by Jagger Cole
Fiona, Zoey, and Lev eventually head inside for some food. Viktor hangs back and grins as he throws an arm over my shoulders.
“Everything good, sestra?”
“Da,” I smile up at my brother. “Perfect, actually.”
He chuckles. “How is it that I’ve been in this country more than twice as long as you, and yet my accent persists while yours is barely there?”
“Well, because obviously I’m the better sibling.”
Viktor chuckles and shakes his head. “Obviously.”
“Everything good with you?”
He nods. “Still pissed you moved out, but I get it.”
I grin. “I was just kidding about the loud sex.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“Dude, Fiona is loud.”
He laughs, and then merely shrugs with a grin.
“It’s not about that though, Viktor. I’m so happy you found her, honestly. I just…”
“You needed your own space. I know, and I understand it.” He turns to grin at me. “Can’t live in your big brother’s house forever.”
“In that house? If I was quiet enough, I could, and you’d never even know it.”
He chuckles. “And the new place?”
“Perfect.”
Viktor’s brow wrinkles. “You know I’m happy to get you any place in the city, Nina.”
“And you know I like to pay my own way,” I shrug. “Viktor, you pay me an obscene amount of money to do my job anyways—”
“Because you’re damn good at it,” he grunts.
“Well, it’s more than enough to afford the place I found.”
Viktor, of course, wanted to buy me a palace of a penthouse to live in when I moved out. But I didn’t want a handout. And it’s not like I’m slumming it, either. My new, quite elegant apartment is still in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in Chicago, with views of the lake, a huge kitchen, and balcony. Honestly, it suits me just fine.
“You at least could have let me pay the difference for a place with more security than two rent-a-cops at the front door.”
“Oh, I think I’m perfectly safe. Considering the two five-man security teams you have on rotation around the building, don’t you?”
Viktor smirks and raises a brow. “Caught that, huh?”
“On day one.”
He chuckles. “Can’t get shit past you, can I?”
“Well, I learned from the best,” I grin, elbowing him in the ribs.
“I heard Fiona and Zoey finally managed to get you and Nikolai out together.”
“Oh, it was very romantic. We got Starbucks, to go.”
He smirks. “And?”
I roll my eyes. “Definitely not. And the feeling is very mutual.”
“Well, okay then.”
I laugh. “Viktor, you don’t have to pretend you aren’t glad I’m not dating one of your underlings.”
He snorts. “Hey, I just want my sister to be happy.”
I smile as we both turn to look out over the city lights. “How could I not be? I’m here, I’ve got a good life, I’ve got my big brother who was smart enough to find himself a great woman like Fiona…” I shrug. “Business is good, we’ve got peace treaties with just about every other family and outfit in the city.”
Viktor chuckles. “So that’s a yes on being happy?”
I nod. “Yeah, that’s a yes.”
Mostly, at least.
“Good. Alright, I’m going in for a bite to eat. Coming?”
I shake my head. “In a little bit. I’m fine for now.”
“Hey, don’t complain to me if the raw bar is picked clean by the time you get your ass in there.”
I laugh as my brother downs his champagne and heads inside. I sip mine and gaze out at the way the lights of Chicago glitter off the rippled surface of the lake. I am happy, I think to myself. Or at least, as happy as someone with my past gets.
I’m turning to go inside when one of the glass doors from the garden into the penthouse suddenly splinters into a million glittering shards. I blink in shock. But when the bottle of champagne sitting on ice on the bar suddenly explodes, I’m not in shock anymore.
Suddenly, the shooting really starts.
Screams erupt from the party as automatic fire begins to pepper the whole garden. My mind clicks on instinct, and I dive behind a catering table as bullets shatter the glass doors and windows. My pulse thuds in my ears as I fix my askew glasses and reach into my purse and pull out the .45.
I can hear men—Kashenko men—yelling in Russian and English. I poke my head over the table and do a quick scan—just in time to see three Bratva soldiers fall in a spray of bullets. My jaw tenses as I scan the night. The shots are coming from the roof opposite Lev and Zoey’s place, but I can’t see anything.
I whirl, popping up and running headlong until I can duck behind one of the vine-covered walls of the penthouse itself. Bullets crack in rapid fire against the table I was just hiding behind. I glance out again, and I feel my heart clench when I see Nikolai groan and drop behind a garden wall. His white dress shirt is soaked with blood down one arm.
I take a breath. I ready myself to run to help him. But then suddenly, the arm slips around my neck and pulls me tight. I gasp, and my heart leaps into my throat. I can feel the massively muscled chest at my back, and the arm like steel tight around me.
And suddenly, I feel his breath against my ear.
“You’re mine, little one.”
His voice is like vodka and metal. It’s like old wood and smoke, rasping dangerously in my ear. I hiss, twisting against his grip. But he’s so fucking strong. And he feels like a giant behind me. With a final grunt, I jab both elbows back and stomp down hard on his foot. He barely flinches, but it’s enough for me to twist and whirl in his grip.
I whip around. I gasp sharply as my heart skips and my breath leaves my body. I look up into a stunningly handsome face, and two piercing, haunting blue eyes burning right into mine.
He blinks, and suddenly, his grip falters. He stares at me with a mix of shock, horror, and… I frown. And recognition. He blinks, like he’s not sure he’s actually seeing me, and his powerful, chiseled jaw grinds tight.
“You…”
I never would have made it to the age of ten without knowing how to think quickly in the face of danger. And I’ve got a gun in my hand.
I don’t linger. I don’t dwell on how shockingly good looking my attacker is, or on the look on his face. I bring the gun up in my hand, I press it to his chest, and I pull the trigger.
The gun jolts hard, the shockwave twisting up my arm and through my whole body. But the man’s grip on me drops. He makes a single grunting sound, staggering back into the shadows as his hands fly to the hole in his leather jacket. He sucks in a breath and looks down at his hands. Then, he looks up at me, his face twisting.
“You…”
Gunfire explodes behind me, and I scream as I throw myself to the ground in a hail of shattered glass and patio rock. I wince as a bullet embeds in the wall next to me. But then suddenly, the gunfire stops.
I pop up, gun in hand as I scan the carnage of the patio. When I see Viktor and Lev barge through the shattered doors outside, I almost scream with relief. My brother bolts across the garden to me, grabbing me tightly.
“Are you hurt?!”
“No,” I gasp. “You?”
He shakes his head grimly.
“Fiona?” I croak.
“We’re all okay, Nina.”
“Nikolai—”
Viktor turns to point at some of his men helping a wincing Nikolai to his feet. “He caught one in the arm, but he’ll live.”
“Casualties?”
My brother nods grimly. “Five men.”
“Who—”
“Nina—”
“Viktor, I’m fine—”
“Nina!”
I frown. I know I’m still in shock, but he’s not making sense. “Viktor, I’m fine—”
“Then who
’s blood is that?”
I whirl, and my jaw drops. The enormous man with the piercing blue eyes is gone. I shot him in the chest, and he’s gone—as in literally no longer lying there on the ground at all. But there’s blood, and lots of it.
“Nina—”
“I don’t know.”
My heart skips when I lie to my brother. I don’t quite know why I don’t tell the truth. I don’t really understand why in this moment I’ve chosen to not mention shooting someone point blank in the chest, either. But I don’t have time to dwell on it. Bratva reinforcements flood onto the roof. Fiona and Zoey rush to me, holding me tightly as they both sob in fear.
I don’t cry, though. And the shock of the gunfire fades quickly. A psychiatrist would probably say “too quickly,” but it is what it is. That’s what a childhood of torment and trauma does to you, I guess.
I turn to look back at the blood on the ground. A second ago, I wasn’t sure why I lied. But now, I might. And it might be because somewhere, I know that there’s a memory deep inside my head of those haunting blue eyes. Somewhere inside, I know I’ve seen them and the animal ferocity behind them before.
And slowly, I start to wonder if I’ll see them, and the hulking beast of a man attached to them, again.
2
Nina
Three Months Later:
You’re mine now, little one.
I gasp, trembling as the dream evaporates around me. My pulse is racing, my breath coming in heaving pants. My sleep-shirt sticks to my skin—damp with sweat from the dream.
And my shirt isn’t the only piece of clothing that’s wet when I wake.
I feel my face burn, my skin tingling as I sit up in my bed. I’m still shaking, but I try and calm my breathing. I try to center myself, and I think about trying to go back to bed until morning. But when I glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table, I groan.
Yeah, not gonna happen. I’m an early riser, at five every morning. The clock reads 4:30, and my brain is wide fucking awake now. No way am I claiming that last half an hour of sleep now.
I tremble as I drop my face into my hands. My pulse is still thumping in my ears as I push my hands back into my hair. I close my eyes, and the dream fragments come flooding back to my conscious mind.
It’s been like this for months. For three months, since the night of the shooting at Lev and Zoey’s place, I’ve been having the same dreams—dark, pulse-pounding, breath-catching, dirty dreams. Sexual dreams.
In my dreams, nightly, he takes me, and binds me, and… well, they go on from there. I bite my lip, and my thighs squeeze together. I remember the way he groaned into my ear in the dream just now. I replay the way his huge, powerful hands gripped my legs and spread them wide, and how he…
I blush and shake my head. Okay, that’s enough of that, thank you very much. I swing my legs out of the bed and stand. I stretch, then open the blinds of my bedroom window. It’s not a palatial penthouse, but the view from my place is still spectacular. I breath in the sight of the sun rising over the Chicago skyline. Then, it’s time to face my day.
Twenty fast-paced, grueling minutes on the Peloton bike later, I stagger into my kitchen for a smoothie and some fruit. The ride has done its job of getting my blood pumping, and my thoughts off of the dreams. But now, it’s coming back again.
My face burns hotly as it floods back in. His snarls in my ear. His touch all over my skin. His mouth teasing lower and lower, until…
The blender whirs loudly, drowning out my thoughts again; drowning out the replays of my dark, dangerous dream lover giving me the best sex of my… well, I’d say “of my life,” and it would true. True because my dream sex with him is truly incredible. But also true because I have absolutely nothing to compare it to in the real world.
I’m twenty-three, and I’ve only had sex with one man; and that man exists exclusively in my head and in my dreams.
The night of the violence on the rooftop garden is still a mystery. It’s been chalked up to Bratva or just general gang violence. But I know I’m not the only one who still thinks it’s something more than that. I mean the Kashenko Bratva is a powerhouse. You’d have to be fucking insane to try and shoot up a party. Even if you’re using guns mounted on tripods with timers and remote controls.
Three months into the investigation, and that’s all they’ve found—both the legitimate cops, the cops on Viktor’s payroll, and our own crews of people looking into it. No people, no fingerprints, not a single shred of evidence that might point to who’s responsible.
No bodies, either.
I shower quickly, still trying to clear my head. I dress for work, head downstairs, say hello to the doormen, and then step into the morning. Oleg, my usual driver, grins at me. When I pass him the mug of black Russian tea I’ve brought down with me, he groans and crosses himself dramatically.
“My baba, Mary mother of Christ, and you… saints, all of you.”
I laugh as he opens the door of the town car for me. “We really need to raise your standards on sainthood.”
“Oh, I’m easily bought for a cup of good black tea.”
We drive through the city in relative silence—me sipping my double espresso, Oleg happily drinking his tea. At the office, the guards downstairs greet me warmly, and the front desk manager bids me good morning as he unlocks the door to the private executive elevator for me.
Viktor’s “company,” which is entirely a shell corporation within about twenty other shell corporations, leases the top two floors of the mid-century office building on The Loop. My brother has made the Kashenko Bratva an absolute powerhouse in this city by buying off the right people and keeping everyone happy. But still, it never hurts to run your criminal empire through some fake companies.
Viktor is at the top. Lev is number two. But unofficially, I’m number three. And from this office, I help to make sure the empire is running smoothly. All roads lead to Rome, as they say. It’s my job to make sure those roads are paved, plowed, and maintained.
Deborah, my assistant, smiles as I walk past her and into my office. Inside, I close the door, pause for a moment to drink in the view out of my office window, and sink into my chair. But after that, there’s no holding it back anymore.
The dream replay hit me again like a wave. I blush, squirming in my chair as his dream touch slips over my skin like a memory.
I still haven’t said anything about the man who grabbed me that night. Even if keeping that back is a constant source of internal conflict for me. Even if I still dream of those arms, and those eyes.
Even if he’s dead.
But soon enough, Deborah is buzzing me about the day’s schedule. The phone is ringing, emails are piling up, and another day begins.
Luckily, it passes quickly. I’m in back-to-back meetings for most of it. Then phone calls, then more meetings. By the time I can take a breath, I realize it’s growing dark outside, Deborah went home an hour ago, and I’m absolutely starving.
I text Oleg that I’m good for the night, and I take a cab home. The wealth and privilege that comes with the life I live is great. But sometimes it’s nice to feel a bit more like a normal everyday person.
When I’m finally back home and inside my place, I take another deep breath. Being busy all day always feels good. But being home is wonderful. Knowing that its mine, too, and not a handout from my brother is an added bonus.
I make some quick supper, and then catch about ten minutes of some cooking show on Netflix. After that, I’m back on the exercise bike for another forty minutes until my thighs are burning.
In the bathroom, I turn on the shower and then head back into the rest of the apartment. It’s a completely safe, guarded luxury building, with ten Kashenko soldiers keeping watch as well. But it’s force of habit for me to check all of the doors and windows anyways. Satisfied that they’re locked, I head back into the bathroom and strip down for the shower.
I turn, and my eyes sweep over my back in the mirror. I frown slightly, but th
e scars don’t bother me like they used to. When Viktor first brought me back to America, I would wear a t-shirt over my bathing suit if I even worked up the courage to go out to the pool. That’s how ashamed I was of the marks from my past.
Now, I just look at them as that: my past. The scars from the abuse I lived through at my foster home run much deeper than my skin anyways. But I’m better these days. I can shrug it off now.
I step into the scalding hot water of the shower and sigh happily. The heat soothes my sore muscles, and I close my eyes. At first, I start to think about my schedule tomorrow and plan the day. But soon enough, it’s the dreams that take over.
This time, the replay bleeds into a daydream. I imagine the dark, dangerous stranger stepping into the shower with me. He pins me to the wall, making me whimper as his huge hands spread my legs.
I blush under the water, getting warm and tingly in places I shouldn’t when I think about him. But I do, almost every night. The huge, rasping-voiced man from the party has become my go-to fantasy.
I know it’s terrible, and wrong. I know it might honestly mean there’s something profoundly fucked up and broken inside of me. But that might be it. I am broken inside. I’ve pieced myself back together, with a lot of help from Viktor. But even the healed parts are crooked and patchwork.
You don’t “get over” an upbringing like mine. It’s the same reason I’m twenty-three and I’ve never slept with anyone. Because screwing someone, even casually, would mean opening up. It would mean an intimacy I’m not quite sure I’ll ever be able to feel.
So instead, I spend my nights fantasizing about a beast of a man who very well may have been trying to kill me. Or at the very least, abduct me or something.
You’re mine now, little one.
Those growled words bring a surge of lust to my core. I moan as my hands slip down over my skin. But I stop myself right before. If I’m going to continue this, it’s going to be in bed.