When I told Anna, I thought she might laugh.
Or flat-out refuse to believe me.
It’s true. I’ve had an absurd number of women try to throw themselves at my feet over my long years as king of kings, but they’ve never stirred anything interest in me, never made me care.
They were never her.
I look up at Anna as she walks into the room, piling her dark hair atop her head artfully, so sexy and womanly with her movements, her bathrobe showing a slice of chest that has my balls aching and willing me to take her, take her right now.
“You’re lucky Rocky’s here,” I tell her.
She giggles and kneels down to rub Rocky behind his ears, and then glances at the second coffee mug on the counter.
“Wait a second, Artem Elgort, you didn’t actually make me coffee, did you?”
I chuckle, feeling more carefree than I have in my entire life.
I wonder if this is what childhood feels like, full of hope for the future. I wouldn’t know.
“I might not be a soon-to-be-Michelin-star chef like you, Anna, but believe it or not, I know how to work the coffee machine. Shall we drink these in the garden? It’s a nice morning and I don’t have to leave for work for an hour yet.”
A strange smile touches her lips as she stares at me with her bright blue eyes.
“What?” I say, looking back at her.
“What?” she echoes, cutely dancing across the kitchen.
“You’re … looking at me.”
“Hmm, and is that a crime now?” She giggles, resting her chin in her hands as she leans on the counter, giving me a glimpse of her breasts that makes me want to suck them until they’re red-raw. “It’s just this is so crazy. I woke up thinking it might be a dream. I mean, it feels so right, you know? But at the same time I’m scared that I’ll wake up and be back there, back in that … that hell, being sold.”
“Sold,” I say, nodding. “Nobody should be treated like that. Come on, let’s go outside. We’ll drink our coffee in the sun and let Rocky run around. Things will seem better with a little caffeine.”
We walk out to the deck furniture together, the sun cresting the horizon and bathing the grounds in bright, hopeful yellow. We sit around the oak table and lay our coffee down, Anna folding one leg over the other, her thighs pale and creamy, making me imagine grabbing them and leaving my beast’s paw-print on her flesh.
Anna meets my eye and then rolls hers, smiling so that two endearing dimples open up in her cheeks.
“You’re insatiable,” she says. “How many times did we do it yesterday, huh, and you still want more?”
“Four,” I growl. “And yes, I do. And so do you.”
“Guilty,” she whispers, blushing only a little.
We both sip our coffee and watch as Rocky sprints straight for the fountain, probably attracted to the bobbing stone ornaments that skim across the surface, propelled by invisible strings that keep them afloat.
“I think he’s going to jump in there,” Anna notes.
I laugh grimly.
“I think you might be—”
Splash.
Water flies into the air and flares in droplets as Rocky clears the stone lip of the fountain and ends up in the water. I watch him carefully, making sure he can swim, and then turn back to Anna when I see that, not only can he swim, but he could join the goddamned Olympics.
“Artem,” Anna whispers, watching Rocky but talking to me.
“Yes?”
“Who are you?”
I smirk, the question is so broad, but then she turns to me and I see the seriousness of her expression.
“I mean, I know who you are, on paper. I know that you’re Artem Elgort, leader of the Bratva. But up until yesterday, I thought you might be – could be – a bad man. Or a cut-and-dry criminal. But now I’ve seen this other side of you, and it just confuses the hell out of me.”
“Do you really want to know who I am?” I say, voice low, mind swimming as I wonder if I’m really going to tell her, show her.
“Of course,” she whispers.
I sigh and stand up, feeling like a small child again all of a sudden, as though these last twenty-something years never happened, as though I’m still a small scared boy waiting for the whip.
I turn and pull my T-shirt over my head.
Behind me, Anna draws in a gasp.
I know what she can see.
Rows and rows of lash marks, scars layered upon each other from my unconventional, fucked-up childhood.
“I was born in one of the most evil places in the world,” I tell her, my voice sounding dead and emotionless. Perhaps that’s the only way to deal with something like this. “In a cold, distant place in Russia, that’s where I was born, in a gulag that never stopped. My mother died in childbirth and my father died before I was born, and I was raised as a slave to a sect of fucked-up zealots who thought the world was going to end and that we, their slaves, were put here to serve them in any way they pleased.
“When I was fifteen years old, I led a rebellion. I slaughtered those who needed slaughtering. I left. I came here. I took over the Bratva and I made something of myself. I’ve tried to be a good man since then, but… I try, Anna, I really fucking try.”
I hear the tremble in my voice as I turn back around, grabbing my T-shirt and pulling it on, sitting down and watching as Rocky leaps from the fountain and starts circling it, frantically sniffing the ground.
“I’ve never told anyone that before,” I say, heaving a sigh.
Anna stands and moves to my chair, sliding down into my lap, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and bringing her face close to mine. We end up forehead to forehead, staring directly into each other.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, smoothing her hands through my hair, down the back of my neck, the feeling pleasant, right. “That’s awful. But you survived, Artem. You survived.”
“So did you,” I growl with passion, hugging her tight to me. “Perhaps that’s another reason I feel so close to you. You haven’t had it easy, either.”
“I hardly think you can compare growing up in an orphanage and being the high school loser with what you lived through,” she says.
“Why not?” I growl. “Everyone has their struggles. I only told you mine because I don’t want there to be any secrets between us, ever.”
“In that case, you should know that my parents were junkies. Junkies who OD’d. It’s all very pedestrian compared with your struggles, Artem, but there it is.”
“You’re brave,” I tell her, kissing her lips softly. “You’ve been a Bratva warrior-queen your whole damn life, Anna. You’ve just never had a chance to let it show before.”
She hugs me closer to her and I do the same, savoring the warmth of her, feeling like a giant invisible boot has been finally lifted from my neck.
All my life, I’ve lived with the weight of the past, pressing down on me, making me feel like that scared little boy living in the dark.
But now, with Anna, I can let it go.
I can let it go and just … just fucking be.
“That was why I hated that fucking auction,” I say. “That was why I had to have you. I wish I could’ve done more. I wish I could have freed all those women. But life isn’t simple. Especially my life. It’s so complicated, sometimes, trying to do the right thing when you’re surrounded by snakes.”
“You’re a good man, Artem,” she whispers. “I won’t hear any different.”
“I try to be,” I say. “Anyway, enough of this depressing shit. I’m taking you out tonight. You’re my woman now and I’ve finally got the free time to treat you like it. I’m arranging the date of your dreams. I’m even picking out a special outfit for you.”
“And do I get to know what any of this entails, hmm?”
“Absolutely not,” I smirk.
“Ooh, mysterious.”
“Humor me,” I laugh, kissing her at the corner of the mouth.
If I kissed her properl
y, I’d lose control, our bodies would slide effortlessly into the lustful patterns they made last night.
Because this woman is just too perfect.
And she’s mine.
All mine.
She’s the only person in the world who knows who I really am.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Anna
I spend the day with Rocky in the garden, reading on the Kindle that was waiting for me in my bedroom when I got back from breakfast. Last yesterday – between frantic lovemaking sessions – I’d offhandedly mentioned to Artem that I’d lost my Kindle during the kidnapping.
It all felt so strange, discussing the kidnapping and not feeling the same whelm of fear I’d felt while it was actually happening. But with Artem’s thick arms wrapped around me, I found that I didn’t have to be afraid as I was once convinced I did.
I lose myself in the story like I used to in high school, hiding in the world of words because the real world was too much to take. But this is different. I’m not hiding this time. I’m willingly throwing myself into the escapism, feeling relaxed and calm.
Artem’s childhood origins nibble at the edges of my consciousness, my belly dropping every time I think about what he had to endure, the hell he went through.
A gentleman is ushered in by the guards in the evening.
He must be around sixty-five and has a proud crown of grey hair, wears a comfortable sweater despite the heat, and sports a warm smile. He tells me he’s the dog-sitter, here to take care of Rocky while Artem and I go on our date.
“Mr. Elgort asked me to tell you that the code word is chicken salad, and said you’d know what that meant. As proof, you see, that I am who I say I am.”
I smile slyly.
Chicken salad.
Is that going to become our secret language for sex or something, since chicken salad is what I was making him before we got swept away with our lust and our irrepressible desire for each other?
“Yes, that’s fine,” I say. “Please take good care of Rocky.”
“I’m the most qualified dog-sitter in the city,” the man says proudly. “Your boy is safe with me. Don’t worry.”
I kneel down next to Rocky in the garden as the limo waits out front of the estate, ready to whisk me away to our date. Artem left instructions for me to wear whatever I want to the venue, since he has my outfit waiting there for me.
My mind swirls with possibilities.
Satin?
Lingerie?
A flattering dress?
Where are we going? What sort of game is he playing?
“You be a good boy, Rocky,” I tell him, giving him a tickle under the chin. “Mommy and Daddy are having a date night and …”
I trail off, a smile tweaking the corners of my lips.
Mommy and Daddy.
The words felt so natural.
They felt like they belong.
I stand up and let my hand fall across my belly, pressing down firmly and feeling the warmth of my sweaty palm through my T-shirt and against my skin.
I’m sure I can feel my womb swelling in there, a child growing, life beginning.
My life, Artem’s life, our lives.
Together.
I sit in the back of the limo and let my head fall back on the head rest, still unable to believe that this is real, that this is my life.
A car follows behind us. The guards, keeping me safe, making sure that whoever kidnapped me isn’t going to return.
Except, why would they? Artem bought me.
He bought me.
I find that, ever since Artem and I realized how much we care about each other, I just can’t bring myself to care about that as I should. Even before I knew how much he meant to me, it was difficult, but now it has entered the realm of the impossible.
The limo drives us right to the heart of the city, to the uptown section with sleek roads with not a single crack in the sidewalk, the buildings all towers with glistening metal or stylish red brick facades.
I’m led into the back of a restaurant by a suited host who wears a thin brown mustache and a fancy British accent.
“This way, ma’am,” he says, waving me deeper into the building.
My curiosity is doing backflips as he leads me, not into a changing room or the restaurant like I expected, but into a kitchen of metal and style and size. It’s the sort of kitchen I used to close my eyes and dream of cooking in as a kid.
I walk around it as the host leaves me – with a stiff bow – and catch sight of myself in the reflection of the polished refrigerator.
I’m wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and a baggy pink T-shirt, with a bag slung over my shoulder, empty, ready to stow these clothes when this mysterious outfit is finally presented to me.
I turn at the sound of the door opening behind me.
Artem strides in, clad in a silver suit, the same shade as the sleek metal surfaces. The corners of his lips twitch and there’s a new light in his eyes, hinting at a playfulness that was never there before, our rapport blossoming so that we cover ground in days most people take years to achieve.
But that’s what happens when you find the one.
It just fits.
“You made it,” he says, that same playful smirk on his lips.
“What are you grinning at?”
“I’ll have you know a Bratva boss doesn’t grin,” he says, striding across the room and standing close to me, and even if he doesn’t want to admit it, there’s definitely an impish quality about him.
He’s like the giant bear who, after long months spent hunting and eating, finally gets to settle into his cave, his home.
His warm, safe place of belonging.
And that’s me.
I’m where he belongs.
“Still,” I say. “You’re making me very suspicious, Artem.”
“I said I’d choose you an outfit.”
“Yes …”
“Well, follow me.”
He walks to one end of the kitchen and opens a pantry. I follow behind him, my eyes moving over the broadness of his back all by themselves, unable to stop consuming him for even a moment.
I feel my body fluttering and surging with hormones as my eyes drink him in, as my body screams at me, demanding to know why I’m not taking him, every hot inch of him, right this second.
He walks into the pantry and then steps out a moment later, holding a chef’s outfit in his hand, complete with the classic hat.
“Are you kidding me right now?” I say, a giggle escaping me. “This is my special outfit?”
“Yep,” he chuckles. “I know that cooking is your passion. I can see that every time you so much as talk about it. So I thought to myself … well, why not do something unconventional? Neither of us has been conventional up until now, have we? I thought we’d cook our own dinner. I must warn you, though, I’m not much of a chef.”
I stare at him as fireworks erupt in my chest and a smile spreads warmly across my face.
Of all the places I thought that sordid, horrid night could lead, I never dreamed here, this perfection.
His expression shifts.
“Or is that just ridiculously fucking lame?” he mutters.
“No,” I say quickly, throwing myself forward. “It’s an amazing idea. It’s perfect. It’s so us, you’re right.”
“I never thought I’d have an us,” he muses. “But I like the sound of that. Okay, so you better get changed.”
“What about you?”
He winks. “I’m just your student, Anna. You’re the chef here.”
“Is there anywhere for me to …”
“Don’t worry,” he says, clearly loving this, the cocky handsome magnetic man. “We’re not going to be interrupted, if that’s what you’re worried about. Feel free to get changed here.”
“With you watching me like a pervert? Leering?”
“Yes,” he growls. “With me watching you. I’ll try to keep the leering to a minimum, though.”
I lau
gh and snatch the outfit from him, holding it by the hanger, and then skip over to the refrigerator and open it. The industrial-strength air blasts me coolly, but the door serves as a makeshift modesty-saver.
“Wow,” Artem laughs grimly. “Is that really the game you’re going to play? You really think I’m that much of an animal that if I see you getting changed, I’ll lose control and fuck you here? You think I’ll be forced – by my own desire – to suck on those nipples of yours and imagine that milk is pouring out? To make you cream and shiver for me just by sucking on your nipples, eh?”
Shiver upon shiver is already moving through me at his words, my lust like a stick of dynamite that’s always lit, always ready to explode, when Artem is around.
“That’s not fair,” I say, pulling my T-shirt over my head and letting it drop onto the floor. “You can’t tease me.”
I hear the clip of his shoes against the floor as he hunts closer to the refrigerator.
“What’s not fair is that I can see your clothes under the door,” he says. “What’s not fair is that you’re teasing me and I can’t even remember why we’re here, now that you’re being so fucking playful. What’s not fair is that it took me forty-two years to find you.”
“Well, it sort of wouldn’t have worked before, would it?” I tease.
He laughs. “Yeah, you’ve got me there. I needed a woman. And you’re all woman.”
I unclip my bra and let it drop. Just beyond the door, Artem makes a shivering growling noise that lets me know that he’s seen it.
“Can you please explain to me why you need to take your bra off to wear a chef’s outfit?” he asks, his voice tight as though every nerve in him is willing him to tear the door off its hinges.
“I don’t,” I say. “But I do need to drive you crazy, and it seems to be working.”
“So you want to take control now, Anna? Is that it?”
My heart pounds.
My world – my old life, the person I used to be – screams at me to stop, to let him be in control, to not embarrass myself. The old Anna never would’ve thought of doing something like this, of presuming she was sexy enough to lead this sort of show.
Sold To The Bratva Boss: An Instalove Older Man Younger Woman Possessive Romance (A Man Who Knows What He Wants Book 193) Page 5