“You feel so good, Stasya. Just like heaven. I’m going to explode.”
“Yes, Kirya, yes!” I cry out as my orgasm shatters, sending pulses of electricity through my body.
“Fuck!” Kirill roars, filling me with his release, before he’s completely still for a moment. Then smooths a hand over my hair gently as he hovers over me, catching his breath.
His forehead falls to the pillow next to my ear. “We are one, Stasya. Connected for eternity from this point forward.”
“We are a circle. No start. No beginning. There is no Stasya without Kirya.”
All these years, how did I not realize my soulmate was right under my nose? Our lives have been intertwined since the day I was born.
15
Stasya
My entire life, there was always one thing blocking me from being happy.
My father.
Which is why he’s the last person I expected—or wanted—to see tonight at the Cherikovsky discotheque while celebrating Slava’s birthday.
The television rolls highlights of tonight’s NHL games. My brother scored two more goals, bringing his total for the year to fifty-five. He’s having the best season of his life.
I was having the best season of my life too, until Papa walked in.
The party is in full swing. The music is blaring. The birthday boy sits on a chair in the middle of the floor, getting a special dance from a stripper. And I’m on my boyfriend’s lap, enjoying the ride as he fingers me under a table overflowing with food and vodka.
Kirill notices my “Ugh,” which is a very different sound than the “Mmmmm” of pleasure I’ve been humming for the last few minutes.
“It doesn’t feel good, kotyonok? You want my tongue instead?” he whispers. Before I have a chance to answer, his gaze darts to the door. His eyes darken. “What the fuck is he doing here?”
I scramble off his lap and pull my dress down my thighs. He starts to stand, but I place my hand on his shoulder. “I’ll handle him.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, searching my eyes.
I nod and lean down to kiss his cheek. He straightens his suit coat and sits up straight in his chair. Always observing.
“Anastasiya!” Papa exclaims when I approach. He grabs my hands and pulls me to the side. “What are you doing here? This isn’t a place for you.”
My father, the number one person I feared most throughout my life, is worried about me being in an underground discotheque run by the Russian mafia. If it weren’t so tragic, I may laugh.
“Well, ever since you lost me in a card game, I go where Kirill goes.” My voice is firm, but I glance at my lover quickly. His eyes sear through me, but he lets me speak to my father without coming over.
Papa’s gaze follows mine. His expression morphs from irritation to fear when he sees Kirill behind me, watching Papa’s every move.
“That’s not why you’re with him and you know it, you stupid girl!” he whispers harshly.
“You’re right about one of those things.”
“Come home with me,” he murmurs, changing his tone before someone notices how he’s speaking to me. “Things will be back to how they were.”
“What makes you think I have any desire to go back to how things were?”
“Don’t act like your life was so bad, Stasya. You never went without.”
“You’re right. Thanks to Babushka, I never went without anything I needed.” My fists clench at my sides as anger courses through my veins. He’s so ignorant, he’ll never see the truth about himself.
“You know what he does—who he is—and you still want to be with him?”
It’s funny that he pretends to care about what Kirill does now that he doesn’t benefit from it anymore. He never complained all the times his uncle brought home foods and treats that a regular Russian family would never be able to get. He had to have known Viktor Antonov was high-up in organized crime.
“I know exactly who he is and I’m grateful for everything he’s done for me.”
“You sold your soul to that devil. For what?” Papa growls. Purple veins bulge from his swollen, red nose. “Safety? If you think being with him is safe, you’re stupider than I thought you were.”
“You should watch yourself, Mikhail Grigorovich,” I say in a sharp tone, having been insulted enough. A false sense of power from the connections I have behind me electrifies my blood. “You’ve been involved with Kirill’s family for years. You enjoyed the benefits of everything they were able to provide.”
“Who would have thought I would raise such a stupid girl.” He scowls. “This gang is ruthless! They have no loyalty.”
“Compared to whom?”
He leans back quickly, eyes bulging as if I’m crazy. “Compared to people like us.”
“Us?” I laugh. “In all my years of knowing Kirill Konstantinovich, he’s never laid a hand on me.” Papa’s eyes flick to the scar above my left eyebrow where his ring dug into my skin when he punched me. “He still hasn’t laid a hand on me. How does that compare to people like us. Or rather, people like you?”
As my father stares at me in silence, I notice how far downhill his health has gone since I saw him a few months ago. The same dark, hollow circles pool underneath his eyes, but his pale, ruddy skin is so bloated I barely recognize him. Losing his entire family within a few weeks of each other has taken a toll on him. And still, I have no pity.
He must realize I’m not going to give him what he’s searching for, because he shakes his head and sneers. “I was wrong, Anastasiya. Only a person with a soul has one to sell. You know mafia don’t take wives, right? You are nothing but his whore.”
“I suggest you take my advice and watch yourself,” I whisper through clenched teeth. “You don’t need another enemy.”
I don’t wish evil on my father anymore. But I can’t lie and say I’m not pleased when I see the color drain from his face. With that thinly veiled threat, I pull back my shoulders and turn around abruptly, finished with this insane conversation.
Kirill watches intently, head tilted and eyes questioning as I approach. Slava is at his side, having abandoned his birthday dance when my father arrived. They both rise to greet me.
“Everything all right, Anastasiya?”
“Of course, Kirya.” I lean forward and kiss his cheeks three times. He may love me—and I believe that to be true—but I don’t know if he trusts me completely. He doesn’t trust anyone completely.
Someday, that will change. I’m not sure what will make him realize I’m with him for the long haul, but someday he’ll understand that my heart is true—and his. My heart has always been his. Until then, I’ll continue to sit at his left side.
“What have you done to her?” Papa shouts, running at Kirill. “You’ve turned my daughter against me!”
My breath catches in my throat.
Slava draws his gun, but Kirill waves him away. He steps back, but keeps a watchful eye on my father.
“You know what they say, ‘a close neighbor is better than a distant relative,’” Kirill taunts him.
“Go to hell, you devil,” my father snarls.
That’s when I realize…he came here to die.
Papa would never pull the trigger on himself. He is a coward who needs someone to blame for his choices. Drinking himself to death must be taking too long. He knew if he came here and insulted me or Kirill—or anyone in this room—it would get him killed.
The shot comes from the back of the room and my father screams. He falls to his knees, clutching his arm.
“Papa!” It’s an involuntary reaction. Even though I expected it, he’s still my father and there was a part of me that didn’t really think it would happen.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Kirill snaps at Igor, who runs up to him.
“You can’t let him talk to you like that. He needed to be made an example of!” Igor yells, his breathing labored.
Kirill gets in his face, nose-to-nose with his newest soldier, teet
h bared like a bear ready to attack. “I had it under control.”
“You call that control? Allowing a piece of shit to yell at you in front of all these people?”
I remove my scarf and press it to the wound on my father’s shoulder. Because of the angle, it would be impossible for me to wrap it tight enough to stop the bleeding. Either Igor has really bad aim or he only meant to scare Papa. My bet is on the former.
“I can handle a belligerent drunk calling me names. I’m not a child.” He pushes Igor, who stumbles backwards. “Go get someone to help.”
“Fucking ridiculous,” Igor mumbles, tucking his black shirt into his jeans as he stalks away.
Another gunshot erupts in my ear. My first instinct is to cower and bury my face in my father’s neck. When I look up, I see Kirill, arm extended, Glock pointed at Igor, who’s lying facedown on the concrete. Slowly the man lifts his upper body up, as if he’s a cobra trying to strike.
Kirill walks over and stands above him, placing the barrel between Igor’s eyes. Drops of sweat slide from the wounded man’s hairline to his brow.
“Was that a good enough example for you, khuyesos?” Kirill asks with a stony smile. “Slava! Find someone to clean these two up.” He kicks Igor to the ground and quickly moves toward me.
I close my eyes, counting to ten silently as I wait for my heartbeat to slow.
“This is your life now,” Papa whispers in my ear.
“Fuck you,” I say, pressing my index finger into his wound and twisting it until he screams. Then I get to my feet quickly, dropping him onto the ground.
Kirill raises an eyebrow, but I just smile sweetly.
I am his queen after all.
16
Stasya
Kirill grabs my hand, his eyes blazing with an intensity unlike anything I’ve seen. He pulls me away from the commotion and through a door behind the stage, where girls in sheer underwear have been dancing all night.
He doesn’t speak, just drags me through the hallway so fast I have to jog to keep up with him. He pushes open another door and we’re in the Tearoom. I didn’t even realize there was a secondary way to get in here, but of course there is. Multiple entrances and exits for multiple ways to escape.
I wonder if I went too far. Maybe I’ve ruined the innocent image he has of me when I was a naïve girl.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, but he’s too busy talking to a waitress to have heard my question.
The woman nods and waves her hand, beckoning us to follow her before leading us to a small room. There’s nothing in here but one, large high-back chair. Though I don’t know what’s going on, the hair on the back of my neck stands up. Something I would normally chalk up to the short dress I’m wearing, but it’s not the temperature. It’s the feel of this room that has me spooked.
The woman leaves, but Kirill stays next the door. He doesn’t take his eyes off me and he doesn’t speak.
I’m getting nervous, but I’m trying not to fidget. Within a minute, the waitress is back, handing him a glass. He shuts the door and cranks the bolt.
“Kirya?” I whisper, unnerved by his gaze and silence. Did I do something wrong? Did I go too far?
As he moves toward me, I hold my breath, waiting to see what he’s going to do. He stops in front of me, so close I can smell his sweat.
“What would you think of me if I told you that watching you inflict pain on your father got my cock hard?” he asks, grabbing my hand and brushing my palm over the front of his pants.
Pride fills my chest, not just because I’ve done something that makes him happy, but also because I’ve made him this excited.
What kind of person have I turned into? Where guns and blood make my pussy pulse. I blink and swallow the lump in my throat.
“It’s sick, isn’t it?” He grabs my other hand and places them both on his belt buckle. I understand the unspoken command. My nervous fingers fumble at first, but I make quick work of it. Though he didn’t say to, I unbutton his trousers and carefully lower the zipper. His massive cock drops out and I can feel the wetness pool between my legs.
“We’re going to have to do something about this, Stasya.” He steps away from me and moves to the chair, dropping into it as if he’s the king of the castle. Maybe he is. I have no clue if he has ownership in the market or not.
He rolls the vodka in his glass with a slight twist of his wrist, watching me intently through half-closed lids. His legs are open, feet firmly on the floor. Cock on display.
“Dance for me, Stasya.”
“What?” I ask, puzzled at the odd request. I’m ready to drop to my knees and suck him off.
“Dance. For. Me.”
“I’m not a good dancer,” I dismiss him. I love to dance, but despite multiple trips to discotheques after work with girlfriends, I’d never gotten very good at it.
“That’s a lie. You’ve always been a beautiful dancer. Even back when we were kids. While all of us kids were stomping through flowers, playing war with tree branches as guns, you were dancing.”
“I was a silly child.” I shake my head, dropping my gaze to the floor.
“You’ve mistaken my command for a request, Anastasiya Mikhailovich. I’ll only allow that once.”
Sometimes I forget I’m a prisoner of circumstances. No matter how much I love him, he won’t let me walk out the door. He would hunt me down and take me again.
All in the name of my own safety.
I don’t know what to do, but disrespecting him isn’t an option, so I start spinning around like I did when I was a child, arms out like propellers. I’m standing on my toes and using one foot to turn myself in small, quick circles.
The euphoric action reminds me of warm Moscow summers, playing in Alexandrovsky Garden, back when life was simple, stable, and I had nothing to worry about. Just thinking about those days makes my heart light. The only thing missing is the sweet and spicy scent of pansies and lilacs swirling around me.
When I catch Kirill’s eyes, his jaw is tight and his eyes are glassy as he stares at me. “That’s not the dancing I want.” He lifts his cock and starts sliding his hand up and down.
My arms drop to my sides, the momentary joy extinguished by his rejection. Despite being a fairly confident person, he makes me feel like a wet chicken. My spirits deflate as I think about how ridiculous I’ll look dancing for him compared to the beautiful, lithe dancers we saw in the next room.
“I don’t know how to dance the way you want me to. Maybe I should fetch a girl from the disco.” I wave my hand toward the door. “One of the ones dancing on the tiny platforms with no clothes on.”
“If I wanted one of those girls, they would be here. I only want you, kotyonok.” He leans forward, sets his glass on the floor, then points to the empty space between his open legs. “I want you right here in front of me, grinding your pussy against my face. Now.”
The lust swirling in his eyes eases my insecurity.
I hurry toward him because I don’t want him getting any more frustrated with me. And I want his mouth between my legs. I crave his tongue and fingers inside of me.
When I’m in front of him, I shake my hips, willing myself to pretend there’s music, which is just as difficult as I thought it would be. I feel like a fool, but I don’t want to disappoint him. On the contrary, the only thing I want is to please this man.
After a few more jerky hip movements, he grabs my thighs and presses his face between my legs, inhaling me. “Stasya,” he moans, inching my skirt up.
Instead of letting him, I start circling my hips slowly, dancing like he asked me to. His nose rubs between my legs, creating a sweet friction. He tries to stop me, but I wiggle out of his grasp.
“Oh no, Kirya! You wanted a dance,” I remind him, teasingly swatting his hand away when he tries to touch me again. “You will get a dance.”
He could grab me and hold me still if he wanted, but he doesn’t. Instead, he reaches over to retrieve his glass from the floor and falls back into
his oversized chair, watching me intently with an amused smile on his face.
“This better be good, Stasya, or there will be consequences.” His smile is wicked—a preview of what’s to come.
My lips twitch, trying to keep my composure. Something tells me I’ll like the consequences.
It’s only him and I in this room, so I can do anything. Instead of dance, I move closer, then lift my skirt to give myself room to maneuver, placing my knees on either side of him. When my thigh presses against the gun on his hip, I look down and a ridiculous idea pops into my head. My heart pounds, nervous, but unashamed at what I’m about to do.
Kirill watches me intently as I slide my hands across his thigh toward the gun. He tilts his head with interest. Despite my fear, I lift the Glock from the holster and hold it gingerly between us. I can’t even believe I know the difference between the Glock and the Stechkin.
“Stasya,” Kirill says slowly, as if he’s easing me off a cliff. “Please give that to me.”
I know enough to point the barrel toward the wall. “Do you know what I want you to do with it?” I ask.
He shakes his head and swallows hard.
I catch his eyes, then turn the handle to him. He takes it from me. I lick my lips and move my gaze from the gun to the throbbing area between my legs. His eyes widen.
“You’re not serious,” Kirill says, shaking his head. Beads of perspiration line his upper lip.
In answer, I grab his cock and rub it against my pussy so he can feel how wet and ready I am.
“Fuck,” he hisses, closing his eyes. “This is fucking insane.”
Leaning in, I brush his lips with mine and dare him with a whisper. “Do it.”
SAINTS: Saints and Sinners Duet Book 1 Page 13