His Queen of Clubs

by Rose, Renee

  She pales and some of my senses return. I loosen my grip on her hair, rub away the sting on her scalp.

  “Next time you come without permission, you’re going to feel my belt across that lovely ass,” I warn.

  I release her completely and she hides her face between her arms with a sob.

  I straighten and look down at what a fucking perfect picture she makes on my bed. I rub her reddened ass, not sure why she brings out such tenderness in me. Maybe it’s not tenderness but the need to show my ownership, prove my control.

  Either way, I stroke her heated flesh in slow circles until she relaxes. Then I lift her fully onto the bed and pull the corner of the comforter up over her naked body.

  Chapter 7

  Alessia

  I work to stop the trembling in my limbs as we board the plane. I had a plan—my last hope—to alert anyone and everyone I see that I’m a prisoner.

  But there’s no one. It’s dark out, we’re on a private flight and clearly every man here works for Vlad.

  There’s no one to scream to, no one to help me.

  Vlad has an iron grip on my arm and he hustles me quickly onto the craft and pushes me into a seat. I notice he’s favoring his hurt side a bit, which serves him right.

  I can’t really figure out how one Russian and a twelve-year-old kid can avoid the wide, wide net of the Tacone crime family.

  How this can actually be happening. Me, going to Russia to supposedly marry the enemy.

  “You’re shaking,” Vlad observes as he ties me to the seat.

  “I don’t want to go to Russia.”

  “Too bad,” he answers immediately. “You’re going.”

  “And you’re a dick,” I mutter. It’s childish, but what else can I do? Calling him names is my only option when I’m tied to a seat on a private jet, surrounded by dangerous-looking men.

  Without my panties.

  Yeah, he put my dress back on, but refused to let me wear panties. Said I’m still on restriction.

  I know, big deal. I have far bigger problems than the fact that I’m bare-beaver under my dress, but it’s screwing with my head.

  Making me hot and horny and vulnerable. Making me think way too much about the spankings he gave me today.

  The orgasms.

  Vlad is everything dark, dirty and dominant I never dreamed about but must’ve always wanted, because he turns me inside out. Every interaction with him I come away changed.

  He crouches beside me and tests my blood sugar. Normally, with a controlled diet and regular shots, I only check it once in the morning and once in the evening.

  But he was right to check. The adrenaline that’s making me shake made my blood sugar tank. He fills a needle with insulin like he’s been doing this all his life.

  I flinch when he goes to lift my dress. I have no panties on and Mika is sitting a few feet away. He stops and shifts to inject my upper arm instead.

  This is part of why he turns me inside out. He’s a first class asshole, for sure. A criminal who is taking me from everything I’ve ever known and loved. Holding me ransom. No, not ransom, he says he’s keeping me. But for all that, he’s also thoughtful. Aware of my reactions and needs. He may growl and threaten. He may talk a mean game, but he made a special trip to get the coffee I like. And he stopped when I said no.

  I had to—there was no way I was going to beg.

  No way in hell.

  Which doesn’t mean my body didn’t completely revolt when he stopped. I’d been two breaths away from an orgasm.

  And I can’t believe I came anyway. Just from him spanking me.

  That’s what I mean about turning me inside out. I’ve never had a guy smack my ass before. I didn’t know how much it turned me on. Didn’t know about the desire that would steam, sizzle and bubble out of me like lava overflowing the side of a volcano.

  Vlad rubs the injection site when he’s done, then sits beside me for takeoff.

  Across the aisle, Mika appears pale, his big brown eyes haunted. He grips the arms of his chair.

  I lift my chin in his direction. “Is he afraid of flying?”

  Vlad produces an orange from his bag and starts to peel it as he considers him. “I don’t know,” he murmurs. “Maybe Russia holds bad memories for him.”

  “Worse than America?” I ask drily. The poor kid was abandoned by his own mother here.

  Vlad feeds me a section of orange. “Yes.”

  There’s so much in that one word. Somehow I hear a lifetime of pain, both for Vlad and Mika. Or maybe that’s just my imagination running wild.

  “Could be he’s worried about his future there,” Vlad muses.

  I tense slightly, worried too. “You’ll keep him, right? Take care of him.”

  Something in the boy’s posture tells me he might be eavesdropping. His shoulders stiffen and he goes perfectly still.

  Vlad takes a moment to answer, which makes it all the worse. “If I survive this, yes.”

  “Survive what?” My voice is sharp. The urgency of securing that boy’s future feels overwhelming.

  He tries to feed me another section of orange, but I turn my face away. “Your attempts at escape.”

  I snort because we both know how pathetic my assault on him really was. And there’s no way in hell he’s afraid of me actually killing him.

  He shrugs. “Your brothers,” he amends.

  A wash of cold runs over my skin, because he’s right to fear them. They will kill him if they catch him. I have no doubt.

  I look away, out the window of the plane at the Vegas lights glittering below. My brothers are down there right now. Looking for me. Pulling every string they have to try to find me.

  And I’m right here. So close but out of reach.

  Soon I’ll be too far from their influence. Soon I’ll be in a country where I don’t speak the language and don’t have a single friend.

  I look over at Mika.

  Maybe he feels the same way, minus the language barrier.

  Vlad feeds me another bite of orange, then bends down and fishes another orange out of his leather satchel. “Mika,” he calls out.

  The boy turns and Vlad holds the orange up.

  Mika shakes his head.

  “Eat it,” Vlad says firmly and tosses it to the boy who catches it with one hand. “You need your vitamins.”

  A smile flickers around the corner of his mouth before it quickly disappears again. He bends his head over the orange and peels it and both Vlad and I sit back in satisfaction.

  When we reach altitude, Vlad unties me and shows me how the seat converts to a fully reclined bed. I go over and help Mika with his while Vlad produces pillows and blankets.

  “You need anything? A snack? Something to drink?” Vlad asks.

  “Are you our flight attendant?” I shouldn’t tease when he’s being nice.

  He doesn’t seem to mind. He smacks my ass lightly. “Shut up and sleep. Be good or I’ll tie you to the bed.”

  “Aren’t you going to sleep?” I ask. He hasn’t converted a bed for himself yet.

  He shrugs.

  I wait for more of an answer but it doesn’t come.

  Okay, so the guy doesn’t sleep.

  Probably smart considering I tried to kill him today.

  I sit on the edge of the bed. I’m exhausted but not sleepy. Too much adrenaline. Too much worry. “What is there to drink?” I ask idly.

  Vlad looks over from the leather captain’s chair beside my bed. “What do you want?” He stands up, his movements lithe and graceful, like a panther. I stand and trail behind, happy to walk on my own two feet for a change. To be untied and free to move around.

  In the tiny galley kitchen, there’s a refrigerator stocked with all kinds of upscale drinks.

  Vlad opens it and pulls out a bottle of Chardonnay. “You drink wine?”

  It shouldn’t make my heart flutter. We’re not on a date.

  Wine sounds so good right now, but I don’t think my kidneys can take it.<
br />
  “Seltzer water,” I say.

  He pours the water and hands me my glass then opens a drawer and produces a wine key. After he opens the bottle and pours himself a glass, he eyes me and pockets the wine key.

  “Think I’m going to use that on you?”

  Cristo. Am I flirting?

  “I know you’re thinking about it.” His tone is light, like people around him often consider killing him and it doesn’t faze him in the slightest.

  I turn to slide past him, out of the tiny kitchen, but he shifts to block me from leaving. Pushes me up against the wall. His ribs pin my chest, one of his thighs presses between my legs. He holds his wine glass beside my ear and tips his head down to mine.

  I gasp, my pulse picking up speed, heat flooding my body.

  “You should know,” he says, accent thick, “I’m having a hard time keeping my hands off you. Knowing your panties are in my pocket.”

  Some tiny whimper escapes my lips. “M-maybe you should give them back to me, then,” I say. My voice sounds breathy and thin.

  His erection swells against my belly. I unintentionally grind down on his thigh and the contact gets me wet.

  “Tomorrow,” he promises. “If you show me you can be a good girl on this flight. Then I won’t have to keep you tied up any more.”

  I eyeball him. “How about if you don’t keep me at all?”

  He eases back, which comes as both a disappointment and relief. “Sorry, printsessa. Freedom isn’t in the cards for you. You’re mine now.”

  My nose burns and I draw a breath to hide the rush of tears threatening, but my eyes flood before I can look away.

  Vlad’s brows drop and he cups my face gently. Strokes my cheek with his thumb. “Not forever, zaika.”

  “How long?” I choke out.

  He stares at me and I have the distinct feeling he’s making this up as he goes along. There is no plan. It’s both heartening and frightening at once. On the bright side, it means he’s flexible. Changeable. I can influence him.

  Maybe change my future.

  “Until I grow tired of you,” he says and drops his hand away. Steps back so I can pass.

  As I walk in front of him, I’m acutely aware of every step. The wetness between my legs. The fact that his gaze is probably glued to my ass. I walk to the bank of chairs in front of my bed and sit down in the one by the window.

  Vlad hangs back, gripping the bottle of wine in one hand and his glass in the other as he trails behind, watching me with hooded eyes.

  I nudge the chair beside me. “Aren’t you going to sit?”

  I failed to get myself free before we left for Russia. Now my best shot is Vlad. Make nice. Endear myself to him. Beg for my freedom.

  He’s already conceded that I’ll get it eventually.

  It’s my job to make sure that happens sooner than later.

  * * *

  Vlad

  She’s dangerous.

  I know what she’s up to. She’s trying to wrap me around that pretty little finger of hers.

  It’s what she excels at.

  I know this trap. It’s the one all women work. They use their beauty, their sex appeal. They weave a web to ensnare you and then your balls are in a vise.

  That’s how Mika’s mother got herself to America. How my mother ingratiated herself to Victor. How Sabina nearly got me killed.

  And yet it’s impossible for me to refuse. I’m already addicted to being near her, and all the more if she’s playing nice.

  I sit beside her and watch her drain her seltzer. I could’ve sworn she wanted wine, but maybe she can’t with the diabetes. I go and get the seltzer bottle and refill her glass and she murmurs her thanks and takes one more sip.

  I watch her, fascinated as always by her beauty. Her poise.

  She looks out the window, although there’s nothing to see but inky blackness. “Where are we going again? Volgograd?”

  “Yes.” I don’t elaborate. It entertains me to watch her work.

  “Is it a big city?”

  “Small city. One million people. Good place to live.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  There it is. A simple command. One I should resist, just to shut her down, but I can’t. Not when she fixes those big brown eyes on me and leans slightly forward, lips parted, waiting.

  I sip my wine. “Volgograd was formerly Stalingrad. Before that, Tsaritsyn. It’s in southwest Russia on the banks of the Volga river. It’s beautiful in summer. You will like it.” It’s stupid. I don’t know why I think I have to sell it to her, but I find I want very much for her to like my city.

  She looks away, the reminder that it will be her home probably stings.

  “You have room for Mika there?”

  There she goes with her concern for Mika again. If she’s asking, she must think I have a small place, like the one in Vegas. It amuses me to think she might be surprised by my estate.

  “Yes, Alessia,” I say mildly. “There is plenty of room.”

  Her lips form a shape, like she’s going to speak, then changes her mind. She tries again. “What...will I do there?”

  I consider. “What did you do in Chicago?”

  The light is dim, but I think she blushes. “My ma had surgery a few months ago, so I’ve been helping her out since I graduated in December.”

  I can’t stop the smile. “You don’t have to make an excuse to me for not working. I knew you were a kept princess. It will be no different in my house. Your brothers will supply the money to keep you in the style you’ve grown accustomed to.”

  Pain flickers over her face, but she hides it quickly. Looks away.

  It shouldn’t bother me. When you take a woman as tribute, you can’t expect her to kneel at your feet and thank you for it.

  When she turns back, her jaw is set, eyes challenging. “I need the Rosetta Stone for Russian.”

  I nearly choke on my wine. “You wish to learn Russian?”

  She nods, determination emanating from her.

  It’s a wise choice. If she can speak the language, she will not be so helpless in Russia. It would be easier for her to escape or get help. But it’s clearly a long game, and not an easy one. I admire the hell out of her for even considering it.

  “Of course you can have it. You will have everything you need, zaika.”

  “Everything but my freedom?”

  “Da.”

  Her chin wobbles slightly, but she recovers, stares out the black windows.

  “What did you study in college, Alessia?” Now I’m the one making conversation.

  She turns back to me. “Early childhood education.”

  I arch my brows, surprised. I expected something inane like art history, or English literature. Some liberal arts degree with little application.

  “You wish to teach?”

  “Yes. I love children.”

  Of course she does. I look over at Mika, now asleep on his bed. No wonder she takes such an interest in him.

  Knowing she has this humanitarian side, this reverence for children, stirs something in my chest.

  “You want children?” Suddenly the image of her pregnant with my child floods my imagination. Draws out some primitive caveman protectiveness. I never wanted children, but the idea of knocking her up, of creating a family with her flips my world on its head.

  But she flinches at my words and looks away. “I can’t.”

  My disappointment is as ridiculous as the idea of having children with her was to begin with. But maybe I’m just feeling her pain. She’s clearly deeply wounded by this.

  “Why not?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “The diabetes?”

  A tiny nod, but she’s still looking away.

  Oh, Alessia.

  Surely people with diabetes have children. I make a note to research it, but a chill creeps over my skin. Alessia must have had the best doctors money can buy. If she believes she can’t have children, it’s with good reason.

&nbs
p; I shouldn’t feel pain over it.

  It’s just as well considering our marriage won’t be a long-term one.

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter and she darts a glance my way. The vulnerability I glimpse on her face tears me up.

  * * *

  Alessia

  Damn Vlad. My eyes get hot and watery under his sympathetic gaze, and I have to look away again.

  I wish he weren’t so damn observant.

  I haven’t told anyone about the stage 3 kidney failure. Not any of my brothers, especially not my mother. So I haven’t had to face this moment before, of revealing my sharpest disappointment in life.

  Desperately needing to change the subject, I turn back to him and draw a breath. “What about you, Vlad? What is your job in Russia?”

  “I am derzhatel obschaka. Bookkeeper for the bratva. I’m the money guy. I move money, launder money. Hide money. I had reached out to your brother not to cause problem, but to offer solution. Clean his money, too. But then my mother died in Moscow. I had to fly back to Russia, and Ivan, my idiot compatriot decided killing your family was a better option.”

  I blink at him, surprised at this information. I don’t want to find Vlad so likeable. Knowing he’s not a drug dealer or sex trafficker or hitman, but more of a white collar thug, doesn’t hurt his case. Knowing he has a mother—had a mother—makes him all the more real. Normal. Human.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I say.

  Something fierce and raw appears on his face. Unexpressed grief. I get the feeling he hasn’t been offered condolences. Or the loss is still too fresh. Or there are unresolved issues there. He drops his head and lets it hang. “My mother—da. I still don’t believe she’s gone. It’s strange to go back and know she won’t be there.”

  I reach out and touch his arm. He looks up, shocked. Like I branded him.

  But his lips twist into a bitter line. “Don’t feel sorry for me. I shouldn’t miss her. She was a manipulative bitch, like every woman in my life.”

  I remove my hand, recoiling. Because I sense he somehow lumps me into that category, too.

  I know I’m right when he narrows his eyes at me. “You can stop your game of trying to win my sympathies. Lie down on your bed. Go to sleep. Tomorrow is your wedding day.”