just going to hand them over?”
“I’ve offered you payment. I’m no fool, Vigo. You’ve been pining over Anya for years. You should be grateful for five minutes with her,” he sighs, pauses, then lets desperation lead him into concession, “but I’ll grant you two hours.”
Two hours with me.
I think my heart stops beating. I no longer feel the thrum of my pulse. My breath has been stolen from me. Nikolai is fiercely possessive and territorial. I could have never guessed he would offer me up for another man to use, especially not this one.
I wonder if rape from one man feels different than rape from another. I know it can’t possibly be better. My instinct tells me that with Vigo, it will be worse.
My eyes burn a hole in Nikolai’s black tuxedo jacket, seething with the wish that he had been killed along with his family last year in that plane crash. He made it crystal-clear that he would cut off my head and serve it on a platter if it ensured he got what he wanted—information on why that plane went down.
Vigo’s aura suggests that decapitation might be preferred to letting him use me. At least then it would all end. At least then it would be quick, maybe even painless.
Considering the option, Vigo looks me over appraisingly. “I’ll take her for two, but I’m not giving you the recordings. I’ll let you listen to them under my supervision once I’m satisfied with the payment I’ve received.”
“If you’re not handing over the recordings, then I’m not giving her up for two hours. One hour and you let me hear the recordings. And I supervise your use of my slave or no deal.”
“Are you serious?”
“Do I look like I am anything other than serious?” Nikolai snarls.
I can only see the side of his face where his lip twitches upward in the corner. I can picture the look in his gray eyes without having to think about it. I know it all too well. I know how his skin wrinkles into cr
ow’s feet when he narrows his eyes. I know how his cheeks twitch as his nostrils flair in frustration.
My breath and my heartbeat kick-start in a rush as Nikolai’s hand twitches at his side. My spine straightens instinctually, sitting up straighter, preparing for the inevitable urge to flee before his temper ticks.
Surely a demon must recognize the Devil—just as Vigo recognizes my master.
“Fine, fine,” Vigo holds up his palms, “I don’t care if you watch. Maybe she’ll enjoy that.”
Nikolai makes an amused sound. “She won’t. But I don’t care. I just want my information. Anya…” He holds out his hand as he says my name and I stand.
I reach out my trembling hand as my nerves run cold and make me shiver from head to toe. He pulls me to stand next to him, snaking his arm around my waist and holding me tightly to his side. His fingers dig into the side of my stomach and my muscles twitch beneath his rough touch.
“Before I hand her over, tell me which of the four families were responsible for the death of mine? Tell me, and then I’ll give you the hour before we listen to the recordings.”
Vigo waits a dramatic beat, though none of this matters to me at all. “The Campbells.”
Nikolai’s lip twitches as it twists into a sneer. “The fucking Americans. I knew it.”
His hand slips from my side to my back and shoves me forward. I stumble on my heels, but Vigo’s arms reach out and snatch me. I feel sick, nauseous, not just in my stomach, but throughout my entire body.
“Don’t worry, beautiful, I’ve got you,” he croons in his overbearing accent.
I shove at his chest, managing to push him away one step, but he rushes me. I wouldn’t stand a chance getting away as Nikolai remains a brick wall behind me. Trying to back away, I bounce off his chest and fall right into Vigo’s arms again.
Nikolai steps up behind me and pulls the zipper on the back of my black evening gown. He tugs at the straps and they fall down my arms, the entire sweeping, sequined dress slipping off in one swift motion. I tug and pull backward, trying to break free from Vigo’s hold, but Nikolai stops me. He grabs my long brown hair, twists it around his fist, and yanks hard. I gasp with the sharp sting of it.
His breath is warm against my ear. “If you fight him again, I will hurt you, rabynya.”
I swallow hard, pressing my eyes shut to center myself. I reach deep down within my soul to find the blizzard that’s always lying in wait. I let the storm blow in around my heart and freeze it, making me cold and hard against the oncoming assault.
Nikolai’s hand skims up from the back of my thigh to my ass and squeezes tight, bruising me with his fingertips. “You may use her ass and her mouth, Vigo, but her cunt is off limits. That belongs to me and me alone. You may give her pain, but you will not harm her in such a way that will prevent her from dancing. No broken bones, no sprains. She is a talent slave, after all, not one of your broken dolls to toss around. I need her strong enough for her new dance partner who is arriving next week. Do you understand?”
I have a new partner arriving next week?
Another stolen boy to help me entertain moy khozyain. My master.
My heart races, thumping painfully behind my ribs and tears rush to glass over my eyes. I blink them away, refusing to let them fall, letting them freeze inside my internal snowstorm instead.
“Oh, yes, I understand,” Vigo says. “Now hand her over and start your clock, Mr. Mikhailov. I’m eager to take my payment for your information.”
Nikolai releases me with a hard shove forward and I let Vigo drag me away to the bed in the far corner of the room. With the blizzard snow falling over my soul, my emotions are hidden behind a layer of ice. The ice protects me from the pain of being present in this moment that reminds me that I am a slave to the Mikhailov family.
I am Nikolai’s belonging.
Chapter 1
Ezra
Present
One heavy blow to the side of my head knocks me sideways. I drop to my knees from the force of it, which is exactly what they want from me. An aura of pain whips around my head, pulsing an ache inside my skull. If I was able to see, I imagine there would be flashes in my vision—dark spots of pain as it throbs. The black hood they put over my head hours ago prevents me from seeing anything at all.
I grunt, planting my right boot firmly on the hard ground beneath me, straining against the pain in a vain attempt to push to my feet. I stumble, unbalanced with my wrists zip-tied behind my back.
Someone grabs me at the elbow and I act on impulse, pushing myself full force against the touch. I use my weight to barrel into them, but it’s no use. Three other hands are on me in an instant—grasping me, pushing me, forcing me down to the ground. There are voices all around me, some shouting, some ordering, all in a language I don’t understand.
When they get me to my knees for a second time, they keep me there. Powerful hands press down on my shoulders as I try to shake them off.
“Get off me!” I shout, though I don’t know who I’m shouting at.
“Stop fighting them. It will only delay the inevitable.”
I freeze at the unexpected croon of a strong female voice. I had heard only men since I was captured, and the change surprises me, though the sound is muffled through the fabric hood.
“Good,” the woman says once I stop struggling.
“I suppose you wish to know why you’re here,” she says.
She speaks in English, but there’s a hint of an accent there. She speaks fluently, but it’s clear English isn’t her native language. The clipped syllables and rushed flow of her words hint at something Slavic.
Am I still in the Ukraine?
I know that can’t be right. I was in Kyiv for a performance yesterday when I was taken. I woke up on a plane and had to have spent hours there. After we landed we traveled by car for another two, maybe three hours before I landed on my knees here.
My breaths are heavy, agitated from the fighting. It’s hot behind the hood, each exhale adding fresh heat. It feels like a slow suffocation. I want this damn thing off my head, not just so I can take a clean breath, but so I can see the fuckers who are holding me down.
“Where is here?” I demand.
“Here is home,” the woman tells me. “That’s all you need to know for now.”
I laugh humorlessly. “Home?”
“Take that thing off his head. Let me see him.”
There’s a whoosh of air as my face is freed from the obstructive barrier. I squint as bright, fluorescent lights overwhelm my vision. I blink rapidly, determined to get my eyes to adjust quickly so I can assess my surroundings. I was under that hood for so long that it’s nearly painful to open my eyes.
I flinch as fingers wrap around my chin. They’re delicate and soft as they tilt my head to the side. The odd touch ignites a brief, electric spark that puts me off my game enough to hate it. I jerk my head to the side, forcing the hand that touches me to fall away.
I force myself to look up, though the light burns behind my irises, and take in the sight of the woman standing before me. She’s petite, her dark brown hair tightly pulled back into a low bun, and thick, matching eyebrows spread broad across her wide eyes.
Blue.
Clear, crystal blue eyes.
Cold as ice blue eyes that cut into mine like a spiked icicle falling from a rooftop gutter above my head.
She looks young and old at the same time, and she doesn’t smile. Subtle frown lines along the sides of her mouth indicate a prolonged season of displeasure.
She appraises me sourly, then lifts her head to look beyond me and speak to someone somewhere behind me in the room.
“Moy khozyain.” The foreign words are forced from between her plump lips in what I finally work out to be a Russian accent. “Another hip-hop dancer? Is this the best you could give me?”
I study her face as she speaks. She looks disappointed, humbled, frustrated, and terrified all in one expression. Her eyes blink and she flinches at the same time I do. A forceful voice booms from somewhere behind my head with an accent that matches hers.
“How dare you ask me that? Remember your place, rabynya.” His tone is gruff, insistent. “I will expect your apology for questioning me later this evening.”
The woman’s eyes drop to the floor, darting quickly away at the command. “Da, khozyain.”
I turn my head, craning my neck to see the man with the forceful voice, but I only catch a glimpse of him exiting the room before cold skin lands on mine again. The woman’s hand comes down hard across my cheek, slapping me to get my attention. I sneer, lifting my head to look at her.
“Who the fuck are you?” I demand.
“I am your master. You are my slave. The sooner you accept this, the easier it will be for you.”
Her insinuation that I should just accept whatever fucked up situation I’ve been forced into pisses me off, fueling the flame of my instinct to fight. I find myself faltering as I feel the surge of adrenaline to attack this small, likely fragile woman in front of me. But I need to take her down to distract the men on either side of me, each holding one of my shoulders, just long enough so I can take them out and get the fuck out of this place.
It’s a place that looks so safe and comforting and familiar with its pristinely kept hardwood floors, mirrored walls, and bright lighting.
It’s a dance studio large enough for thirty world-class dancers to practice in. It doesn’t matter if the space feels comfortable to me, there’s danger here. I shove down all the warm feelings it threatens to bring to the surface and let the rage take over.
One and then the other, I plant each foot firmly onto the floor as I lift to my feet without warning. I rush the girl, lunging after her with a guttural groan of determination. She expects my attack, shifting and side-stepping in an attempt to get out of the way. All she manages to do is lessen the force of my blow as I duck to ram my shoulder into her gut. It knocks her to the floor, and she lands with a thud as I fall on top of her.