: Chapter 10

Every fucking time she fights me, I want her more.

Every time she outsmarts me, I need her.

I started out hunting her down to punish her for her betrayal and drag her back to where she belonged. But now—the thought of anyone else near her makes me rage. I cut off a soldier’s fucking hand before killing him for touching her. The idea of anyone else touching her—god.

I don’t just want her.

I want to own her, every inch of her.

But I owe my allegiance to my Bratva, and I can’t let even the most beautiful, intriguing, captivating woman who’s seared herself into every cell of my being sway me from what’s right.

She’s in the back seat of my car, her wrists red and raw from the restraints. I check them, frowning. I didn’t mean to tie them that hard.

Her hair’s a tangled mess around her face. She isn’t drugged, not this time. She’s just asleep. When she sleeps, she looks fragile and almost childlike, but there’s nothing fragile about this woman.

When I undo her restraints, she wakes with a start. Blinking up at me, her baby-blue eyes meet mine. “Where are we?” she whispers. Her voice is sharp around the edges.

Fuck.

She’s not afraid. She’s planning.

“Home sweet home,” I murmur, more to myself than her.

The gates swing open to my property, then close behind us with a satisfying click.

She turns to me, her eyes calculating.

Beautiful.

I’m sure she doesn’t want to be here, but this is where I live. My home is outside of Moscow, not far from my parents.

“Lovely,” Anissa murmurs, taking in the large estate. Cold stone, high balconies, windows too high and narrow to escape. “A five-star hostage situation.”

I give her a shrug. “If you behave.”

The house seems to swallow her whole when we step inside. I’ve dismissed my guards for the day. After what happened in Paris, they seemed eager to comply.

I want her alone.

I don’t want anyone else coming anywhere near her. Eventually, I’ll have to bring her back to the Kopolovs, but I want to wait until she’s not as wild… after I’ve had time with her.

She doesn’t know she has a sister. I don’t know how she’ll react to that.

I catch her wrist before she pulls away, rubbing gently at the chaffed skin. I watch as she scans the room with those thief’s eyes, already clocking exits.

Clever little brat.

“Don’t forget, you run, and I’ll find you.” I kiss the damp hair at her temple. I can’t help myself. “Faster than last time.”

“Thought you had a primal kink,” she says, her voice low. “Really, you think this is the first cage I’ve been in?” Rolling her eyes, she goes all wistful, her voice soft. “There was this guy…”

I freeze. Blood pounds in my ears, and my vision blurs.

No. She watches me. Waiting. Testing.

I let her go. I like her roaming free, ready to run. I like being ready to pounce.

“You think catching you was the endgame?” I shake my head. “That was only the prelude.” I lean in, my voice against her ear. “You think fucking you was the endgame? We’ll get there, but that’s not the endgame either.”

She huffs out a laugh. “Then what is?”

I shake my head. “I’ve already told you.”

Staring up at me, something like fear sparks in her eyes. “Owning me, right, right.” She winks at me. “Just like that guy in Paris…”

And then she smirks. The smirk destroys me, and I snap. I don’t think. I act.

One second, she’s standing there, all cocky and defiant as fuck, and the next? She’s over my fucking shoulder. I smack her ass so hard she howls. She kicks and fights, and it’s satisfying as fuck, spanking her again and holding her in place.

“You want to test me?” My voice is low, lethal. “Go ahead.”

I slide her down my chest, one arm wrapped around her back like a vise, my hand against her throat. I could bruise her soft, creamy skin. I could break her, and she knows it.

I press closer, my mouth against her ear. “Tell me about Paris. Tell me his name.”

She doesn’t.

Smart girl.

“You sure you’ve got nothing else to say?”

She could be bluffing, or I could be making a list of men who need to be erased from the face of the fucking earth.

Her gaze flicks to the bolted main entrance and the locked windows lined with security glass. She presses her lips into a thin line. “That’s what I thought.” I push an errant hair behind her ear. I blink, and I can see clearly again. Then I bury my nose in her hair and breathe, and my heartbeat settles.

“Now that we’ve got that cleared up, let’s get cleaned up before we order dinner.”

She’s quiet now but not defeated. She’s thinking… planning her next move. I could strip her naked and chain her to the bed, and she’d still be ten steps ahead, planning her next move.

So I don’t mind taking my time. I’ll let her play her little games, let her think there’s a way out of this.

I hold her hand, take her upstairs, and lead her to the bathroom, where I turn the water on warm. She watches me warily, but this isn’t a time when I’ll hurt her. Slowly, methodically, I strip her. I run a hand over the fading welts across her ass, and she hisses in a breath. I can’t help it. I drop to my knees.

Holding her hips on either side, I run my lips across the welted skin, committing it to memory. I bite her ass, earning me a scream.

My fingers skim her ribs, her waist, her hips. She shivers but lets me.

Maybe she’s brave. Maybe she’s resigned.

Maybe she wants this.

I get to my feet and lead her into the shower before I undress and join her. Water sluices over her skin, washing away sweat and dirt. I lather her scalp and rinse it, then use conditioner on the ends. I take a washcloth and slide it down her breasts, over the swell of her stomach and the curve of her hips.

I imagine her belly pregnant with my baby. We’ll get there.

Fuck. She’s so fucking gorgeous.

“You take care of all your prisoners like this?” she asks, her eyes tracking my every move.

“No,” I say simply, wiping between her thighs, spreading her slick with the soap as if there’s nothing at all sexual about this. Her breath stutters. “Not every prisoner will have my baby.”

My cock aches. Her gaze grows deadly, her voice tight. “Lucky me.”

Will she feel like she’s lucky when she’s pregnant with my baby? When she’s tethered to me, our DNA knit together? When we’ll be aligned as parents to our child, whether she likes it or not?

Then—to my surprise—she reaches for the soap.

I watch her long, thin fingers as she pours some into her palm and then lathers my hair.

Next, she rubs it on the washcloth and spreads it across my shoulders and down my chest.

My cock throbs.

I want her.

Even as a part of me still whispers guilt.

Bring her back here for punishment—that was my job. That was the order.

No one said I couldn’t enjoy it.

I grip her hips and drag her closer, wet skin sliding against mine. She cups some water and pours it over my shoulders, washing the bubbles away.

I watch them drip down her arms… down her breasts.

I make sure they land right here—where I want her.

I grab her hips again, bend her over, and line my cock at her entrance.

I slide the head of my cock into her pussy, and the feel of her—hot, slick, clenching like her body’s trying to pull me deeper—is fucking magic.

I thrust into her.

Her hands slap against the tile, and her moans echo off the walls.

I thrust harder. Punishing. And her greedy cunt tightens around me like she can’t decide if she wants to push me out or pull me deeper.

She’s so fucking tight.

I reach around her, rough fingers twisting her nipple until she gasps.

I want her to feel this.

I want her to know exactly what it feels like to come on my cock, on my hand, on my face.

I want her to crave it. Crave me.

I want her to come back for more—crawling if she has to.

Anissa loves sex.

Now she’ll love sex with me.

She can run, but I’ll always find her. I’ll always give chase.

But the way I’ll truly tether her to me is simple.

I’ll make her addicted to me—to my cock, to my tongue. To the way her body feels after I’ve filled her with my seed.

Pregnant.

Ruined.

Mine.

That’s how I’ll prove myself to the Bratva.

I watch her body as I drive into her. Watch the muscles in her back tense and flex. Watch her neck arch and her breath stutter.

I sink my teeth into her shoulder, and her moan breaks apart like she’s falling.

I cup her breast, palm heavy and rough against her skin. She doesn’t flinch—doesn’t move. But when I flick her nipple, her body jerks.

And when I press my thumb to her tight little asshole while I fuck her…

That sharp cry? That’s the sound I’ll replay in my head every time I close my eyes.

“Kinky, beautiful girl,” I purr, licking the sweat from her throat. “Look how dirty you fucking are. You want me to take your ass, too, don’t you?”

She shudders, her voice low and seductive. “What you’re doing right now? It’s perfect.”

My cock throbs inside her, watching the red welts bloom across her ass. My teeth mark is dark on her shoulder.

I want her wet with my cum.

Dripping with it.

Owned by me.

I thrust into her again. And again, and again.

Until her fingers claw the tile. Until her whole body locks and shatters around me, and I spill inside her.

I slide my fingers over her clit, circling, rubbing.

She comes again, hard and breathless, screaming into the steam-filled air. Her scream ends with a sniff.

Is she… crying?

I stop moving inside her, still seated deep.

I wait.

But when I look at her, I can’t tell. Her face is pink, but it’s warm in here.

I take the washcloth and clean her, then clean myself, rinsing us under the water before I shut it off. My stomach growls.

“Hungry?” she asks.

“I’ve been going from one place to the next, barely stopping to eat. I’m fucking starving,” I tell her. “You?”

“Famished.”

I hand her a towel, and we dry off; then I take her into my room.

“You live here alone?” She looks around. My bedroom is small and clean, but not immaculately clean like my cousin Semyon’s place or messy and quirky like Rodion’s. It works. I only sleep in here.

I watch as her gaze falls on the cage just waiting for her in the corner, the pink lights twinkling, the bed on the floor made and ready for her. She has the audacity to smirk.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” she says in a low purr.

I open my mouth to retort when the sound of someone else’s voice stops me.

“Hello?” a voice calls from downstairs.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Her eyes fly to mine.

“I thought you just told me you lived alone.”

“I do,” I tell her through gritted teeth.

“Then who’s that? Are we even in your house?”

She doesn’t look vulnerable like some women would, standing in a stranger’s home, still flushed from getting fucked hard, wearing nothing but a towel, hair still wet and dripping down her face. No, she just looks pissed off.

“Those must be my parents. They’re the only people who have access to my house. Except Rafail. He has access to everything.”

For the first time, a glimmer of fear flickers in her eyes. She doesn’t want to see Rafail.

Tough shit.

“You let your parents just walk in like that?” she asks, tipping her head to the side, curious.

“Yeah, they have keys.” Because I feel guilty that their youngest son is dead, and I’m the one responsible. Because they’re the black sheep of the Bratva, and I owe them something for giving me life. Parental guilt’s a brutal bitch, and I’m not immune to it.

“Interesting,” she says. “So do you want me to go out there in a towel and scare them away?”

My vision blurs red. If my fucking father saw her in a towel, I’d have more than my brother’s blood on my hands.

“No. You need to wear something.”

I open my drawer. I should’ve thought of this, but I wasn’t planning on bringing her back so soon. I’ll have to call my cousins.

“We need to get you clothes,” I mutter.

“Funny thing about kidnapping someone and bringing them against their will to your house, isn’t it?” she says.

Jesus. This woman.

I open the bedroom door and stick my head out. “Give me five. I just got out of the shower, and I’m getting dressed. Don’t come upstairs.”

I slam the door with a click and turn to find her holding up a pair of boxers and a small, ivy-green T-shirt I don’t remember leaving there.

“What’s that?” I ask, already grumpy as fuck.

“It was the smallest thing in your drawer,” she says, rolling her eyes, but when she shakes it out, something twists in my chest.

No.

That’s Gleb’s. A shirt I stole from my mother before she got rid of all his clothes. Rafail would kill me if he knew I still had it.

She can’t wear that.

I take it from her hand and shove it back in the drawer. “Not that one.”

Great. Just fucking great.

She raises her eyebrows but doesn’t say anything.

I yank out a plain white T-shirt and toss it to her. “Tie it or do whatever the fuck you need to do.”

“What I need to do is wave my magic wand and shrink it, but since I’m the only witch without a wand, I guess I’ll wear it like a dress.”

She pulls it on, and it hits the tops of her knees. She looks adorable. Beautiful. Too fucking good in my clothes.

“Put the boxers on too.”

“Why? Afraid of a little thigh action?”

I cross my arms. “Afraid I might have to break the kneecaps of any asshole who steps near you, yeah.”

She whistles. “Oooh. Possessive. You sure you’re Bratva and not some overgrown dragon hoarding shiny things?”

I smirk. “You think you’re shiny.”

“Oh, honey,” she says. My heart turns over in my chest. “I’m radiant.”

“Put them on, little witch.” I narrow my eyes at her.

With a shrug, she slides my boxers on, then holds out the waistband to show me a full foot of material between her waist and the boxers.

I grunt. “Fine. You win. Take them off.”

“I could just pretend I’m asleep or something if you wanna see them alone.”

Good idea unless she decides she’s going to run again.

“Yeah. They’re not staying long.”

“You sure about that?”

“Fucking yes. Go. Lie down. I’ll be back.” I hold her gaze. “Do not come out of here.”

Shit. I don’t trust that glint in her eyes. What do you do with a girl who loves to be punished?

I throw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, my stomach growling.

“Note to self—Matvei gets hangry.”

I ignore her, grumbling as I open the door and shut it behind me.

From the top of the stairs, I can see my dad already helping himself to my liquor cabinet and my mom rifling through the snack drawer.

Make yourself at fucking home.

“There you are,” my mother sings in that high-pitched voice that grates on my nerves.

She’s wearing one of her signature sweaters, hanging off one shoulder, skinny leggings painted onto her legs, and a gold belt cinching her waist. She’s standing in three-inch platform heels, her blonde hair pinned at the top of her head. But even bottled blonde and trendy clothes don’t hide the bags under her eyes. The sag of her skin. The way her lips pinch down in a perpetual scowl.

The son she loved most of all, the one she coddled and spoiled to his own demise, was taken from her, and she’ll never forgive any of us for it.

“It’s about time. We’ve been calling and texting, and you haven’t responded at all.”

I walk down the stairs, shaking my head. “I’ve been busy.” I eye the top of the stairs as if the little ghost followed me, but the bedroom door’s still shut tight. For now. I don’t trust her.

I get to the landing and go to get myself a drink.

My father raises an eyebrow. “Rodion said something about that. Did your busyness involve a certain traitor?”

“Hey. The name’s Anissa.”

Jesus. She didn’t wait long. I give her a heated glare, but she only smiles at me with a shit-eating grin and a finger waggle.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” my mother mutters. “You couldn’t get her in decent clothes? Ugh.”

Anissa stiffens.

My father stares at her. Unblinking. Cold.

“Name’s Anissa, and yours is—?” She looks expectantly at my mother. “You must be his grandmother, right?” She blinks so innocently, she almost looks sincere. I stifle a groan, and my father coughs into his drink.

My mother gives her a scathing look through narrowed slits. “Why don’t you just tell me you two fucked without telling me? And it’s mother, princess.”

“Because I think it’s weird you want to know your son just fucked his prisoner,” Anissa answers with another smile. “Ew.”

I should’ve locked her in her cage.

“As far as clothes go, surprise, surprise—your mammoth of a son doesn’t have clothes that fit me.” She shrugs. “I could’ve put on the clothes I wore on the way here when he kidnapped me, but they’re covered in blood and dirt and—” She covers her mouth, eyes wide. “Oopsie. You probably don’t want to know the rest.”

My father’s drink clatters to the table. He stares at me wide-eyed.

“Is there a reason you’re here?” I ask, my voice tight.

“We heard you were back in town,” my mother says, eying Anissa up and down. I know that look. She’s planning something. “She does look a lot like her sister,” my mother says, a wicked gleam in her eyes.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“My sister?” Anissa blanches as she turns to me, eyes wide. “I have a sister? What is she talking about?”

My mother looks at her, all fake innocence, just like Anissa herself. “She didn’t know? You really don’t know the reason Rafail hasn’t come after you?”

“Jesus,” I mutter. But now that the cat’s out of the bag, there’s no point hiding it.

“I heard he got remarried,” Anissa says, coming to the bottom of the stairs. She walks to an overstuffed chair and sits, tucking her feet up under my shirt like some kind of teenage brat. She’s fucking adorable.

I blow out a breath. “My brother betrayed our family. Did you know that?” My mother flinches.

Something like sadness flickers across her face, but it’s gone just as fast, replaced with that ice mask she wears so well. “I didn’t.”

“His betrayal involved a woman named Polina Romanova. Does that name sound familiar?”

She shakes her head, staring at me.

“My brother convinced Rafail he found you, after you ran. So Rafail took her—or who he thought was you. Turns out, it wasn’t you but someone who looked exactly like you. Because she’s your sister.”

For the first time since I started stalking her, Anissa actually looks shocked. Guilty, even. I don’t blame her. It’s a hard fucking pill to swallow. She stares and doesn’t respond. I think it might be the first time I’ve seen her dumbfounded.

There’s a lot more to that story, but I’ll tell her when we get there. Not now. Instead, I turn the force of my gaze to my mother. “That’s enough for now.”

“Why do I feel like everything you’ve told me might’ve been a lie, except this?” Anissa asks, her voice quiet.

“Because it’s not.”

She swallows. Vulnerable.

I hate my mother.

“And when do I get to meet my sister?”

“Tonight. When you meet Rafail.”

She blanches. I don’t blame her.

My father clears his throat. “So you’re all coming to the Kopolov house tonight? Zoya cooking?” he asks, always trying to score a free meal.

My mom’s jaw locked the second I mentioned Gleb’s name, and it hasn’t relaxed since. She’ll never forgive me for what I did.

Neither will I.

I take another sip of my drink and shake my head, watching Anissa’s reaction. “No. Rafail and Polina are coming here.”

Anissa stares at me but doesn’t say a word.

I turn to my parents. “I still don’t know why you’re here.”

“We can’t just come see our son?” my mom asks, voice sticky sweet.

“You could.” I shrug. “You don’t.”

My mother shakes her head and lifts her chin high, but something like sadness flickers across her face. “It would’ve been your brother’s birthday today. Did you forget so soon?”

A stab of pain hits my chest. I don’t want to look at Anissa right now. The memory of Gleb leaves me vulnerable, splits me bare, and I don’t want her to know. My voice is husky, affected, when I shake my head. “No. I didn’t forget.”

Unlike her, I don’t celebrate any of those dates.

I turn my back to all of them, suddenly gripped with the desire to be alone. Alone, just like I’ve been since the day I buried my brother’s mutilated, traitorous body.

It’s safer being alone.

Instead, I pour myself another drink. I jerk my head toward Anissa. “Drink?”

Wordlessly, she nods. The room is silent as I pour her a shot of vodka and hand it to her. The face she makes when she sips it is adorable, like a little kitten who’s drunk soured milk.

I sip mine slower, leaning against the wall. The drink makes the dull aching in my chest bearable.

For now.

“You came here because it was his birthday?” I don’t want to speak his name.

Did they expect me to fucking celebrate?

My mother sniffs, but she can’t hide the tremor in her voice. “We’re feeling nostalgic. Sad. Thought we’d see our other son. Maybe that was a mistake.”

She gets to her feet, heads to the kitchen, and starts rifling through my cabinets like she owns the place.

“How do you even stay alive?” my mother mutters, shaking her head. “There’s no food in here.”

I clench my molars. “I just got back from Paris.”

She mutters something under her breath before turning to my dad. “Honey,” she says to him, “let’s get food. I’m starving.” She looks at Anissa. “And I don’t want to be here any longer.”

“Oh,” Anissa says in a fake-ass voice, “please. Don’t go. I was just starting to get to know you.”

She holds up her empty glass to me, her eyes on my mother. I refill it.

Jesus Christ.

“Nice, you got yourself a cute little bitch, didn’t you?” my mother says, cold as ice. If she were a fucking man⁠—

“That woman,” I begin in a low voice, fury pounding through my veins as I clench my drink. My father knows better. He’s already moving to stand between us like he could stop me if he had to. “Is mine,” I finish, my voice lethal. “Rafail gave her to me. That woman’s going to be the mother of your grandchildren. Is that clear?”

My mother’s face turns beet red—but not from embarrassment. Not her. She’s pissed.

“I get it. You’ve had to let a lot of shit go, haven’t you?” she spits. “A lot of expectations. Hopes. Dreams. We’ve let you get away with plenty, and the only reason Rafail still lets you hang around is because you have some respect left for the rest of us.”

I lean in, voice pure fucking ice. “I might not be so nice.”

“Be careful,” my father growls. “You’re loyal to a fault.”

I turn to him, eyes narrowing. “I don’t have a brand seared into my back with your name on it, do I?”

He swallows and shakes his head.

Anissa whistles.

“Irma, let’s go.”

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” Anissa calls sweetly after them as the door shuts.

We look at each other in silence for a long minute. She doesn’t speak, just traces her finger along the rim of her glass.

“Got the shit end of the stick with parents, eh?” But her eyes are pained when she sips the vodka.

I shake my head. We drink in silence for long minutes. The sun has begun to set outside, but I don’t move to turn any lights on. I like the dark.

“When were you going to tell me about my sister?” she asks quietly, her throat working up and down.

“Tonight.”

“Before or after I met her?” She doesn’t hide the note of sadness in her voice. “No wonder he didn’t come after me. Jesus. A sister.” She shakes her head. “That’s so fucking weird.”

“You have a mother too. She’s in New York. Matriarch of the Romanov family.”

Her eyes widen. She’s never had a mother. I have no clue how that lands.

“And when were you going to tell me about your brother?” she asks. “There’s more to that story, and it sounds fucking brutal, Matvei.”

“Eventually. Probably when we were snuggled up on the couch, sharing our hopes and dreams.” I shrug a shoulder. “Funny, we haven’t gotten there yet.”

She chews her lip. Thoughtful.

“Any other siblings?”

I shake my head. “Not anymore.”

She blows out a breath, meeting my eyes. “Another story for another day?”

“Yeah.”

I sip my vodka, and the alcohol surges through my veins. I need to eat. We both do.

Her gaze drifts to the kitchen clock. “When are Rafail and Polina coming?”

“We’ve got two hours.”

She nods. “Enough time for me to wash and dry my clothes, right?”

“Yeah. Or we can buy you new ones.”

“Maybe another day. This one’s been long enough.”

No fucking shit.

I lean against the wall, sipping my drink. “Do you think the small talk will help me forget that I told you not to leave the room? How long did you last? Thirty seconds?”

With a shrug, she looks away. “More or less. I didn’t like the tone of voice they were taking with you.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “You’re still in trouble.”

Her heated gaze meets mine. “Is that a promise?”

I shake my head. It’s a fucking prophecy.