Seducing the Badman (Russian Bratva #2)

by Hayley Faiman

  “I have just moved here and I fear all of my clothes are too warm for the weather,” I inform her.

  “Where are you from?” she asks, narrowing her eyes with suspicion. It makes me on edge, but I answer her.

  “Russia,” I inform. She grins.

  “Are you one of those mail-order brides?” she asks while thumbing through some pretty, short dresses.

  “I do not know what this means,” I say with confusion.

  “You know. Some guy can’t get what he wants here so he orders a bride. A woman usually from a poor country who will do anything for him, plus suck his dick for citizenship,” she announces. I gasp in surprise. Never has a person spoken to me this way in all of my life.

  Never has a person had the audacity to do so.

  “My husband is also Russian born,” I inform her, trying to stay calm. She is nothing but a young girl, a stupid young girl.

  “Oh, okay then,” she shrugs, handing me a pile of clothes. She shows me where I can try them on and I am grateful for the reprieve from her terrible personality.

  I try on the clothes and am thankful that they fit. They are cool, and they are also very sturdily made. I decide to keep two short dresses and a pair of shorts. I still need so much more. I hope that Radimir does not become annoyed with me today.

  I walk out of the room to find the skinny girl leaning over the counter, batting her eyelashes at none other than Radimir. I cannot control the jealous rage that spikes through my body at the sight of her hand resting on his bare forearm, her face tilted up, smiling at him.

  “Radimir, I am finished,” I announce as I walk toward him. He turns to me, blinking once and then grinning at me. He knows. He knows this little girl is pissing me off.

  “Whatever you like, kotik,” he murmurs, wrapping his arm around my side and pulling me into his body. The girl stares at us with round eyes before she shakes her head and begins to calculate our total.

  “This is your husband?” she says in disbelief as she takes his credit card.

  “Yes,” I grind out. Radimir chuckles softly beside me.

  After we walk out of the store, he wraps me in his arms and pulls me so that my chest is pressed against his. I have to crane my neck all the way back to look into his blue eyes.

  “My kotik has claws. I like jealousy on you, Emiliya.” He smiles widely.

  “I was not jealous,” I try to say. His smile makes me blush and I end up laughing. I was terribly jealous. “I didn’t like her touching you,” I admit, sliding my hand up his chest to wrap around the side of his neck.

  “No other woman touches me the way that my beautiful wife does. You own me, moy chernovolosyy koroleva,” he murmurs before his head bends slightly and his lips press against mine.

  I accept his kiss with a sigh and then gasp when his tongue traces the seam of my lips. Radimir groans as his tongue fills my mouth, sweeping through me warm and perfect. I feel his hand wrap around mine before he breaks away from our kiss. I’m mesmerized by his eyes until I feel something cool slip onto my finger.

  I look down and gasp, shocked and awed at what he’s given me. A wedding ring. It is a five carat, black diamond, emerald cut, surrounded by blue diamonds, encased in a platinum band and setting. It is the most beautiful piece of jewelry I have ever seen.

  “Hush, let us go,” he murmurs. I do as he asks.

  A moment later, I step away from him reluctantly. Radimir informs me that we must shop some more, knowing these few items will not be enough. He also tells me that there will be parties we will have to attend, so I must get a few cocktail dresses. I smile widely.

  I love sexy little dresses.

  I have missed the parties my father always had. They were a time for me to play dress up and to escape reality, if only for a moment.

  I find that I no longer feel the need to escape reality; but instead, I relish in the fact that I want my husband to show me off to his colleagues. I want him to be proud of the wife that is by his side.

  I sit across from Emiliya at some fancy steakhouse, Mastro’s in Beverly Hills. I could give a fuck where we are, but my Emiliya is used to fine dining and I have not had many moments to give her what she deserves. So, tonight, we eat expensive steaks.

  She is breathtaking, my kotik. Her black hair is long and straight, her makeup perfect, even if she does not need it. Her dress made my cock ache at the sight. It is strapless and dark pink, skin tight, showing off her curves. I am lucky we are not sitting next to each other, or I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off of her perfect body.

  You would think that after an entire day of shopping I would be ready to be done with the evening, but I find that it was not too taxing. Any time at all spent with my Emiliya is a treasure. She is nothing as I imagined she would be; it still surprises me. She is shy and sweet, unsure of herself and very conscious of others around her.

  “How are you, Emiliya,” I ask, breaking our silence.

  I could stare at her all night long, but then I wouldn’t know how the past week truly affected her. How she is really doing deep down inside.

  “I am okay, Rad,” she murmurs. Her nickname for me goes straight to my dick. I’m hard as a rock when my woman is anywhere near.

  “Come, let us take a walk,” I offer once I have signed the receipt for the bill.

  Too much money for food that wasn’t everything I was promised it would be. One of Kirill’s men suggested the place and it was nice, the food edible, but it wasn’t perfect. My wife deserves fucking perfection.

  I almost shiver when she slips her cool hand in mine. I tug her arm slightly and begin to walk outside. It is a warm evening, and though we have been together all day, we have not truly talked much.

  “You need to tell me how you are doing, deep inside. I need to know what truly happened to you,” I say, not wanting to look her in the eyes. I can’t see the hurt that will surely swirl inside of them.

  “I was not raped or tortured, Radimir,” she admits quietly.

  “I want you, Em, so very badly. But I do not want to force you. I wish you to be ready for me,” I say.

  I should feel angry that I cannot show her how much I missed her. How much I need her. How much I want her. But I am not. I truly want her to be ready for me again. I never want to scare or hurt her in any way.

  She is my star. My printsessa.

  Always her before me—always.

  “I want you too, Rad. Believe me, I do…” her words trail off but her meaning is clear—not yet.

  I stop and face her, pulling her body into mine. Her soft tits press against my chest, but her eyes are what captivate me. I gently brush my lips with hers before I speak softly.

  “When you are ready, Emiliya, we will have that physical touch again. But not before then. I would wait a lifetime for you, my queen, if that is how much time you needed,” I mutter.

  “It will not be a lifetime, Radimir. I could never wait that long to have my husband inside of me again,” she whispers and I nod.

  A few weeks. I can handle a few weeks. I want her to be completely ready for me. I do not want there to be an ounce of doubt swimming in her gorgeous eyes.

  I LOOK DOWN ON my little kotik. She’s gorgeous, but her eyes are still haunted. She has just asked me why I will not touch her. I cannot be around her and not fuck her, so I leave. She is not ready for me. I do not know if she ever will be. It has been fourteen days, and her eyes still frighten me. I leave her, the hardest thing I must do, and I go to work.

  It is late, so I will not be working in the office this evening. No, I need a release. A release that only my true job allows. I call my Boyevik and go in search of him. This evening is collection night, and I aim to help collect debts.

  “Zalesky,” he murmurs into the phone.

  “Where are you?” I demand. He grunts his current location to me. It is only mere minutes away, so I turn my SUV in the correct direction and find him.

  A shit club in West Hollywood.

  I hate these f
ucking night clubs.

  I drive around to the back where I see Ziven smoking a cigarette, his back against the brick wall of the alley and his eyes focused on the heavyset man in front of him. I can smell the fear on the lard all the way from my car. Men who wear their fear are dead men walking.

  “You give me no choice, Johan,” Ziven says, his voice deep and angry.

  “Wait, please,” he begs. I roll my eyes at him. Another beggar. A pleader.

  What is next? He gives us whatever we wish? It happens every time.

  “Why should I? I have put this off for weeks, yet I have no money in my hand. Nothing to give my Brigadier as a form of good faith,” Ziven says with a shrug.

  “Whatever you wish,” the fat-man whines.

  “What is this then?” I ask walking up to the group. Fat-man’s eyes go to me and I can see the hope in them.

  Fat-man should not hope from anything from me. It has been weeks since I’ve fucked my wife. She was kidnapped and violated. I do not feel generous. I feel angry. I feel desperate to help her, yet I do not know how.

  “He owes us fifty grand. Partied too hard with some hookers,” Ziven chuckles before taking one more drag from his cigarette and tossing it onto the dirty alley concrete.

  “Did they do a good job fat-man?” I ask, turning to him.

  I watch as his face pales, recognition that there is no way out of this. I am not here to help him. I am not his friend. He gulps when the Kryshas come toward us, circling around like vultures ready to pick him apart.

  “Please, anything you want,” he begs. I shake my head once before I take my brass knuckles out of my pocket and slide them on my tattooed fingers.

  “Seventy-five large,” I grind out.

  “I only owe fifty,” he whimpers.

  “Interest,” I announce as Ziven chuckles behind me.

  “I—I—I have a daughter,” he whispers.

  My body stills and I turn to Ziven and raise my brows. He shrugs.

  “You would give us your daughter then? What do you propose we do with her?” I ask, trying to gauge this man—a man that would give up his precious daughter to keep from getting a few bruises and broken bones.

  “Wh—whatever you wish,” he says gulping.

  “So we all hold her down and fuck her one right after the other while you watch, this you would be okay with, as long as it cleared your debt?” I watch with fascination as he nods his head once before he closes his eyes.

  This sick piece of shit. I should take his daughter just so she doesn’t have to look at his fat fucking face again. I step toward him and grab his greasy, thinning hair with my left hand before I punch him as hard as I can across the cheek. I hear his bones crunch and shatter before he screams like a woman. It immediately begins to lighten my mood and satisfy my darkness.

  “I should take your daughter from you, you sick fuck,” I growl. I reach back and punch him square in the nose.

  I hear his bones pop and then watch as cartilage falls out from his nostrils.

  Interesting.

  I’m personally grateful that it doesn’t fall onto my shoe. I would have had to explain that to Emiliya, she would notice something like that on my leather loafer.

  “You better have five-grand by this time next week, you fat fucking bastard,” I growl before I let him fall to the ground in a fat pile. I lean down and whisper in his ear “If you do not have the money, I will take your daughter and you will never see her again.” I vow before I stand and walk away from him.

  Ziven lifts his chin toward his Kryshas in what I assume is his unspoken orders for them. Then, he falls into line beside me as I walk toward my SUV. Dealing with the fat-man has released some of my beast, but I am still like a caged animal, needing to fuck hard and fast, needing to watch my wife’s tears fall from her eyes.

  “Radimir,” Ziven murmurs. I glance around to make sure nobody is around.

  “The daughter. I need you to keep eyes on her, report to me on her age, her comings and goings, and her beauty,” I order.

  “Her beauty?” Ziven stills at my words, probably reading more into them then I mean.

  “If he is so quick to give her to us, what will stop him from selling her for profit? This is not something I can just abide by. Maybe he was just scared, but he was willing to let us take her. I do not like it,” I say. He nods.

  “I did not like it at all,” he grinds out. I cock my head to the side, wondering if he was part of the stolen children who either whored or became soldiers. Men like Maxim.

  “You will personally see to this then?” I ask, arching a brow.

  “I will. You have my vow,” he promises. I take his hand, shaking it once. This man is a good man. One of many that I have met under Kirill’s control. This is where I should be. Corruptions surround us in this life, but when you have so many quality men together, they are few and far. This, I like. This breeds loyalty, and this is something we all could use more of in this life.

  I leave fat-man in Ziven’s capable hands and climb back inside of my SUV. I am still not ready to go home to Emiliya, to see her haunted eyes and her sweet smile, to smell her—to want her.

  No. Instead, I drive toward my empty office. I need the solitude it provides. I need to drink in peace. I need to mourn the un-haunted wife I once had. I need to come to terms with the fact that I may never have her back again.

  Radimir and I have been in California for three weeks. My period has come and gone, alerting me to the fact that I am, indeed, not carrying his child. I admit that I was sad at first, but now I find that I am relieved.

  I would love to have Radimir’s baby.

  Well, the Radimir that I have fallen for, the Radimir that only appears every-so-often. He has changed. He is like the man I first met—cold and unfeeling, only showing me tiny glimpses of the kindhearted man I know exists.

  I dress in a pair of short, cream, satin shorts and a navy blue, off the shoulder, short sleeved, cotton shirt. I like the contrast of the fabrics; it down plays the dressy part of the satin and makes it more daytime—or so I tell myself.

  I slide on a pair of navy blue high heels. I cannot get into the habit of sandals. My father never allowed them, and I find that they make me uncomfortable. Haleigh always looked so perfectly comfortable in her sandals, but I cannot get used to them. I enjoy the confidence that high heels give me.

  As I brush my hair, I think about Radimir again. He hasn’t touched me since before my abduction. It has been a month, and yet my own husband will not even attempt to make love to me. I told him that I needed a few weeks, how long is he going to make me wait?

  I called Haleigh last week, crying. She informed me that he is probably scared, considering everything that has happened to me. I admit that I let myself relax for one week after I came home, and then I confessed to Radimir about everything that happened in that house of horrors. My suffrage was nothing compared to Ashley’s, but what did happen will always haunt me.

  I have attempted to initiate a physical relationship with Radimir, on more than one occasion, and each time he turns me down and then leaves our apartment. Every single time he leaves, I wonder who he is going to see. Is he lying with another woman while I lay in our bed crying for him? I hope that he is not. I pray that he spoke true words when he said he planned on staying faithful to me—that he would wait for me.

  The reality is that I don’t know.

  I don’t know one way or another.

  I need to know.

  I do know that Kirill and Radimir work in an office downtown somewhere, and today I will visit him. He does not know that I am coming. I am probably not dressed to an acceptable standard for his office, but I don’t care. My stomach is showing, as the shirt is cut off just below my breasts, and my shoulder is bared on one side. I don’t care. I feel more confident in this. My heels high, my makeup applied to a perfect mask, and my hair straight, sleek, and long down my back.

  “I need you to take me to Radimir’s office,” I order my guard
. He is a huge man, Russian, and built as if he were made from bricks. He glowers at me, a look I am used to.

  “Nyet,” he barks. I almost roll my eyes. Instead, I press my berry painted lips together and try to reign in my bitch side.

  “I am Mrs. Zaleskya. You will do as I say,” I say haughtily.

  “You are not my boss,” he points out.

  I move to the door, reaching for the handle, but he places his large hand over mine to stop me. The man may be big, but he is also fast.

  “Remove your hand from my body,” I grind out. Lucky for me, he does as I command. I turn to face him with nothing but anger and fear crossing my face. He reads me just as I knew he would.

  “Take me to my husband, now,” I whisper, unable to speak as the tears well in my eyes.

  The man, whose name I still do not know, nods once and opens the door. I follow him down to the black SUV he drives. He has taken me on many shopping trips, as well as trips to the salon. I have no friends here, and the days are boring, so I fill them the only way I know how.

  We do not speak as he drives on the freeway toward the signs that proclaim downtown Los Angeles is mere exits away. I take the drive to compose myself. Again, it seems as though I need to seduce my husband to get to the bottom of what is bothering him. He did not hide the fact that he finds himself in dark moods, stemming from his past. I, however, did not envision that he would hide from me completely, that he would shy away from me because of what happened. I thought, if anything, he would understand and it would bond us together. I was wrong.

  “He did not exaggerate when he told me you were a handful,” my guard mumbles as we pull up to a very tall, old looking building. My head snaps to his and I find he is smiling.

  “What is your name?” I ask before I step out of the car, my hand hovering on the handle.

  “Anton,” he offers, providing nothing more.

  “I am a handful, this is true, but that man is stubborn,” I grind out. He chuckles.