His Captive Bratva Princess: A Bratva Captive Romance

by Cole, Jagger

  But I never took the plunge. I just played the role of Daniel Crew’s teen idol girlfriend. But that all means that somehow, I ended up being quite possibly the only eighteen-year-old virgin in Hollywood. It’s not something that’s public, at all. For one, it would seriously mess with Daniel’s “bad boy” lady-killer image. And Jim, my agent, would have an aneurism after working so hard to “sexy” up my image and turn me into this bad girl sex-kitten.

  But like I said: I’d have let this rough, dangerous, completely panty-meltingly hot stranger do anything he wanted to me back there on the side of the highway. Literally. I’d have done it all, willingly. Eagerly. Wantonly, even.

  I blush and roll my eyes. Yeah, Jim would have a field day with that. Getting screwed on top of a motorcycle on the side of a dusty highway? Yeah, I think that might check’s some boxes in giving me that new edgy look.

  My arms tighten on him. I feel his abs flex against me as he guns the engine. My pulse quickens.

  But then back there at the gas station, I saw another side of him. A darker, rougher side. But also a fiercely protective side. Those two frat guys saw me across the parking lot and recognized me. I knew it the second they saw me. They ran up, phones in hand, and it felt like I was about to fall apart with the anxiety of it.

  And then he saved me. He… I tremble. I think back to the pure fury and power I saw in his snarling face. That wasn’t just protective. That was savage. That was like a wild animal. I tense against his back.

  Suddenly, I’m a little nervous about who exactly I’m riding off into the darkness with. Way more than a “little,” actually. After what happened in the parking lot just now, it’s actually worse than knowing nothing about him. Now, all I do know about him is that he’s got a fury in him, and that he has no problem fighting two people. I mean that wasn’t even a fight. It looked like he wanted to kill them.

  It looked like he very well may have, too. My skin goosebumps as I shiver. Who the hell is this guy?

  It’s dark when I spot neon up ahead. He pulls the bike off the road and into the parking lot of a motel. My core tightens. I blush and roll my eyes at my own silly fantasies. Because instantly, my thoughts run wild. I replay the kiss that sent lightening through my toes, and I go from there.

  In my dirty daydream, he carries me from the bike into the seedy motel and throws me down on the bed. He rips my clothes off and ravages me—taking what he wants while I moan for more—

  “You still with me?”

  I blink. I realize the bike is off, and we’re across the parking lot from the front desk office of the motel. He’s half turned around, looking right into my eyes. His face is glowing with blue and white neon from the motel sign. I tremble, blushing as if my daydreams were playing out nakedly on my face.

  But by the way he smirks at me, I almost wonder if they were.

  “What are we doing?”

  He swings a leg over to slide off the bike. I can’t even begin to stop my eyes from dropping to the way his jeans mold to his ass perfectly. The blush returns to my face as he steps off the bike and turns back to me.

  “Stopping for the night,” he grunts.

  My brows knit. I turn and wrinkle my nose at the dingy looking place. “Here?”

  He rolls his eyes. “I’ll see if they have a special princess suite,” he grunts as he starts to turn away.

  “No, I mean…” I frown. “I meant, is this where you were going?”

  “No. But I’m not driving at night on a bike, so I’m getting a room.”

  “Oh.”

  I swallow, feeling my face burn hotly.

  “I’ll get two, relax,” he smirks.

  My cheeks burn even hotter, turning bright red against the blue neon light. “I didn’t mean…”

  “Try not to get into anymore shit while I’m gone, princess.”

  He starts to walk towards the glass-walled office.

  “I have a name, you know!” I blurt. The stranger pauses. He glances back at me, and then turns.

  “Which is?”

  I bite my lip for a second. “Uh, Tara.”

  He clearly doesn’t know who I am. So I go with a character name from a movie of mine. Maybe it’s my last “stranger danger” defense. “Tara” is the diner waitress trying to making enough money to send her hot-shot brother to college so he can realize his NFL dreams.

  “Uh-huh,” he drawls, rolling his eyes. My hot stranger might not recognize me from that movie or any others. But he definitely recognizes bullshit.

  “Well, Tara. Stay there, and don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

  He turns. I scowl at him.

  “And yours?”

  “What?”

  “Your name.”

  “Trouble,” he grunts over his shoulder. “I’m trouble.”

  “Me trouble. You Jane,” I grunt in a neanderthal, mocking tone as he walks away out of earshot. I wrinkle my nose at his back and flip him off. “Dick,” I mutter.

  I slip off the bike and take a deep breath. I watch “Trouble” walk into the office and nod at the woman at the front desk. My brow furrows.

  He seriously doesn’t know me. I mean somehow, this guy literally has no idea who the hell I am. And I have to say, it’s really, really refreshing. Without trying to sound conceited, the people I meet out in the world either want to fawn all over me, demand an autograph, take a picture, or in the case of most men, tell me in no uncertain terms that they want to sleep with me. Which, pro-tip, is not actually flattering at all.

  “Trouble” has done none of that.

  I blush. Well, he did kiss me. And not just kiss—he kissed me. He kissed me like I’ve never been kissed before—not even close. That wasn’t even a Hollywood kiss. That was hotter than anything on screen; steamier than any staged chemistry by a long shot.

  I blow air through my lips. I’ve been putting it off, because I can only imagine the shit show waiting to greet me. But I know I have to check in at some point. I pull my phone out of my pocket. Instantly, I wince.

  I have one-hundred-and-thirty-four missed calls. Also, fifty new voicemails, and an eye-popping four-hundred-and-sixteen text messages. And this is a private line. There’s like ten people who even have this number.

  I open the phone up and glare at the screen. The first couple dozen messages are all from Daniel. They start with at least a shred of contriteness and apology. But then they quickly move into berating me, calling me a stupid bitch, a frigid cock-tease, and—bewilderingly, given the last insult—a whore.

  I ignore the rest of his shit and skip to the next chunk of messages. These are all from Jim—predictably freaking the hell out about me being missing. I send him a quick text just to say I’m with a friend and fine, and that I’ll call him soon to check in.

  The next huge block of texts is from River, my best friend from LA. River and I met on a set years and years ago. We bonded over secretly sneaking away from our “handlers” to go stuff our diet-starved faces with snack food. She dabbles in acting, but she’s basically known for being the hottest “it” girl in fashion. I mean honestly, it’s ridiculous how much of the genetic lottery she won.

  With her fame, especially for her looks, you’d think she’d be a huge see-you-next-Tuesday with a raging ego. But we’re friends because she’s as much a sarcastic snark queen as I am.

  Where the fucking fuck are you, you fucking psycho fucker?!?!

  Her first text makes me giggle. Oh, she’s also got a mouth on her like a trucker. The tirade is a little warranted, though. River is also in Chicago for a shoot, and we were supposed to hang out this afternoon after my stuff. But that was interrupted by walking in on Daniel screwing Penelope Croix, along with my entire career. I call instead of text, but it goes to voicemail.

  “Hey!” I smile as if she’s standing right here in the parking lot with me. “It’s me. I’m…” I look around. Fine? I’m not fine. I just watched the fuse get lit that’ll blow up my entire career. And then I jumped on the back of a motorcycle
with a ludicrously hot, dangerous looking stranger named “Trouble” and rode off to who the fuck knows where.

  Oh, and I kissed him. And now I can’t stop fantasizing about giving him my virginity in a seedy motel on the side of a rural highway.

  Yikes, self.

  “I’m fine. I just had to get out of Chicago. I don’t know if you’ve heard anything, but some really fucked up shit went down with Daniel…” I sigh and close my eyes. “I think my acting days might be limited. Or I don’t know. Who knows anything.”

  I’m rambling. I smile and take a breath.

  “I’m okay, is what I’m trying to say. I’m with someone…” I blush. I can’t believe I just said that, especially to a freaking voicemail. “Okay, forget I said that part. But I’m fine. Love ya, talk to you soon.”

  I hang up. I know I shouldn’t, but there’s something some of the reporters back at The Drake were screaming at me that’s stuck in the back of my mind. They were yelling about my “leaked nudes.” When I think about it now, I shiver and hug myself, feeling ill.

  I mean it’s a bullshit story. I don’t have any “nudes” out there. I mean who would I be sending that shit to? My only “boyfriend” has been Daniel, and I sure as hell wouldn’t ever send him pictures like that. Just the same, I bring up google, search for “Belle Bardot leaked nudes”, and brace myself.

  Even braced though, I’m not expecting the punch to the gut when the results show up.

  This isn’t just a few reports spit-balling questions and hoping something sticks. This is a story. Or at least, rapidly becoming one. Almost every celebrity gossip blog on the web is talking about the hacker who’s released a “teaser” so far, but has promised to put out the “real deal” soon.

  My stomach drops as I tremble and click on the link to this “teaser.” I frown. All it is this blurry blob of colors that could literally be a picture of anything. I frown, wracking my brain. I honestly can’t think of a single instance where I’ve taken a nude picture of myself.

  Okay, a selfie in a bikini or something? Probably. But I mean, it’s 2021. It’s basically been driven into my head that if you’re famous, especially for being “attractive,” if you have pictures like that, they will be found or leaked eventually. And again, it’s not like I’m with anyone real. I can look at myself in the mirror any time I want if I’m so moved to see myself naked. What the hell would I take pictures for?

  I stare at the blurry shot again. But then I take a breath. Okay, wherever this story came from, it’s obviously bullshit. When I remind myself again that there are no nudes of me to leak, I breathe a little easier. A little, at least.

  My lip sucks between my teeth. I glance over at the office, where “Trouble” is inside talking to the front desk lady still. I peer at him, and my heart starts to beat a little faster.

  Okay, fantasy aside, I’m literally about to check into a motel with a man who’s fucking name I don’t even know. I mean, Jesus, for all I know, he knows damn well who I am, and this whole thing is a ploy to get me alone.

  I tremble and glance down at the bike. My eyes center on the saddlebags hanging off the side. I drag my teeth over my lip and then glance back up at the office. “Trouble” is still looking away.

  I glance back at the saddlebags. My hands go to the clasps, and I tug them open. I bend down, rooting around inside. In the dim glow of the neon sign, I find a phone charger, a pair of rolled up jeans, clean socks, a toiletries kit, an electric shaver, a roll of cash that makes my brows arch, and then…

  My heart skips.

  I don’t own one. But I’ve been on enough movie sets and trained with enough fake ones to know a gun when I feel it. My fingers brush the cold metal. I quickly pull my hand away. I look deeper into the bag, and I swallow.

  The one in here definitely isn’t a fake. Who the fuck have I been riding on a motorcycle with? I quickly go to shove everything back inside so I can close the top up. But then something else catches my eye—a shirt. I frown and look closer, and my hand flies to my mouth.

  It’s a white t-shirt, and it’s covered in blood. Like real, actual blood.

  Anxiety and fear clutch at me. I shove everything back inside. My hands are shaking as I quickly try and clip the top clasps of the saddlebags back together.

  I’m panicking as I look up sharply. “Trouble” is still in the office. But as I watch, I see his head turn slowly. I follow his gaze, and my heart stops. Next to the check-in counter, there’s a rack of newspapers and magazines. And even from here, I can see most of them are the celebrity gossip types.

  My face is on at least half of them.

  Inside the motel office, “Trouble” stares at them. I see his jaw clench and his shoulders stiffen. He slowly turns. My face pales as his dark, dangerous gaze pierces through the glass, the parking lot, and the neon glow of the sign, right into mine.

  Heat throbs in that look, and I tremble to my very core.

  6

  Nikolai

  Ten Years Ago:

  “Hey, kid,” Mr. Palmer looks tired when he answers the door. He nods and opens the screen door. “Come on in.”

  I nod, still numb as I follow him through his place into the kitchen.

  “You want a beer?”

  I frown. “Thought you didn’t approve of me drinking?”

  His mouth thins into a line. “I think this week gets a pass, Niko,” he says quietly.

  I look down, saying nothing. I hear the crack and hiss of the twist-off cap, then a second one. I raise my head up as he passes me the bottle. I take it, and he nods sadly.

  “How’re you doing?”

  I start to shrug, but he shakes his head.

  “No bullshit, kid. I wanna know. And you’re allowed to be falling apart. You’re allowed to be in a world of shit right now, Niko.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He closes his eyes. “I’m not.”

  “Doctors say she didn’t—” my voice cracks. I clench my jaw, fighting back the tears. “They say it didn’t hurt or anything.”

  “Yeah,” Mr. Palmer says quietly, nodding. “Yeah, that’s… that’s good.” He breathes slowly and looks out the back kitchen window. Then he turns back to me.

  “Na zdorovie,” he growls thickly, raising his beer to mine. I grit my teeth again, fighting back the emotion.

  “Na zdorovie,” I grunt.

  “To a fantastic woman. One hell of a mother,” he mutters.

  I just nod and bring the beer to my lips.

  “You mind if I sit?” He frowns. “My fuckin’ knees these days…”

  “Yeah, no, of course, Mr. P.”

  I pull a chair out of the kitchen table for him.

  “Thanks, kid.”

  He settles down, and I sit across from him.

  “Just got back from the lawyers,” I mumble.

  He nods. “They were over here earlier.” He looks up. “Look, I’m not gonna force you, kid. You’re seventeen. Far as I’m concerned, you’re a man, and you can do whatever you want. I also happen to think you’re man enough to be a man about that, and make the right decisions. But…” he smiles sadly at me. “Your mom—God rest her soul—she wanted you to have a place here with me, when she knew…” he looks down. “Well, with the little time she had.”

  I nod.

  “Look, I’ll probably have to rent the upstairs apartment.” He frowns. “Fuckin’ cheap-ass pension.”

  “Mr. Palmer, I get it, honest—”

  “I got a spare room here though, kid. And again, I’m not gonna heavy-hand you. You’re a man now. You can do what you want. But if you want, or even just sometimes—”

  “That’d be real nice, Mr. P,” I say with a wry smile. “It’d be great to stay here.”

  He looks up at me, his jaw tight. “I’d like that, kid. As long as you need, you hear me?”

  I nod.

  “Besides,” he grins sadly. “Means I still get to train the next heavyweight champ, right?”

  I grin as he clinks his be
er to mine, then look up to the ceiling. He raises his beer. “To Masha. To your mother.”

  To you, mom.

  Present:

  What the hell am I doing? My fingers tap the counter as the motel manager types away at her clunky keyboard.

  “So that’s a single room, just one night?”

  My jaw clenches. I imagine it being one room—just me and her, and a bed. My thoughts drift to the way the skin of her hip felt—the softness, the lace of her panties. I groan inside, and my cock surges against the front of the check-in desk.

  One dark motel room; just the two of us. I try and guess what color those panties are. I try and imagine what her sweet little pussy might look like when I peel those panties off of her with my fucking teeth.

  Pink, slick, glistening wet, and so fucking ready for me to—

  “Sir?”

  I blink and clear my throat. “Two rooms, actually.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes.”

  The manager frowns with confusion. She glances past me into the parking lot. I turn to follow her gaze. The girl—“Tara,” which is a bullshit name, obviously—is staring at her phone.

  “So, I’m sorry, two rooms?”

  “Two rooms,” I grunt. It has to be two rooms. Two rooms with locked fucking doors and bars over the windows, to keep me away from her. Because without them, I’m not sure how long I’d possibly last with the need to taste her again roaring like a fire in me.

  “Okay then, two rooms it is.”

  There’s still a hint of question in her words. The fuck is wrong with this woman? I’m barely hanging on here. It’s not just that “Tara” is gorgeous, and she is. It’s that I’ve tasted those lips. I’ve felt her breath catch against my mouth. I’ve felt the way her hips pushed against my hands, willing me to peel her cutoffs away.

  I groan. This is a mistake. And it’s one that could get me killed. I’ve never once turned away from duty or orders. Not in the Marines, not in the Bratva. But I’ve also never once seen or been near a girl like her. It’s like she’s kryptonite, weakening me. She’s a drug I’ve gotten the tiniest hit of, and now I’m willing to do almost anything to have another taste of her.