by Jane Henry
My grip on her tightens. I’ll kill him. Slowly, painfully kill him, and not until he suffers first.
“How? Say it.”
She cries harder but pushes on.
“Rape. Repeatedly. There was nowhere for me to escape. I told my brother and he said I was a liar, and when Andros found out I told my brother, he cut me.”
I sit up in bed, taking her with me. I feel my whole body tense and chill at once.
“I’ll fucking kill him.”
She breathes out, “Would you really?” It shouldn’t surprise me that there’s both awe and hope in her voice. “You hardly even know me, though,” she muses, but when her tear-filled eyes meet mine once more, her gaze pierces my soul. “I want him dead. I want to go to bed at night knowing that he can’t find me again. That he won’t do again what he’s done before.” Closing her eyes, she breathes in and out before repeating, “Would you really, Tomas?”
“Of course, I would. No one hurts my wife.”
“I wasn’t your wife when he hurt me.”
“Irrelevant. He’ll suffer for what he’s done, but I’ll need more details.” I’ll need to know everything.
“Tomas… you do know that you’ll start a war between brotherhoods?”
“I do.”
My blood pounds furiously in my veins, searing and destructive, annihilating reason and logic. I will murder the motherfucking bastard who hurt my wife.
Rape.
Repeatedly.
“Any bastard who would do that deserves to be on the frontline in a Bratva war,” I tell her. “And your brother is a douchebag for not murdering him with his own hands. Both deserve to die. They both will.”
“He will,” she says quietly. “We all do eventually.” Her voice fades to a whisper, contemplative and thoughtful, and I tighten my grip around her.
I’ll assemble my men. I will have the truth.
And I will end them.
Chapter 12
Caroline
I wake the next day before Tomas, my entire body wracked with pain.
I remember the night before when I reach a hand to my head. It feels like someone’s pounding it against a wall, over, and over, and over again.
Great.
I can hear him breathing heavily beside me, and one of his massive arms is strewn about my lower back. Though I’m awake, I close my eyes and rest in this moment. This bed is massive and luxurious, soft but firm, the sheets like satin. And I’m tired. I yawn and take inventory of my body.
My head isn’t the only thing that hurts. My butt aches from being spanked, but there’s more. Even though Tomas is a dominant, chest-beating alpha male, who does expect nothing short of full obedience, I’ve learned in this short timeframe that he can also make being dominated sexy as hell. How? I have no idea. But I have some vague notion of handcuffs and spanking as being sexy to some people. Am I one of those people? I didn’t think so, until Tomas showed me otherwise. And if I’m honest, I’m eager for him to show me more.
My association with sex is anything but pleasurable. I want to view it differently. I want to learn to enjoy what should be pleasurable.
My core is mildly sore, and I feel dampness between my legs. I’m lying here naked, next to a man I hardly know, and for a moment, I panic. Why am I wet between my legs? Did I start my period? Oh, God, that would be terrible. But a quick inspection shows me it’s only… him. I swallow.
He used a condom, but those aren’t foolproof...
Shit.
My period is due in a few days, so I think I can’t get pregnant now anyway. But still. This is something we need to discuss.
But it isn’t until I open my eyes and bright sunlight blinds me that I groan out loud.
“What is it, sweetheart? Are you alright?” Tomas’ voice is low and husky, and it does something to my heart, but I push it away. I can’t let myself go all female and flirty now, because I’m gonna die.
“My head,” I groan. I lie flat on my back and don’t move, my eyes closed tightly. If I lie still enough, I don’t feel like I’ll vomit.
“Ahh,” he says as the truth dawns on him. "We have an expression in Russia. ‘What is good for a Russian in the evening is bad for him in the morning.’” With my eyes shut tight, I don’t see him, but his voice is near, and I can feel the warmth of his body drawing closer to me.
“Is that, like, your mother’s saying or something?” I ask with a sigh.
“Not my mother’s,” he responds. “But it is an old Russian proverb. You had too much to drink last night. I shouldn’t have allowed it. I won’t again.”
“Stop talking,” I moan. “It hurts to listen. Oh, God, I think I’m going to throw up.” I sit up in bed and the room swirls around me, but he holds me to him.
“Breathe in through your nose,” he says. I obey. “Now out through your mouth.” Thankfully, the nausea passes. “Lie back down and don’t open your eyes,” he says. “I’ll get something that will help.” He steps into the other room.
He picks up his phone and calls someone who answers immediately. I can’t hear what he orders, and he comes back soon after making the call. I moan, not moving so I don’t cause nausea to spike again. Damn.
Someone comes to the door, and I hear hushed whispers. I groan when the door clicks shut. Then he’s sitting beside me on the bed. Reaching out, he strokes his hand across my forehead. It feels nice.
“Sit up slowly, Caroline,” he says. “No quick movements.”
My head hurts so badly I can’t think, so it’s actually nice to have someone take charge. I do what he says, my eyes still closed.
“Open your mouth.”
Okay now that I won’t do unless I can see why. I tentatively open one eye. He’s holding a bottle of water to my mouth. I take a small sip, but he shakes his head sternly. “More.”
“It makes me want to throw up,” I say, not bothering to tone the petulant tone of my voice.
“More,” he orders. He’s sitting up wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, his tattoos swirled around his neck and arms like galaxies in the night sky.
I obey.
“Good girl,” he says approvingly. “Now medicine.”
He hands me white, oval-shaped tablets I assume are pain relievers. I swallow them down.
Nodding with approval, he instructs, “Now eat.”
The strong smell of vinegar assaults my senses, and my stomach rolls with nausea before I see what he’s holding. Is it some sort of weird Russian food? Even though I was raised in the Bratva, our food choices were decidedly American.
“Oh God no,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut and clamping my mouth closed. Is he out of his damn mind?
But his voice hardens, and the glare he gives me dares me to defy. “You will do what I say and eat this. Now.”
I close my mouth and glare at him, shaking my head firmly from side to side.
His gaze grows ferocious and he actually literally growls. “You’ll do what I say or earn a sound spanking.”
“Tomas,” I whine, my voice unfamiliar to my own ears. I’m not a whiner, but I feel like I want to curl up and die. “If you make me eat that I’m gonna hurl. And I will absolutely die if I throw up all over my new husband. Just ew.”
“And if you don’t eat it, you’ll land belly-down over your new husband’s lap, get your pretty little bottom paddled, and then still might throw up. Seems like an easy choice to me.”
I grit my teeth. “I’m not going to do it.”
He huffs out an angry breath, shakes his head, and places the tray down on the bed before he reaches for me. It isn’t until I’m halfway over his lap, hair swinging wildly about my face and hands flailing, that I realize he does indeed intend to make good on his promise. And this is not the time for a spanking, thank you very much.
“Stop! Okay, okay, I’ll eat whatever smelly thing you have.”
“It’s a pickled cucumber,” he says, placing me back on my back in bed. I breathe out a sigh of relief. God. I married a ma
n with a heavy hand, and I’d do well to remember that.
“You mean a pickle? We call them pickles in America,” I retort with a grumpy huff. “And I can literally think of nothing I’d like to eat less right now.”
His eyes narrow in warning.
“Caroline.” He lifts it to my mouth, before his tone softens. “It’s an old-fashioned Russian remedy. Just trust me.”
I don’t want a spanking, and I don’t want a pickle, but my choices here are pretty dismal. With a sigh, I open my mouth a fraction of an inch. Shaking his head, he slides the pickle between my lips.
It’s tart and sweet, and nausea clenches my stomach, but as soon as I chew and swallow, the nausea abates a little. I give him a curious look. What magic is this?
“See? Eat the whole thing.” I want to smack the smug look off his face, but I know I’d regret that choice. And I’m too focused on helping the nausea abate. I swallow my pride and eagerly eat it, grateful that I’m no longer nauseous. He follows the pickle with a hot cup of tea and more water, then lays me back down in the bed. “Lay here for a few minutes and let the food settle. I’ll draw a bath and help you into it.”
A bath? Weird.
“Is that part of the Russian remedy, too?”
“It is.”
I lay on my side watching him walk toward the bathroom, all tats and muscles and glorious alpha male, and even though I’m uncomfortable and my head hurts so bad I want to cry, it makes me wonder. Is my new arrangement so bad? His fierce protection is something I didn’t even know I wanted until I had it. Once again, I think of my choices.
I could fight this or lean in.
Lean in.
Embrace his fierce loyalty and learn to be the wife he wants me to be.
Could I?
“Come, little detka,” he says, walking back over to me. “Let’s get you your bath.” I sit up, but he reaches for me first, drawing me to his chest and holding me like a baby. I love this. Oh, it feels nice to be carried by him as he steps toward the bathroom. I let my head fall to his shoulder, my arms strewn about his neck. The nausea is at bay, but my head still pounds.
“Oh, God, the lights,” I groan when we reach the bathroom. He flicks them off so that the only light in the room filters through large windows, daylight illuminating the large tub filled with water and bubbles.
I close my eyes because even the soft natural light makes my head hurt, but soon he’s lowering me into the tub.
“Hold onto the edge,” he says, just before he submerges me in the warm, soothing depths. It feels divine. I’m enveloped in fragrant clouds, warm and soothing. The nausea is better, and the pounding of my head is beginning to lessen.
“That’s a girl,” he says. I’m surprised by the tenderness he shows, this brass, powerful man who commands an army. “You’re being a very good girl.” To my surprise, he strips out of his boxers and steps into the tub with me.
“Come here,” he says. Sitting beside me, he draws me between his legs. My head falls to his shoulder. God, this feels so good, the warmth of the tub, his strong body behind me, holding me to him. “Let’s wash your hair.”
I let him, leaning my head back while he runs warm water over my scalp, massages shampoo into my hair, then rinses it all off with a handheld shower head. I’m shocked at how good it feels being taken care of like this. Though I remember how my mother cared for me, I was so young when she died that I remember very little beyond what she looked like, my memory refreshed by the pictures I still own at home. And of my family members, she’s the only one who could have possibly had a nurturing bone in her body.
When my hair is washed and the water begins to cool, he pulls the drain and stands me up, before draping a thick, plush towel around me.
“That’s my girl,” he says approvingly. “I like that you let me take care of you.”
I like it, too, though I won’t admit it. I lift my chin high. “You didn’t give me much choice.”
He smiles with a twinkle in his eye. “But I did. You could have complied in action alone, but you didn’t. You complied with your spirit as well. And that makes all the difference.”
He needs to take care of me. I’ll remember that as well. It’s in his nature to protect and provide. Though a part of me resists this, my mind warring with my desire to be taken care of and my inner desire to be strong and powerful, there are times like this when it makes sense to allow someone to care for me. Especially if that someone is my husband.
He lays me back down in bed and covers me with a blanket. “Rest, Caroline. I’ll be back in a while to check on you.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I nod, turning over and closing my eyes. A little more sleep sounds delicious. But as I lay there and hear him going about the room, I can’t help but open my eyes and watch him as he lays out clean clothes and shoes. Every once in a while, he looks my way, and each time I pretend I’m sleeping. On his way to the bathroom he walks up to me and gives me a playful slap on the ass.
“Sleep,” he orders.
I listen to the lulling sound of the water in the bathroom and don’t think I’ve actually relaxed enough to drop off, when I hear his shower shut off. I open one eye. My stomach feels a little less queasy, and my head is a little less pained than before. A few moments later, Tomas emerges, still damp from the shower, a towel tucked around his sturdy, powerful waist.
“Did you sleep?” he asks, fixing me with a stern gaze as if he wants to be sure I obeyed.
I yawn wildly. “I think so.”
It’s good enough for him. He nods and walks to where he has his clothes hung up beside a chair. I quietly roll to my back and watch him dress.
First, the towel falls to the floor. I swallow hard at the sight before me, and I feel my pulse begin to quicken. This man is a fucking god, from the deep, wide barrel of his chest to the muscled planes and valleys dotted with dark hair. The tattoos complement each other, each one telling a story. He seems oblivious to the way I shamelessly stare at him, efficiently pulling on trousers, a t-shirt, then sliding into a stark white Oxford shirt.
Wow, he looks fucking amazing.
I swallow hard, observing his cufflinks and the attention to detail. He taps cologne onto the palm of his hand from a bedside table, and the masculine scent pervades my senses.
“Where are you going?” I whisper. “You’re so dressed up.”
“Just a meeting with my men,” he says, reaching for a leather belt and threading it around his waist.
“Oh,” I whisper. And then a strange question comes to me. “Are there going to be any women there?”
He smiles. “No. We have no women in the Bratva. There are a few married to my men, but no women will attend one of my meetings.”
As he buckles his belt, my breasts swell, a satisfying tingle rising between my legs. Wow. Again? What bewitchment is this, that I’m getting aroused just by looking at him? What has he done to me?
“Why do you ask, Caroline?”
“Because you look nice,” I tell him pointedly. “And you’re my husband. And I’m not super cool with some other chick ogling you.”
His eyes widen as he finishes buckling the belt, placing the tail end of it in the loops around his waist. “Are you jealous, wife?”
“Maybe,” I say thoughtfully. Am I?
But just last night he told me he would kill the men who hurt me. The prospect scares me, so I haven’t thought much more about it since then. I’m not sure how I feel about that.
I shouldn’t want him to hurt my brother.
But I do.
Jesus, I do.
I shouldn’t want him to hurt Andros. Good people don’t hurt each other.
But if he does, I know that I’ll worship the ground he walks on.
Worship it.
And I’m not sure what that says about me. It scares me a little to think about how much the promise of revenge excites me. I swallow hard.
This isn’t right. But what part about this is? We live by a code of cond
uct outside the norm.
He’s running his fingers through his hair, his back to me, his scent hanging in the air like forbidden fruit. Ripe and tempting. The man may be my husband, but he’s dangerous on so many levels.
“I like that you’re jealous,” he says. But I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.
I’m falling for him, for the man who doesn’t love me for anything other than his property. And I should be stronger than this.
I am stronger than this.
I close my eyes and breathe in deeply.
“Well good for you,” I mutter. “Oh!”
He’s kneeling on the bed, both knees on either side of me, his tie in his hand.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask.
“Like what?” He leans down and wraps the tie around my wrists. I’m not sure how to respond. “Like what? Like I want to eat you? That’s because I do, little dratka.”
He did not just say that.
“I want the taste of your pussy on my lips when I talk to my men. I want your lingering scent on my nose when I walk among men. I want the memory of my tongue between your legs following you when we separate.”
I don’t know exactly how to respond, but I think I say something like unnnggghhh, because then he’s parting my legs and positioning them just right, while his fully clothed, hot as hell body draws closer to me.
“And you always get what you want, right?” I say with a nervous laugh. I’m giggling like a little girl, until I’m moaning. Oh God, oh God, his breath is hot and sexy and right. there. where I’m throbbing already with need. Lifting my legs up, he places my legs right over his shoulders, the back of my knees resting on the silky fabric.
“Always,” he breathes, right into my sex. I feel like I’m at the mercy of a fire-breathing dragon, his mouth at my pussy so hot and seductive I can’t breathe. Then he lowers the tip of his tongue to the place I need him most and works his magic.
Slow, steady, seductive swipes of his tongue have me keening with pleasure before I’ve taken another breath. My wrists are tied fast, somehow heightening the experience. When he suckles my clit, I throw my head back, my breath caught in my throat, then he releases the pressure and teases with the tip of his tongue again.
