by Cole, Jagger
His Captive Bratva Princess
A Bratva Captive Romance
Jagger Cole
His Captive Bratva Princess
Jagger Cole © 2021
All rights reserved.
Cover by Plan 9 Book Design | Editing by MJ Edits
Proofing by Jessie Stafford, Teshia Elborne
This is a literary work of fiction. Any names, places, or incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Similarities or resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events or establishments, are solely coincidental.
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No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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The unauthorized reproduction, transmission, or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal and a violation of US copyright law.
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Contents
His Captive Bratva Princess
A Special Present
Trigger Warning
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Paying The Bratva’s Debt Preview
Also by Jagger Cole
About the Author
His Captive Bratva Princess
I wasn’t looking for Trouble. Then he found me anyway.
I’ve played a role my entire life. The glamorous movie starlet with the “it factor” smile. The perfect little Hollywood princess saying all the right lines.
That is, until a paparazzi crisis has me jumping onto the back of a complete stranger’s motorcycle headed who-knows-where.
But my sinfully gorgeous “hero” isn’t so heroic at all. Nikolai Antonov is one of the most brutal, vicious killers in the Russian Mob. I’m a princess on the run. He’s a hitman dodging the heat from an assassination.
And now, like it or not, I’m his—his captive. His prize. The object of his fierce, hungry gaze.
But this isn’t the movies. The dominant, volatile beast of a man should terrify me, not make me weak in the knees. I should run for the hills, not tease him. Not tempt him. Not jump into bed with him…
But all that might be the least of my worries. A rival Bratva wants him dead. My psycho ex wants me back in front of the cameras. And dark secrets from both of our pasts want to drag us into the shadows.
Once upon a time in Hollywood, a princess fell for the bad guy. And that was only the beginning…
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This Bratva captive romance is a steamy non-stop thrill ride that I promise will leave you breathless and aching for more. Safe, absolutely no cheating, no cliffhanger, and a perfect happy ever after.
A Special Present
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Trigger Warning
This book contains scenes with references to intimacy abuse and trauma. While these scenes were written to create a more vivid, in-depth story, they may be triggering to some readers.
1
Belle
“Fuck, you weren’t supposed to be off set for another hour, babe.”
Daniel scrunches his face up as mine pales in shock. He looks like a waiter’s just brought him his water with ice even though he asked for it without. I look like… well, like I just walked in on my boyfriend with his dick inside of another girl.
The girl, Penelope Croix—yes, that Penelope Croix—scowls in annoyance over her shoulder at me as she hugs her tits against my boyfriend’s chest.
“Um, have you ever heard of knocking?”
As if it were even possible, my jaw drops even more. “Knock—it’s my hotel room!”
“Yeah, but…Belle,” Daniel frowns. “Shit, I really thought you were on set until three.”
There are a million responses I could use. Well, Daniel, I really thought you were at least slightly classier than fucking your co-star in my goddamn hotel suite comes to mind.
But instead, all I can do is stare at them—jaw on the floor and my heart thudding hard. They still haven’t moved. She still isn’t getting off of his lap, with his pasty and famous ass perched on the edge of the very couch I was watching Netflix on last night.
“Babe—”
“Get fucked, Daniel—”
“Oh, don’t worry, he is” Penelope smiles evilly at me. “For once,” she adds with a little sneer.
Finally, my boyfriend makes a move to push the other actress off of his lap. “Belle, let’s talk this—”
“Nothing to talk out, fuckwad,” I spit. “Do what you want. Fuck the biggest slut in Hollywood in my goddamn hotel room—”
Penelope’s mouth opens. “Hey—!”
“I do not care anymore,” I hiss. “Because this whole thing? This ridiculous arrangement of ours? It’s done. Over.”
Daniel’s face falls. “Hang on, Belle, let’s—”
“Eat shit, Daniel.”
I whirl, storm out of the room, and slam the door behind me. The tears start to burn hot in the rims of my eyes as I flee down the hallway of the VIP-only floor of the Drake Hotel. But they’re not sad tears. I did just walk in on my boyfriend screwing another girl, but these tears are not from heartbreak. They’re just angry.
When you’re as famous as I am, every single facet of your life is staged and directed to perfection. My house back in Malibu? There’s not a palm frond out of place—not a single fingerprint on anything. My hair? Perfect, literally always. Same goes for my makeup, the nine outfits my team changes me in and out of a day, the food I eat—or most of the time am not allowed to eat—the cars I’m driven around in… all of it.
The roles I take? There’s a freaking committee that vets the pros and cons of each script that comes across my agent’s desk. Every photoshoot is endless until literal perfection is achieved. And then, just to make me feel like shit, it seems, a team of Photoshop experts tweak, smudge, hide, paint, and slim me to unattainable level of “perfection.”
When I sleep, eat, work out, read lines, use the fucking bathroom, or smile for cameras is plotted out to the minute, every single day. Every single facet of my life is decided for me—including who I date.
That would be Daniel, the dickhead with his dick in the other Hollywood starlet back in my hotel room.
But again, I’m not sad or heartbroken. Sure, Daniel has been my “boyfriend” for the last two years. But away from the cameras and paparazzi, we have the romantic chemistry of a paper towel dropped into water.
What we do have, though, is a very, very lucrative and painfully maintained business arrangement.
For years, I was the pig-tailed, bright-eyed child star darling of Hollywood. When someone like Brad Pitt needed a snarky but adorable daughter character to cheese out zinger one-liners? Yep, studios would be pounding down my agent’s door. When a script for bewildering reasons needed the perfect mix of cute and ten-year-old brashness to stand up to the aliens? Yep, ding-ding-ding. Guess who.
But when I started to grow up, the image needed to change. Wh
en I “started to blossom,” as my agent so grossly put it, that “cute pigtailed farm-girl” look had to grow up. All of a sudden, my skirts started getting shorter. My outfits more daring, showing more skin. My roles changed from sassy-cute in overalls to the sultry babysitter temptress.
And I needed a bad boy. That’s exactly how Jim, my agent, put it. I needed a Hollywood “bad boy” to sex-up my image. Not a “real” bad boy, of course. Those don’t exist in Hollywood anymore—too much work, too many headaches, too many chances of them going to jail or overdosing and costing a studio a shitload of money.
Instead, they do what Hollywood does best: they make fake ones. And at the very top of “fake Hollywood bad boys” is Daniel Crew.
Sexy blue eyes? Check. Bieber-perfect blonde hair? Check. A legion of trainers, nutritionists, and personal chefs to craft him that lean Fight Club body? Check. Cliched, trendy, meaningless tattoos? Check and check. And most importantly, a history of dating the “bad girls” of Hollywood.
In short, perfect for “adulting up” my image.
So for the last two years, Daniel Crew and I have been the “it” young couple of show biz. And as much as I hate it, it’s worked; really, really well. My career is off the charts. I’ve got studios literally suing each other over the right to be first in pitching me—or my team, more accurately—scripts. I’m on every magazine cover from Cosmo to Elle Decor.
I’m not the only one who’s reaped the benefits, either. Daniel is also in every single movie he could possibly want. He’s hosting awards shows. He’s putting out freaking terrible “rock” albums as vanity side projects. He’s got a cologne line out next month, and he just gave a—shirtless, for whatever reason—interview with Playboy for fuck’s sake.
I’m not crying because I’m heartbroken. I’m crying because everything I’ve worked for and put up with is about to come crashing down. This will not stay a secret. Penelope—Daniel’s current costar in the college frat comedy he’s filming—is infamous for screwing her leading men and talking about it to every gossip rag in town. There’s no keeping this quiet.
I know how this plays out. There’s only two ways, actually. The first is if focus groups say that they’d like to see Daniel and I stay together. In that scenario, he’ll give some trite, contrived and very public apology. Maybe they’ll say he’s checking in to a sex addicts rehab clinic. If they really want to milk it, he’ll get my fucking name tattooed somewhere, and it’ll be on every magazine in the world.
And me? I’ll “stand by my man.” I’ll dress more demure for a month or two. I’ll take “serious” roles that aren’t very serious at all. I’ll sit down with Ellen or Oprah and give the best performance of my life when I tell them that “love lasts through anything,” or something equally as nauseating to say on live television.
And after all of that, my star will dim. It doesn’t matter how grossly sexist and unfair it is—that’s the reality. Daniel will somehow be even more likable for “owning up to his faults.” But I’ll be tainted goods. I’ll be the sucker that didn’t leave him, and as I get older, the parts will stop coming.
That’s door number one. Door number two is the same thing, but faster. In that scenario, Daniel and I publicly break up. He’ll lean even harder into the bad boy image and probably start getting even better parts. But me? I’ll still be tainted. I’ll be the bitch that broke his heart or “didn’t give him a chance.”
Like I said, same outcome, only faster. The parts will dry up, and the fame will fade.
That’s why I’m crying. I’m not heartbroken, or even jealous. Daniel and I haven’t ever done more than hold hands or kiss each other on the cheek for cameras. I’m crying because everything I’ve put up with and worked for in my life is about to be for diddly-squat.
I skip the elevator and bolt down the stairs instead. The goal is to avoid the inevitable paparazzi down in the lobby. But even with my sunglasses on, and slinking out of a maintenance stairwell, it buys me about three extra seconds before I’m spotted.
“Belle!!”
“Ms. Bardot!!”
“Belle!” I gasp as a microphone is jabbed into my face. “Do you have any comment on the rumors swirling about Daniel and Penelope Croix?”
Damn, that bitch works fast. I’m almost impressed. What was she, live-tweeting while riding Daniel’s dick? Crafting a public statement on the phone with her agent while she was faking orgasm?
“Belle! Belle! Is it true that you stole your last role in Babysitter Nightmare from Penelope, and her stealing Daniel is payback?!”
What the fuck?
“Belle!” A camera almost takes my teeth out. “Do you see yourself as Jennifer Aniston in this Branjalina affair? Have you reached out to her for support?”
This is out of control. And I’m floundering. The adrenaline is thudding in my ears, and it feels like I can’t keep my mouth from hanging open. I’m whirling, blinking and feeling dizzy as the cameras flash over and over in my face.
“Belle!! Are the rumors about the nude leaks true?”
My heart seizes in horror.
“What?” I croak.
“Is it Daniel? Or are you leaking your nudes on purpose?”
Horrible, paralyzing nausea surges inside of me.
“Is it for clout, Belle? Or are you making a statement about women’s bodies?”
“I’m—I’m not—”
I’m all alone in a sea of paparazzi piranhas who want to shred me to the bone.
I whirl again, and my eyes lock on a door off to the side. Without even thinking, I shove my way through the press and crash through the doors. I’m in a hallway lined with hotel management offices. I zig left down one hallway, then zag down another. The press is after me, but I’m pulling a lead.
Through the next set of doors, I suddenly stop and glance at the room-service cart sitting by the wall. I yank it over, shove it against the double doors, and stomp on the foot break. I smile grimly. That’ll hold them off for a second at least.
I turn and bolt down the hall. I can already hear them pounding on the blocked door behind me. I dart down one hallway and then another—aimless, panicked, and floundering.
But then suddenly, I tumble through a door and blink in the sudden brightness of sunshine. I hear a crash back behind me—the room service cart. The press will be on me any second
My heart is thudding in my throat as I whirl. But suddenly, I blink as my eyes focus on… him.
The man is gorgeous—like heart-stoppingly, bug-eyed-stare gorgeous. But not at all in a Hollywood way. He’s a dangerous looking gorgeous. Beautiful like the steel edge of a knife. Rough and tumble in a way that makes my knees weak, instantly.
He’s also sitting astride a black and silver motorcycle that he’s just revved to life. Even over the engine, though, I hear the clamoring of voices behind me. I hear them yelling my name. Once again, I don’t think. I just act.
The man grunts when I jump onto the bike behind him. He yanks his head around over his shoulder.
“What the fuck—”
“I’ll give you twenty-thousand dollars if you drive, now!” I blurt.
His brow arches over the top rim of his dark sunglasses. He turns around even more to look at me, and he pulls the shades off. I tremble when those dark, smoky eyes level with mine, glinting dangerously.
“Sweetheart, I’m not Uber.”
“Twenty-thousand!” I yell in a panic, turning to glance at the door before I look back at him. “Please!”
His eyes harden. His chiseled, swarthy jaw grinds tightly. Butterflies like I’ve never felt before flutter through my core.
Suddenly, around the corner of the hotel, there they are. Camera crews and bloggers and the whole lot of them suddenly spot me and start rushing my way.
“Please!” I beg, panicking.
The man glares past me at the crowd, then back to me. His look softens just a smidge.
“You come with me, we go where I’m going.”
“Okay!”<
br />
“I’m not making a pitstop or—”
“That’s fine!!”
He frowns at the panic in my voice. His dark, brooding eyes raise past me at the screaming horde of paparazzi rushing towards us. He opens his perfect lips, and I cringe, waiting for him to tell me to get lost.
“Hold on tight.”
I blink. I barely have time to wrap my arms around his rock-hard, made-from-stone body as he guns the engine. The bike thunders, and suddenly, I’m gasping and holding on tight as we roar away, to God-knows-where.
I’m fairly certain I’ve just done the dumbest thing of my life. I’m also quite sure there’s no way I should be this excited about that.
2
Nikolai
The man snarls up at me. His hands claw at my wrists, trying to free my grip from his throat. But I grit my teeth and tighten my hands. His face turns red, and then purple. He gasps for air, but none is coming.
And then, the lamp smashes over my goddamn head.
I grunt and fall to the side. The man I’ve been choking to death drags in a ragged breath as I whirl.
The lamp-ambusher, who I thought I killed about thirty seconds ago, seems to be very much alive. Well, “very much” might be a stretch. He’s alive, but these may well be his last minutes, what with three bullet holes through his chest.
