by D STEP
He mounted the grand staircase three at a time to hurry to his father’s bedside. He knocked at the gilt-laden doors to Anatoly’s bedchamber. They opened slowly to reveal an attendant who acknowledged him with a bowed head and bid him enter.
Yuri approached the old-fashioned four poster bed in which his father lay, being ministered by a dozen nurses and other low-ranking workers. The Pakhan’s stocky body appeared shrunken and frail beneath piles of bedclothes, but his spirit seemed as feisty as ever in the manner which he berated and dismissed his attendants.
“Yuri, my son,” the Pakhan croaked. “Come, sit. I must speak with you.”
“Yes father,” Yuri replied, drawing a chair near to the bed. “How are you feeling?”
Anatoly attempted a smile and reached a shaking hand toward him. “As if you cared,” he chuckled. “My death would suit you just as well as my recovery, I think.”
Yuri shrugged off the comment. “Pasha said you called for me.”
Anatoly let out a rasping snigger, which in turn triggered a coughing fit. He clutched a handkerchief to his mouth until it subsided. “Yes. I am concerned about your future, Yuri.”
“The business is running fine, father. There are more whores in the world than I can spit vodka at.”
“Of course there are. But I am not convinced you are the right man to handle this market segment. I heard there was a problem at the pickup tonight.”
Yuri folded his hands together and squeezed tightly. He hated the thinly disguised disapproval of the old man; had felt it too many times in his life. He would never win his complete favor, and had stopped trying. “Daniel and his men fucked up. Nothing to do with me,” he said.
“You are responsible for the men in your Brigade,” Anatoly interjected, “and regardless of who is to blame, we need consistency in procurement. You are too busy partying with your friends and making love to your damned motorcycle to focus on the task at hand. Perhaps you are better suited for another line of work, Yuri.”
Yuri stood and shoved the chair away. “Fuck you, old man. I do my job. I bring you tributes day in and day out. Yeah, I’m different, I don’t always play by the rules. I’m not like Valeri, and I’m proud of it. So what?”
“Calm down, you thick prick. Don’t compare yourself to your brother. There’s no place for sibling rivalry here,” Anatoly fixed him with a withering gaze that belied his weak condition. “I may die soon. And I won’t have the two of you squabbling over my dead body, jockeying for supremacy. You are undisciplined and untrustworthy because you have nothing to lose, no cause to fight for. You need to settle down. You need a wife. Children, even. If you want any piece of my legacy, you had better heed my advice. Get married, or I’ll see to it that you are stripped of Brigadier status, and no longer part of this Bratva,” the old man said, the exertion of his emotional speech sending him into retching spasms. The nurses swept in like locusts to attend him and administer dark colored syrups to ease his discomfort.
Yuri stepped back to allow the medics space to do their work. After swallowing his medication, Anatoly relaxed and settled back into position against his pillows. The nurses straightened his covers and made him as comfortable as possible before drawing the curtains around the perimeter of the huge bed, throwing hawk-like glances in Yuri’s direction.
“As you wish father,” Yuri said, then turned on his heel and left the room.
*
Yuri stood at the window of his study, looking out across the Kovalenko estate. The early morning light illuminated the silvery leaves on the trees dotting the rolling lawns that stretched downhill to the shores of Lake Nero. Mists lingered on the water’s surface, the sun’s heat not yet sufficient to dissolve them away.
He’d had a shitty night, and this morning was no better. A simple mission fucked up by incompetent Boyeviks, an ailing dictator-father, and one prisoner of mistaken identity pretty much summed up his lot. He’d just as soon get on his Harley and ride away from all of it, but the thought of his smug-faced brother inheriting the Kovalenko Bratva’s entire operation if he did, made his stomach turn.
He was no desk man, and he’d never slept well at Goragavan, the Kovalenko mansion with its sprawling footprint and 42 opulent rooms that afforded Yuri a personal suite that included a bedroom, study, ensuite bath and sitting room with a terrace overlooking the lake. He preferred the open road, but for now he dutifully sat down at his desk and pulled out the items taken from Sophie’s purse.
Daniel still had possession of her passport, but the photo ID from her handbag bore government insignia. The picture on her Austrian driver’s license showed a prim and proper girl with big brown eyes, clear skin and lovely plump lips framing a bright white smile. He noted the unusual space between her two front teeth that he found oddly attractive. This was no orphaned waif to be drugged and forced into prostitution. She looked to be exactly as she claimed—a foreign service worker on her way to assignment with the government.
Lipstick, comb, wallet, pen. Yuri smiled at the next item. Her cell phone. Without it, and without her identification, the girl was completely isolated from the world. He could do with her whatever he pleased. Better still, the phone held useful information. They now had a direct line to the Ministry and Marat Borovski—the irritatingly honest new beaurocrat who refused to be bribed and had declared personal war on Russia’s rampant black marketeering.
Yuri scratched his beard and thought about his father’s advice. He rose and went to the mirror in his ensuite. He liked his look, it suited him. His caramel-colored hair had grown longer than he’d realized but added to the wildboy image he wanted to project. Similarly, his slightly darker beard had grown a bit scruffy since his last trim, but gave him an edgy, dangerous aura that was necessary in his line of work.
A thought struck him. Forcing Sophie into prostitution was a bad idea. Forcing her into something else might be a stroke of genius.
Chapter Four
Sophie awoke with a splitting headache. Darkness surrounded her and gave no clue as to day or night, or how long she’d been unconscious. Unfamiliar scents pervaded the air, and moments ticked by as she struggled to understand her whereabouts, feeling only the pain behind her eyes and the touch of soft fabric against her face.
Fighting the pounding in her head, memories trickled in. The airport, the motorcycle, being cold and terrified; but mostly she remembered the man. The musclebound brute with strange tattoos who lifted her onto that monster machine and shielded her with his warm thick body. He had no face that she could recall—just the smell of leather and the outdoors—and a name. Yuri.
She was a prisoner. The thought cut through the pain in her cerebrum and jolted her into action. She clawed at the material wrapped around her and rolled sideways, falling over the edge of the bed on which she’d lain. She landed on the floor with a whump, the impact sending bolts of agony to her brain. A light flicked on. Sophie blinked and squinted toward it.
She lay on a carpet in what looked like a hotel room. Her eyes followed the light to its source, and saw a lamp next to an armchair. Then she saw him. He lounged casually in the chair with one foot crossed over his knee, resting his chin on his fist and gazing at her with intense blue eyes that seemed to glow from within their darkened sockets. A reddish-brown beard covered his jaw.
“Sophie,” he said.
She hadn’t told him her name. He hadn’t even asked. Obviously he’d taken her things and gone through them; she vaguely recalled him saying she wouldn’t even have a name after he was through with her. But she remembered his. Yuri.
“Are you Sophie, or aren’t you?” he said, louder.
“Yes,” she answered, the word coming out in sad bleat like that of a lamb. God, her head hurt. There had to be something more in that vodka he’d given her than vodka…no wonder he hadn’t taken a drink himself.
“Khorosho. Good. Can you stand?” he asked.
Sophie freed her arms from the tangled blanket, but as she tried to push her body uprig
Yuri remained seated, unmoving. “Drop the blanket,” he ordered.
She looked up in horror. “N-no,” she said. “I can’t…don’t…”
“Are you so ugly you are afraid to show me your body?”
Sophie’s eyes stung as hot tears formed. “No…” she whimpered.
“Then show me.”
Tears spilled onto her cheeks. Slowly, she released her hold on the blanket. It fell to the floor in a heap around her feet, and she stood there in the nude before him. Her knees shook and her skin turned to gooseflesh. She could feel her nipples hardening in the cool air. Her breath came in pitiful sobs.
Yuri unfolded his jean-clad legs and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. His broad shoulders filled the width of the armchair. He cocked his head and raked his eyes over her from head to toe. Sophie looked away, unable to bear his cold, calculating stare another second. She felt more naked than naked, stripped of not only her clothes but her dignity as well. Bastard! She hated him to the core, yet a quiet, unholy sensation was building in her belly; one she couldn’t explain.
“Come here,” he said, his voice somehow softer. He held out his hand.
She folded her arms across her breasts and took an unsteady step toward him; then another. She feared her legs would give way, but one more step brought her within his reach. He rose from the chair and pried her arms away from her body.
“You cannot hide from me, princess. You’re mine, now, all of you.” He raised a hand to her chin. “Your face, your arms…” His fingers traced her throat and her collarbone. “Your tits.” His hand slipped down to cup her breast and squeezed it hard.
Sophie moaned and felt her knees collapse. One powerful arm caught her as she fell, her back arching over it and jutting her chest toward him. His hand still held her breast, and he leaned his head down to suckle it. His warm mouth took it in, swathing his wet tongue over her brown-skinned areola and her now-aching nipple. His teeth grazed the soft round sides of it then closed his lips around it, sucking hard.
On the verge of losing consciousness, Sophie grabbed onto his muscled, tattooed biceps and brought her head upright. The tousled, curly forelock of his hair brushed against her chest, and the sight of him devouring her throbbing breast sent a dark jolt of sensation straight down to her crotch. Her fingers clenched the tight orbs of muscle on his upper arms, the sinuous, colorful imprints on his skin seeming to writhe and come alive like serpents. Her vision began to black, and her head lolled sideways.
His mouth released her breast with a popping sound. “I must sample the goods to decide if I’ll keep you,” he said. He lifted her off the floor and carried her into an adjoining room. Sophie could smell fragranced soap and sensed warm, steam-filled air caressing her skin. He placed her on her knees against the side of an elegant bathtub filled with hot water and bubbles. She wanted nothing more at that moment than to climb in and sink beneath its comforting depths; perhaps be lucky enough to drown before he could do anything more to her.
She felt his body behind her, heard the tinkle of his belt buckle releasing. Dear God, her worst nightmare was becoming reality—to be raped and held prisoner in a foreign country with no identity, no rights, no avenue for escape. His hands traced down her back as she leaned her face over the steaming bubbles. She gripped the rounded edge of the porcelain, bracing herself for the inevitable.
She could hear his heavy breathing close to her ear, sensed his excitement and satisfaction in his dominance over her. Rough palms slid over her buttocks, rubbing in circles. Unwillingly, her private muscles clenched with anticipation, spurring the flow of cream to lubricate her pussy. Sophie closed her eyes, ashamed of her body’s reaction. She could not possibly be turned on by this unmannered, brutal Neanderthal…could she?
His fingers slipped between the crack of her bum and glided lower to lodge in her hot, wet channel. He began to stroke the length of it, her warm cream making easy work of it for him.
“Hmmm….” he murmured in a low chuckle. “I think maybe you like me a little, eh princess?” He rubbed more quickly, finding her swelling clit and wiggling it. His words made her want to retch, but her genitals wanted him to continue. A hot bloom of arousal flowed through her abdomen, waiting to consume her.
The steam from the tub made the strands of her dark hair that hung down on either side of her face start to coil. Humid air always encouraged its naturally curly tendencies. Her mouth draped open, gulping in the sweetly scented vapor floating up to her. A broad finger reached inside her vagina and pumped slowly in and out. She gasped and hunched farther over the tub ledge.
His soft laugh still held a hint of menace. He shoved two fingers into her on the next pass, stretching her open. “That’s nothing compared to my cock,” he grunted. Sophie’s body shuddered with the knowledge of what would come next, fighting off the heightening urge to come, and come hard. He kneeled into position behind her, withdrawing his fingers. She felt the warm press of his naked groin against her butt cheeks and his thick cock find a home between her legs. He hadn’t put on a condom.
His shaft eased into her creamy wetness, his fingers having paved the way for his entrance. She felt the pressure of the head against her opening, then a forceful thrust as he penetrated her with an angry urgency. Sophie cried out at his sudden aggressive assault, a twinge of pain mixing with a dark wantonness that begged for more. More of his big weapon filling her, more of his animal thrusts. His calloused hands cupped her breasts, mawling them mercilessly as he pushed to the hilt, again and again.
She could hear him grunting with each plunge, making vivid in her mind the image of a beast fucking her by wild instinct alone. Pain sizzled in her breasts as he pinched and plucked, and her lower body gave in to nature, the dark wave of ecstasy rising up and claiming her unwilling soul. Tears mingled with water droplets that formed on her face from the steaming tub. The sensations were magnificent, wicked and shameful all at once, and she felt Yuri’s massive body stiffen and go still as he climaxed. Spasms of his ejaculation tickled inside her, emptying his seed into the waiting vessel of her female body.
The echoing sound of their breathing filled the room, gradually slowing and returning to normal. Sophie began to shiver, her arms and legs trembling uncontrollably. She felt ruined, defiled by this man-beast that hunkered over her and sickened at the thought of who or what else he might have fucked unprotected before now.
He pulled away from her and stood, circling her waist with his powerful arms and lifting her into the tub. She curled into a fetal position beneath the sparkling suds, her arms around her knees in a protective hug. She had no words to speak.
“Clean yourself up,” he said, zipping his jeans closed and re-fastening his belt. “You must look presentable for the Pakhan, if he is to accept you as a suitable consort.”
Sophie felt her heart constrict. What did he just say? Her head snapped up in spite of her despair. “Consort? I won’t be anyone’s ‘consort’, least of all this Pakhan...”
Yuri straightened to his full height and towered over her, blocking out everything else. His ice-blue gaze froze her mouth in mid-sentence and made the bathwater seem to go cold. “Watch your tongue, princess. You will learn respect. I don’t mean a consort for the Pakhan. I mean for me.”
Chapter Five
When Sophie emerged from the bath, she found the bed she’d slept in freshly made and a selection of clothes laid out on it. Open curtains allowed cheery light to fill the small but handsome room. The wide armchair from which Yuri had observed her sat empty. A pitcher of water and a tray of food lay on the table next to it.
She poured glass after glass down her parched throat, her stomach gurgling and rumbling with the sudden deluge and reminding her she hadn’t eaten since the plane. A few bites of bread and slices of cucumber from the tray eased her hunger. Other than daylight, she had no clue as to the hour. Nothing remained of her own belongings, and Sophie truly felt like a stranger in a strange land. Stripped of everything she owned, not just her clothing and identification, but her job, her past, her future. Misery had only been a word in her vocabulary. Now it was her definition.
Her job. Surely the Ministry would be looking for her, investigating her disappearance? Her phone was missing along with everything else. No way to call for help. And what was this place she’d landed in? Everything was a blur except the larger-than-life man who’d kidnapped her, raped her, held her prisoner and had the outrageous idea she would become his…what? What did ‘consort’ entail? She had no frame of reference but felt pretty sure it meant being a captive whore.
She squirmed uncomfortably at the aching soreness between her legs and in her breasts. In a panic she thought of Andrew. Poor, trusting, boring Andrew. The contrast between him and Yuri was almost laughable, but the fact she had betrayed Andrew, even against her will, broke her heart. Sex with Andrew had been exactly like him; soft, predictable, unimaginative. What she experienced in the bathroom just an hour ago bore no resemblance to it, nor to love or commitment; but she couldn’t deny it excited her on a base, primeval level.
She picked through the clothes on the bed. Not her style at all, but frilly and feminine crap with ruffles and drawstrings. There were pairs of panties, but no brassieres. She settled on a floral-print peasant dress that fell just below her knees and a pair of open-toed sandals. The wide, gathered neckline exposed her shoulders and the short puffed sleeves stopped just above her elbows. I look like some middle-class gypsy, she thought with disgust.
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