Love and Devotion (Born Bratva Book 10)

by Suzanne Steele

  Kathleen eyed him with skepticism before slowly nodding yes. It would serve two purposes: getting the gag off and softening the edge of the fear she was feeling. It always amazed her how she craved the fear she had of her husband. Fear was a wonderful aphrodisiac. Her husband had mastered the push and pull of their crazy love. He knew how to push her limits and when to restrain from taking her over the edge. Like a puppet master intricately playing the strings of a marionette, each move was calculated precisely for her pleasure and his knowledge. He wanted to know her better than he knew himself, and he had spent years doing just that. She was a maze of hidden cubbyholes with secrets even she was unaware she possessed. He was the vapor in the shadows consuming her little by little.

  Glazov circled her before loosening the tie he’d used for a cleave gag. Each session was precise, yet different in the manner it was played out.

  His mouth opened just a little, copying hers as she drank the vodka in one swallow. Russians didn’t sip vodka; they tossed it back like the victors they knew they were. Her husband’s traditions weren’t the only thing that had rubbed off on her. The man had inserted himself into every cell and pore of her body, mind, emotions, and heart. There was nothing about her he didn’t own—other than her will. Kathleen was a strong independent woman, and no man would ever change that. She was sharp as a tack concerning business and had been an asset to the Born Bratva Brigade. Ironically enough, these attributes only served to cause her husband to be even more intrigued with her than he already was. Kathleen shared the same intrigue of her husband, and his eccentric personality and his penchant for kinky sex only added to her attraction of him. His hands were masterful, his tongue delicious, and his cock was a beautiful weapon of destruction. She owned him as comprehensively as he did her.

  “Such a greedy little girl,” he crooned.

  She licked the last drop of the expensive vodka from her bottom lip.

  “And a tease,” he was nose, to nose with her now. She smelled like his Ptichka. He had given her the Russian nickname; his little bird that would have flown away if he hadn’t kidnapped her heart with his obsession.

  He threaded his fingers through her hair, and a feral rumble came from somewhere deep in his chest. Kathleen was his better half that made him whole. He was a broken man without a soul until he laid eyes on her. He didn’t just want her; he needed her. For without her, he would be just another soul in the purgatory of the walking dead.

  Glazov stepped back just enough to view the beautiful sight before him: his wife at his mercy. His lips trailed up her neck leaving behind tiny feathers of breath that he knew made her skin tingle and her pussy wet. He dipped a finger into her moistness and slowly slid it out, teasing over her clit. He slowly ran the digit around her clit, just close enough to intensify her need for him, but not enough to satisfy her with the direct contact she yearned for.

  “You make me crazy, Glazov.” Her feet couldn’t gain the traction needed to swivel her hips to meet his touch. She was standing up with her arms stretched high above her head and connected to a heavy chain on a crude meat hook. Her body was stretched taut, and her toes barely touched the cold concrete floor. It didn’t keep her from trying to make contact with those masterful fingers, though.

  “You were crazy long before I ever got my hands on you,” he smirked.

  It was true. She would go to crazy lengths to obtain results for whatever injustice she perceived needed to be advocated. More than once, she’d gone behind her husband’s back to do Intel on an enemy. Glazov and Novak had an inside joke that when Kathleen and her sister-in-law Katrina got together, it was a recipe for trouble.

  Glazov cut his eyes at her, “I have to watch you. You’re always rooting for the underdog. Predators use that. I did. You trying to rescue your dimwit friend from her gambling debt she owed me changed your life as well as mine. I make no apologies for the lengths I pursued to make you mine. You. Belong. To. Me.” The underlying threat in the proclamation hung in the air between them, like a taut cord connecting them to each other. He turned and kicked a stool over in her direction, giving her relief from the strain of holding her arms high in the air. Tonight wasn’t about being rough or proving any points about who was the dominant in the relationship. It was about marking her, pleasing her, and reaffirming she had an addiction to a dangerous drug: Glazov.

  He dropped to his knees in the only clothing he wore, drawstring pants that could easily be shed.

  Kathleen looked down on the man whose hair hung loose. He looked like a Viking. His body bore the muscles of a warrior, and his eyes held secrets he would take to his grave. She wished her hands were free so she could run her fingers through his hair, touch the muscles that rippled in pleasure when she was beneath him, and, most of all, give her some of what he had stripped her of: control. It was his way; he was purposely teasing her. She gasped as his fingers spread her open, and his eyes settled on the feast before him. He dipped his tongue into her, and she felt the first ripple of pleasure. Slowly he ran his tongue around her clit as his lips lightly sucked at the hub of nerves he’d purposely awakened.

  He looked up at her innocently, like he didn’t know the agony he was subjecting her to.

  “I need to come, Glazov. Baby, please, I’m begging you.”

  He settled back on his haunches and glared at her.

  He stroked her pussy as if petting it. Out of nowhere, he viciously grabbed it, squeezing just enough to send the sting of a delicious warning.

  “Whose pussy is this?” his eyes were ablaze with the determination of reminding her just how far he’d go if she ever ran from him. It was an intentional warning of who held her life in his hands.

  “I belong to you. Every fiber of my body is woven into you and the Born Bratva world we rule.”

  His lip curled like a predator pleased with the submission of his prey. “Good answer.” He grabbed her hips and greedily began tormenting her again, but this time with the purpose of tasting her sweet release.

  Kathleen could feel her heart fluttering, her knees weakening, and her bodybuilding up towards the kind of orgasm only her husband could give. His tongue was lapping at her juices like it was savoring her taste. His lips were pulsing just enough to send tiny little sparks of electricity through her. It was so intense she could feel it in her peaked nipples. When he started rapidly flicking just the tip of his tongue over her clit and adding suction with those beautiful lips of his, it sent her into a frenzy of screaming out in pleasure. Over and over, he made her cum until her body was too weary to withstand anymore.

  Glazov knew his wife in the bedroom and out of it. He eased up off the floor and released his wife from the chains that held her bound. He padded gently into the connected room that housed an extravagant playroom. He laid her out on the large king-size bed. His eyes were on her beautiful form as he stepped out of the drawstring pants. She reminded him of a fairytale—his own sleeping beauty who had been awoken by a scarred knight—A man with deep crevices of pain and jagged edges of determination.

  He sat on his knees and pulled her towards him, spreading her knees apart. Even though she was soaking wet, she felt like a tight grip that held on for dear life. He loved the way her body was pulling him in like he was her saving lifeline against the cruel world they lived in. He needed more. It pleased him when she groaned as he pulled out of her to scoot her body up, so her head was lying on the pillow. He lifted one of her legs up and plunged his cock into her as deep as he could. Her body bucked with each thrust. He could feel the tiny spasms and see her wreathing when he hit her G-Spot. Just like always, he would give her more pleasure than she ever believed possible. The throbbing of her core when she climaxed again sent waves of release through him. Like a feral animal, he had marked her with his seed.

  Glazov eased his trembling body down beside his wife and pulled her close. This was the place he wished he could live. This was home. This was the only peaceful habitat on earth. Kathleen had given him all the things no one else could
. She was the woman who made him believe he could conquer the world. Believing was far more powerful than just a feeling. Believing was the fuel that kept a man like Glazov pursuing his dreams. She was his priceless jewel, and he was her fierce protector. Perhaps, together, they would rule the world.

  Chapter Two

  Because some women don’t want champagne and roses, they NEED black roses and knives. This is the logic of a man who lives his life contrary to the rules of our society. For this reason, the author felt the need to give the same background on Charles as was given in the series ‘Black Rose.’

  Charles Wentworth III could best be described as an oxymoron. Whether it was due to nature or nurture, to say the least, he was a contradiction in terms.

  He was just as comfortable in nothing but a pair of jeans, walking through his mansion barefoot, as he was in a suit and tie. He was a chameleon of sorts, but then again, when you’re a serial killer, concessions must be made.

  He was raised in the upper echelon of society. In his world, appearances were everything, and perfection was paramount. From the day he was born, he was taught how to behave around the elite of society who inhabited his world—a world where you inherited your social circle, and no amount of money could buy or secure your place there.

  Though he was born into the status he’d been allotted, he was also born with innate traits—traits that needed to remain hidden at all costs. He was a born predator. He was no different than a wild animal in this sense. He enjoyed the hunt, capture, and takedown of his prey. It wasn’t something he did; it was who he was. No amount of resistance or therapy would ever change his nature. Just as surely as he was born into his social status, he was also born with the nature of a killer.

  Surprisingly enough, it bled over (no pun intended) into his sexual escapades. Once he had tracked his prey, he would stop at nothing to attain that which he craved. He was a stalker in every sense of the word, and he was excellent at what he did.

  As fate would have it, years ago, he had raised his nostrils in the night air of sensuality and gotten a whiff of the prey that he desired. A woman he’d coveted in his dreams was now his reality. After years of searching for a woman he could take under his wing and train, he had finally found her. By the time he was finished grooming her to his preferences, she was perfect for him. She was the woman with a craving for his cock and desire for his deviant sexual tendencies.

  Oddly enough, the type of woman he had been looking for was not what would normally fit the stereotype of a man of his means. She was the total opposite of the women who had graced his arm in the social functions he attended.

  In the past, the women he fucked had been mere eye candy for the press and paparazzi who made a living selling his pictures to magazines. Paparazzi preyed off the public who lived vicariously through the rich and famous. Years ago, before he met his wife, Charles had given them what they wanted to see.

  Melanie was anything but mere eye candy; she was a woman with heart, soul, and substance. Those characteristics seemed to be lacking in the women who normally pursued him—women, who craved the limelight, money, and social status he could provide. It was enough to hurt a man’s feelings… if he had them. Lucky for Charles, he’d learned to turn his emotions off years ago.

  Before he’d met Melanie, he’d never lacked a warm body in his bed due to the abundant pictures, newspaper articles, and press interviews of him that were ever-present in the media. Each woman coveted a spot in the social section of The Courier Journal, better known as the CJ of Louisville, KY. Horse racing had been good to the city, and the Kentucky Derby had been a gold mine, a drawing card for the rich and famous. Anyone who was anyone attended the annual race and never let the opportunity to show off their fashion sense in hats go to waste. It had grown so much that even those who graced the screens of Hollywood attended. Each woman on his arm believed he could give her a life of fame and fortune. Each woman believed she would be the one he’d fall madly in love with and make all her dreams come true. In turn, he fucked them and moved on to the next naïve victim. Being upfront with them about his unavailability only seemed to spur them on. It was a bit of reverse psychology though that wasn’t the reason for his being so forthright. He was honest with them because he wanted to fuck them, and then he wanted them to leave him the fuck alone.

  His obsession with Melanie had opened the door to a problem he’d never anticipated. From that day on, he would always measure any other woman by the standard he perceived Melanie to be. They would never measure up. For that reason, from the moment he’d laid eyes on his wife, no other woman existed. His days of being a playboy ended. It would have been a shock to any other man’s system, but Charles went with it. He was smart enough to know Melanie was different. He was also smart enough to know it would be a waste of time to continue being a playboy because Melanie had achieved what no woman before her had: she had piqued his curiosity. For a man who had seen and done everything, that was no easy feat. His money had allowed him to have anything his heart desired. The funny thing about it was it only served to make him bored—until Melanie.

  His eventual analogy was the women in his escapades before Melanie had fulfilled their purpose: they’d curbed his passion—nothing more, nothing less. It was the difference between a boy and a man. For a boy who had been forced to grow up quickly, it was a big accomplishment. Many of his childhood friends were still living out their college days well past the age of thirty. They would never grow-up because they didn’t want to. Their wives turned a blind eye in exchange for the money and prestige their husbands provided. He had promised himself he would never put his son Thomas and wife Melanie in that painful position. He treasured them as priceless. With all his flaws, he really was a good catch.

  He no longer had time for the high society women who resided in his income bracket. They reminded him too much of his Mother—They were uptight, frigid, and climbing the social ladder that always accompanied country clubs and soirees. Their idea of entertainment was to have lunch at the country club and rip a victim to shreds with their gossip. Much like ring-around-the-rosy, the victims of their tongue lashings changed from week to week, leaving those who weren’t the topic of conversation grateful it wasn’t them. This, in turn, caused them to be vicious in their dismantling of the victim’s character. As in any clique, there was a queen bee: Rose Wentworth. His deceased mother had been nothing if not competitive. She simply wouldn’t stand for that title to go to anyone else while she was in the land of the living. ‘Over my dead body’ took on new meaning with a woman of her social standing.

  Charles was smart enough to realize the poor little rich girls couldn’t be that frigid all the time, not if they are anything like his Mommy Dearest. He knew all too well he was the seed spawned from an affair his mother had years ago, but like any good high society family, denial ran rampant. The secret had been swept under the rug, and all was well in the Wentworth household. Perfection was a must in high society, for Charles Perfection was paramount because he could never risk being jailed for his penchant to avenge those who couldn’t avenge themselves.

  He had no doubt he fell into the category of anti-social personality disorder—the modern-day way of labeling a sociopath. Though Charles didn’t have all of the traits, such as being impulsive or unable to plan or being financially irresponsible. He did have enough of the characteristics to meet the criteria because he regularly broke the law, felt no guilt about the murders he committed, didn’t care about the pain they were subjected to in his torture sessions. He damn sure didn’t have any regrets about killing them.

  Charles strode over with the casual gait of a jaguar and looked at the two men he and his son Tommy had abducted. They were tied with rope, and each bend, curve, and knot was done with the expertise of two men who loved rope. They loved the different colors and grades of it. They loved the feel of it in their hands. They loved the marks it left when a body was untied (dead or alive). But, most of all, they loved the art they were able to creat
e after years of mastering it. Charles had passed down his love of rope to his son Thomas. He had also passed down the characteristic of being a vigilante. Thomas was as adamant about his belief of cleaning up the streets of Louisville as his father was; his mother was too. Charles had done something he’d never intended: turned his family into an army of justice. Much like superheroes, they all believed in avenging those who were weak. Charles and Tommy—who now went by Thomas—enjoyed killing because it was a way to vent the violence that burned within; much like a pressure-cooker, it was a way to let off steam. Melanie’s reasoning was a bit different—she was a compassionate woman and always rooted for the underdog. No animal was left homeless, no woman abused, and the rights of her fellow man were as important to her as her own. She was a woman with a kind heart, but in no way was she weak when it came to being a vigilante.

  The men’s pleas for mercy and screams for release had now turned to half-conscious groans of acceptance. A man can only take so much of a beating before he gives in to it, and the pain no longer hurts as badly as the will to die exists.

  Charles lifted one of the men’s chins with one finger. There was no emotion in his face at the sight of carnage there. The man’s eye was swollen shut, and the bruising was already beginning to show. Crusty lines of dried blood rested where it had solidified. His lips were swollen as if he’d had too much collagen injected, and the result had given him what women would refer to as ‘duck lips.’

  “Don’t feel like less of a man because you want to die now. It’s common for those who have been subjected to torture sessions to beg for a quick death. Some cartel will kill a man quickly if it’s a member of their sect who has turned on them. You should feel like less of a man because you killed a family of four—An innocent family.”