“Dirty, little, filthy whore! You made it so easy, out prancing around in that slutty excuse of a skirt, trying to make men look at you. Your friends know you’re gone by now,” he said as he leaned in close to her face to whisper, “and there’s not a damn thing they can do to help you. Know why? Because you belong to me now. You’re my dirty, little whore, my very own personal action hero doll to play with. That’s what you look like with those legs and those tits, you know: a video game vixen.”
She never saw it coming, barely had time to register a blinding white light as he reared his arm back and slammed the magnum police flashlight against the side of her head.
Searing pain, then darkness.
He didn’t know why he hit her. All he knew was it felt fantastic. He had thought he wanted her, had planned to take great pleasure in raping her. But when he got her to the root cellar, the sight of her only reminded him of what he really wanted—Glazov’s life and Glazov’s wife.
This bitch was nothing compared to his precious Kathleen. Kathleen was classy. This whore was just a dirty slut. He thought he would feel better if he had her, but now all he felt was disappointed—and angry. Yeah, very, very angry. That was how he felt now. And it was this bitch’s fault.
Nothing was going the way it was supposed to. It seemed like he was stuck in the middle of something, like he couldn’t achieve his goal but he’d gone too far to turn back now. He felt like he was traveling across a desert, lured ever farther by the promise of an oasis…but every time he got close, it was just an illusion.
This was Glazov’s fault. That bastard brother of his had put some black magic spell on him. Maybe killing this bitch would break the spell. He banged his head against the wall, screaming out in rage and defeat. Why couldn’t he kill the darkness within him?
Kathleen was the only thing that could fix him. He shouldn’t have taken this imposter. She wasn’t the promised one who would help him secure his position of power and bring forth a rightful heir to the Bratva throne.
He needed a drink to clear his head. Maybe he’d finish the whore off after that. Maybe he’d still fuck her, maybe not. He could send a severed finger to his dear brother like they did in all the old gangster movies. Glazov would open a box and there would be a finger of accusation pointing right at him. And his people would realize that it was all his fault and welcome their savior with open arms.
He stumbled out of the cellar and over to his car where he proceeded to get drunk and feel sorry for himself. Wasn’t that what all of this was about anyway, him feeling sorry for himself? His dad was a coward. His mother was a Bratva groupie who whored herself out in the hopes of being on the arm of a Bratva soldier someday. Were they drunk the night he was conceived?
Yeah, that bitch needed to pay. He’d go down there and make her atone for all the shit his mother did to him. All those fucking lies she told him about his father. She built him up like he was some rock star, promising he’d come back for them. She told him his father was coming back to take them away from all the poverty and shame. He waited at the window like a dog for his father to return and that bastard never came back.
They were all liars and whores. All women were liars and whores. She deserved to be locked up in that cellar; prancing around in those slutty clothes, trying to make a man stray from his family. Filthy whore.
He hated women, all of them, except for his beloved Kathleen. She was different. She was going to save him.
He stumbled from the car with the flashlight in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other. Yeah, he felt better now. A drink had been jus’ what he needed to clear his head.
He was unsteady on his feet, weaving as he ambled over to the root cellar door. He hoped she’d be awake by now. Maybe he shouldn’t have hit her quite so hard. If she was dead she couldn’t fight. No fun in that.
Oh well, fuck it, she’d certainly be more compliant now. Maybe he would fuck her before he killed her. He groped his soft penis and frowned down at it stupidly as he teetered in the darkness. Either way, he’d have to kill her because she wasn’t worthy to conceive his baby—only the lovely Kathleen would bear the heir to Bratva seat of power.
Chapter Twenty Seven
The searing pain in her head forced her eyes to slowly flutter open. She lifted her hand to the gash on her forehead and came away with wet fingertips. That fucker drew blood!
The memories of how she got in her current predicament came flooding back. First the needle, then the flashlight. If that son of a bitch left a scar, I’ll kill him. She remembered Roksana telling her that she better be a good trainee because Glazov had paid a fortune for her plastic surgery. She had to admit, the doc had done a damn good job making her over. Yeah, I’m gonna be super pissed if I’m scarred.
He lifted the door, its creaky hinges announcing his arrival to his guest. He heaved the rotting wooden panel to the side, wincing at the loud crashing noise it made as it struck the hard ground. That should wake the bitch up.
Step after careful step down the ladder, he held the flashlight in one hand and the liquor in the other. He leaned in, guiding his downward progress with his forearms against the vertical ladder frame. He could feel himself weaving and bobbing, nearly falling off. In his panic, he let go of the flashlight so he could grab onto the ladder, all the while still trying to focus his foggy brain on all the things he was about to do to her.
That’s why he didn’t see her until it was too late.
The sound of the heavy wooden door opening sent a fresh jolt of pain through her head. She blinked hard, trying to adjust to the blindingly bright ray of light that shone down on her where she lay in the dirt. She waved off the nausea that overcame her when she stood up. She knew she probably had a mild concussion but she wasn’t about to let it get in the way of her freedom.
A loud thud on the dirt floor drew her attention. The bastard had dropped the magnum light. She hopped over, grabbing it before he reached the bottom and would be able to retrieve it. She backed up against the wall, thinking about how stupid it was for him to restrain her wrists in front of her. Any gangster with any self-respect knew that hands always went behind the back.
This time when he came down, she was ready for him. When he staggered over toward her, she knew it was now or never. She pulled her arms back as far as she could and crashed the large flashlight into his temple. No homerun ever felt so good.
As he stumbled to the ground, he knew he’d made a foolish mistake: he had underestimated the power of a woman.
He groaned as he pulled himself along the cold dirt floor, determined to catch up to her before she got to the ladder. He grabbed at her ankle when she hopped onto the first rung. A downward thrust of the mag light sent him reeling, giving her the perfect opportunity for a two-footed stomp to the top of his head with her combat boots. When he hit the ground this time, he didn’t move. Not sparing him a glance, she hopped up the ladder, one rung at a time. Oh, hell yes, combat boots are better than heels any day.
The last thing she saw before she slammed the door closed was the wild, predatory expression of a trapped, feral animal. She looked around, frantically searching for a lock to clamp onto the hasp. When she didn’t find one, she grabbed a large stick and jammed it through the hasp before collapsing on the ground.
She prayed it would hold, just until she could get some help. She needed for this nightmare to be over. She needed to deliver this man to Glazov so he could exact the revenge that was his due. Maybe then things would go back to normal, or as normal as they could be in a Born Bratva world.
For now, she looked down at the restraints on her wrists and ankles and closed her eyes, knowing what she had to do.
“Son of a bitch! Check it out, I’ve got a signal from her tracker!” As he pointed to the blinking light on his app, Dmitriy sounded excited like a kid winning a long-fought video game.
For the first time since Anastasia went missing, he allowed himself to cling to the hope of seeing her again. Holding her in his arms again. Maybe even span
king her for going out alone, although he blamed himself for that. Wouldn’t stop him from spanking that ass, though.
“Woo hoo!” Roxanne yelled triumphantly, raising her arm in a fist pump. “I knew that badass little bitch would get free.”
Dmitriy white-knuckled the steering wheel as determination and sheer possessiveness surged through him like an electrical current. He couldn’t lose her now. The nightmarish image of her running through the woods, being chased by a wild man was in the forefront of his mind.
He followed the signal, turning corners at lightning speed with no thought of getting pulled over. She didn’t need a hero but, damn it, he was going to be hers anyway.
“I swear I’ll never let you out of my sight again.” He spoke the words aloud, prompting knowing looks between the other passengers in the SUV. He reached over, eyes on the road, and opened the glove compartment to get the gun he had stashed there when he had gotten in the car. Roksana had insisted that they borrow Natasha’s SUV. When he raised back up, Oleg was staring at him solemnly in the rearview mirror.
“You cannot kill him.” Oleg’s voice was deep and even. It wasn’t a request.
“I know that, but I also know I’ve got to get my woman out of here alive.”
“We can accomplish both.” Oleg still wasn’t convinced Dmitriy wouldn’t kill the man in a moment of rage. He understood how being obsessed with a woman brought out a man’s killer instincts.
Dmitriy softened. “I know. I just don’t want to lose her, man.”
“I know. But we have orders from the Pakhan. I’ll do whatever is necessary to make sure they are carried out and your woman survives. We will do both, if at all possible.”
The dim lighting in the SUV did nothing to mask the grim expression on Oleg’s face. There was no doubt in Dmitriy’s mind that Oleg would kill him if he tried to disobey the Pakhan.
He slammed on the brakes as he rounded a bend in the road. Anastasia was hopping along the side of the road, holding one arm protectively to her chest as she waved frantically with the other. A pair of handcuffs hung from the uninjured hand. He threw the car in ‘park’ and raced over to her.
She looked awful, but she was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Blood poured down her face from a nasty cut on her forehead, and her eyes blazed with fury. Dmitriy pulled her to him, burying his face in her neck. He would never let her go again.
“Dom. Dom, please,” she gasped weakly, using a shortened variation of his name that he decided he liked very much. He straightened and grasped her by the upper arms, as she seemed unsteady on her feet. “I’ve got him trapped. Over there in the woods.”
Dmitriy hustled Anastasia into the back seat and looked in the trunk for a tool to cut through the ankle cuffs, while Oleg and Roksana took their places up front. Oleg jumped behind the wheel and, with Dmitriy and Anastasia safely in the back seat, carefully followed the instructions Anastasia gave him.
“Did he hurt you?”
“Dmitriy, stop treating me like a delicate flower. I’m a Bratva soldier. I’m fine.”
“I know you are, mi amor. But your head and…what happened here? To your wrist?” he asked as he lifted her wrist and examined the swelling and discoloration around the joint.
“I dislocated my wrist to get out of the restraints. I had to, just in case he was able to get out. I wouldn’t have been able to defend myself with my wrists cuffed like that.”
A quietly spoken, “Fuuuck…” could be heard from the front seat.
Dmitriy reverently cradled her face in his hands and bent down so they were eye to eye. With his jaw clenched and eyes shining with pride, he said only two words. “Bad. Ass.”
With her legs no longer restrained, Anastasia led the way to the cabin. The group headed straight for the front door, then stopped and followed Anastasia’s limping form over to the cellar door. Thumps and screams could be heard coming from beneath the decrepit wooden door.
Oleg laid his hand on the wood that was barely holding the hasp in place. He looked up at Dmitriy and Anastasia, a cruel smile tilting the corners of his mouth. “I’ve got this. You two head back to the car and tend to Anastasia.”
It was time for this bastard to get what was coming to him.
As they started back to the SUV, Dmitriy asked Roksana, “So, you borrowed Natasha’s vehicle, correct?”
She answered in the affirmative, a smug grin on her face.
“Do you know how to open the hidden storage compartment?”
“The one she hides bodies in? Sure do. That’s why I borrowed it tonight.”
“Good,” Dmitriy said as Maverick’s screams echoed through the woods from the root cellar. “Looks like we’ll be needing it for the ride home.”
Chapter Twenty Eight
Oleg stood to the side, watching his Roksana. He knew when she got like this, it was best not to push her.
After they delivered Maverick Vetrov to the Bratva compound, she had insisted he take her back to the man’s house. Her need to protect not only her mother but her mother’s reputation was so strong, she was quivering with rage.
“I can’t believe he violated her most intimate moments. I can’t take a chance on someone finding these photos. Go through his office, and get anything that ties him to our family. I don’t want the authorities suspecting he had any connection to the Glazovs.”
Her voice faded as if she were thinking out loud. “My father may hold him for days before he kills him. I can’t really blame him for wanting to take his time. He’ll wear him down in a game of cat and mouse,” she said, a dreamy expression coming over her face. “The torture will be as much psychological as physical. I can’t wait.”
She reached up and, one by one, took down the photos of her mother. She hated Vetrov for violating her mother’s most intimate secrets. He had taken pictures of her mother in her personal life, sacred moments with her children, moments of the deepest intimacy with her husband. There were pictures of her undressing, putting on her makeup, making love to her husband. Roksana averted her eyes as much as possible as she removed the pictures of her parents, as if not wanting to intrude.
Did this sick fuck believe he was in love with Kathleen? He had to be a mental case for wanting to take over Glazov’s life. He would rue the day he ever spoke the Pakhan’s name out loud. The thing he coveted most would be the thing that sent him to his grave. She couldn’t remember ever hating someone as much as she hated Vetrov right now.
She took great care taking each photo down, running her hands over the photos as she smoothed out imaginary wrinkles. Even though they would be burned in the crematory, she took great care in making sure none were ripped or torn.
She was surprised when she looked up to see Oleg holding out a manila envelope for her to place them in. Not once had he looked at the pictures of her mother. The Pakhan’s wife was idolized, revered, and this stranger had attempted to turn her into a common whore. In the end, though, he would be the whore. He would serve as an example of what happened to those who crossed the Glazov family.
Even if he shared the same bloodline of her family, that wouldn’t save him. There would be no mercy. In fact, if he was a blood relation it would send an even stronger message. People would know that Glazov Alexander would kill anyone who crossed him, even his own brother.
Glazov trailed his lips lightly over his wife’s nude body, worshipping the curves that were for him alone. She was tied spread eagle to their bed, with an extra set of restraints pulling her knees out to the side. His distinctive, raspy voice murmured words of praise and possession as he left a trail of fire along her flesh. Every nerve ending sang with pleasure, her body thrumming with life as she listened to the promises he was making against her skin.
“I’m going to vindicate you, my love. His blood will be spilled to honor your strength. You’ve been so strong for me, for our family.”
His tongue darted in and out as it swirled around a peaked nipple. His teeth grazed over her flesh, clamping d
own just hard enough to send a thrill of pain coursing through her.
“You fucking belong to me! You’re branded for my pleasure,” he growled before his voice softened, his words laced with remorse. “I’m sorry for not keeping you safe from the prying eyes of a madman. Please forgive me, my love.”
“It isn’t your fault. He wants your life. I’m the biggest part of that. I’m no more than a means to an end for him.”
He reached over for the flogger he had laid out. His wrist snapped with precision, the stinging impact sending tiny sparks of fire over her skin. She bucked her body up as far as the restraints would allow but he was in a rhythm now. Her system was on sensory overload with each lash of the tethered ends connecting on her skin, marking it as his.
He could feel his cock harden with each whimper and moan that escaped her lips. He always brought her to the place of no holding back, where inhibitions were broken down, one by one. He would allow her to hide nothing from him. Heart and soul, she belonged to him and anything less was betrayal in his eyes.
“He wants to be you,” she gasped. “But there is only one Pakhan. Only one Alexander Glazov. Only one husband, one lover, for me.”
He untied her and roughly flipped her onto her stomach, lifting her hips, bending her knees, and pulling her back toward him. This was how he wanted her, needed her: exposed and vulnerable.
“Only one cock that owns you,” he decreed roughly as he powered into her. There was nothing gentle about the force with which he took her. He pounded into her, grabbing her hips and holding on with such force that she knew bruises would serve as evidence of their lovemaking tomorrow.
And it was lovemaking, regardless of how primitive and fierce he was as he claimed her once more.
Her fingers clenched the sheets, grabbing and pulling as she struggled to contain the waves of pleasure that threatened to overwhelm her.
His fingers swirled over her clit as he shifted his weight to come at her from a different angle. The swollen head of his cock stroked her G-spot, sending her into orbit with him close behind. The orgasm took him by surprise. Incoherent words of possession and, yes, love, tumbled from his lips in his native tongue as he took his wife for his own once again.
Diamond Days (Born Bratva Book 6) Page 14
