His Captive Bratva Princess: A Bratva Captive Romance

by Cole, Jagger

  I should tell the motel manager it’ll be one room—stick “Tara” in there, get on my bike, and get gone. I take a slow breath. My hands grip the edge of the check-in desk tightly, my knuckles white.

  “Okay, here’s your keys. And you two are down at the end, in one-eleven and one-twelve!”

  “Thanks.”

  “Anything else I can help you with tonight?”

  I almost want to tell her yes, you can smack some fucking sense into me.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Well, the Wi-Fi password is on your check-in receipt, and if you need anything, we’re here at the office util eleven PM.” She pauses. “Oh, and coffee and donuts will be over there at seven tomorrow morning.”

  She points past me. I follow with my eyes, and then suddenly, nothing makes sense. Because right next to me, against the wall, I see “Tara.” I actually see several “Taras,” in various poses, from various angles, with several different bright neon headlines.

  Oh shit.

  My jaw drops. My gaze hardens. Suddenly, I realize I know the girl who’s been on the back of my bike—the girl who I kissed. I know her like the whole fucking world knows her, because she’s famous. Not even sort of famous. She’s famous-famous.

  She’s Belle fucking Bardot.

  I don’t know shit about pop culture or celebrity shit. I don’t watch TV, and I haven’t seen a movie in years. But even I can remember the snarky-cute kid from that alien movie from years ago. I mean it was one of like three movies they played on repeat at DOB Delaram, in Afghanistan.

  “Time to go home!”

  I startle, jerking my head back to the motel manager.

  “What?”

  She grins and nods at the rack of magazines with my passenger’s face all over them. “Remember that movie, with the aliens? She was so funny with that line! ‘Time to go home!’” The manager blurts again.

  I nod dumbly, in a daze. I slowly turn back to stare at Tara—Belle. Holy Christ. She’s not a Bratva princess. She’s no captain’s daughter. She’s the single most famous goddamn celebrity face on the fucking planet.

  My eyes scan the headlines and the myriad of poses—some posed and well-lit in studios, other’s “candid” shots of her in a hoodie and sunglasses trying to block the cameras as she ducks into a car.

  Headlines scream things like “Go-Go for Bardot!”. Another one with a shot of her in a schoolgirl outfit bordering on a porn outfit proclaims “Belle Bardot Grows Up—WOW!”. My pulse skips, and I groan as I read the next one. On this cover, she’s splayed out in a barely-there red bikini, looking like pure sex poured onto the end of a pool diving board. Sunscreen that’s clearly supposed to look like cum is dripping off her cleavage, and the headline reads “She’s Legal!”

  I groan. And God help me, my cock thickens.

  The girl from The Drake Hotel, currently leaning against my bike outside. Is Belle-fucking-Bardot—the most famous, just-turned-eighteen actress in Hollywood. I don’t have a target on my back. I have a fucking billboard the size of LA, lit up in neon lights and surrounded by paparazzi on my back.

  “I didn’t think I would, because she was such a cute little kid. But I loved her in that baby-sitter movie!” The manager gushes. “So did my husband,” she mutters dryly with a knowing looks. “Bit too much if you ask me.” She frowns. “She’s such a good actress, I just don’t like her with that sleazy guy.”

  I frown. “Huh?” I mumble thickly.

  The manager points to another gossip magazine. Belle’s on this one too. But she’s not alone. This little fuck-wad looking douchebag has his fucking arm around her shoulder as they walk down some LA street. He’s turned, grinning smugly as he kisses her cheek.

  I want to break something. I see red rage. My teeth grind as my hand closes to a fist.

  “She’s…” I clench my jaw. “That’s her boyfriend or something?”

  The woman laughs. “What do you, live under a rock?” She giggles. “Daniel Crew? They’ve been together for like two years. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s hot with a capital H. I just don’t like him with her. She seemed like such a sweet thing before she got mixed up with him.”

  I barely even hear her. All I can focus on is that the girl I rode off with, and lusted for, and kissed, is super fucking famous, barely eighteen, and apparently has a boyfriend. Oh, and the fucking Volkov Bratva is apparently after her, and considers her an asset.

  What the hell they want with a pop star is beyond me. Either way though, this is not “laying low.” This is playing with fire.

  Slowly, my jaw tight, I turn. My eyes burn through the glass, across the parking lot, right into hers. I see Belle pale, her eyes growing wide. Instantly, I can tell she knows that I know—that I see who she really is now.

  “Anyway, is there anything I can get you before you—”

  “I’m fine.”

  I walk in a haze. My mouth is tight, my eyes hard. I storm out of the office, going right for her with a cloud of fury hanging over my head. But I can still taste her lips on my tongue. I’m still throbbing hard for her. I still want her, badly. But I’ve survived this life this long by playing it smart. Not by following my fucking dick around.

  This bullshit ends right now.

  “You,” I hiss dangerously as I come to a stop in front of her.

  Belle looks worried and pale. But then she smirks with this bratty look in her eyes. “So, finally figured it out, huh?”

  “That you’re one of the most recognizable faces in the fucking country, and I’m trying to keep a low profile?” I snap. “Yeah, Belle, I figured that out.”

  She purses her lips. “I did wait out here.”

  “Oh yeah?” I hiss. “You could have—” I growl deeply. “You should have said something.”

  She roll her eyes. “At the risk of sounding like the spoiled princess you keep insisting I am—”

  “Too late, believe me.”

  She flips me off with a sneer. “Do you not watch movies?”

  “Not really.”

  “Do you live under a rock?”

  “Simmer the fuck down, sweetheart,” I grunt angrily.

  But Belle just glares right back at me. “Look, I needed to get away from—”

  “Why the fuck is the Volkov family looking for you? Why are you an asset to them?”

  Her brows knit. “The Who?”

  “Volkov.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  I roll my eyes. “The Volkov Bratva.”

  “Huh? I have no idea what you’re—”

  “The Russian fucking mafia,” I snap.

  She bites her lip, paling. Her eyes fall to the tattoos on my arms. “Is that what you are?” She whispers hoarsely.

  I say nothing.

  “That why you have a gun?”

  My mouth thins. “Did some exploring, huh?”

  “That why you have a bloody shirt in your bag?” she croaks.

  “It’s mine.”

  “Yeah, that really doesn’t make it much better.” She swallows, looking ill and terrified. She slowly raises those big blue eyes to me. “Are you this Bratva thing?”

  “Yes.”

  I could lie, but I won’t. And she’s clearly smart enough to see I’d be lying anyway.

  “The Volkov one?”

  I shake my head. “No. But they’re after you.”

  “What?!” She gasps, horrified.

  My brow furrows as I peer at her. “You honestly have no idea what I’m talking about?”

  “No!” She whirls, sucking in a breath of air. She’s trembling as she wrings her hands, pacing. Finally she looks back at me, looking terrified. “These Volkov people… they’re dangerous?”

  I nod.

  “What the fuck,” she shivers, whirling. She hugs herself, sucking in air.

  I glance around the empty, dark parking lot. I’m smarter than this. Part of me wants to fall for this damsel in distress thing. But I remind myself that this girl is one of the most
famous actresses in the world. She literally makes millions of dollars to act—to lie, to convince people of a role.

  My eyes level on her, and my resolve stiffens. She’s a pro. She’s made a career out of exactly what she’s doing right now: playing me.

  It’s time to get off this ride. It’s time to do what I should have done when Lev called me. Or hell, when she first got on my bike: leave, and leave her in my taillights.

  “I have to go.”

  She whirls, staring at me in horror. “What?!”

  “I’m done. This shit is going to get me killed,” I grunt. “So I’m out of here.”

  “Wait, please—!”

  “Not that you can’t afford it, but the room is paid for for the night. Stay here, call your people, I don’t care. But I’m fucking out of here.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  I swing a leg over my bike. Something bites at my chest, but I ignore the feeling. I’ve lived this long shoving feelings like that aside. No reason to stop now.

  “Please!” She says shrilly. I close my eyes, ignoring the way she’s yanking on my arm.

  “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you who I was! I thought you knew, and when you didn’t, it didn’t really seem like you’d care!”

  “I have to go, princess,” I growl quietly.

  She starts to cry. “Please!” She sobs. “I don’t know what this Volkov thing is! I swear! Please!!”

  I grit my teeth. She’s either the single best actress in the history of acting, or she’s really, honestly unaware of what’s going on. I take a deep breath. Slowly, I turn to look at her, standing next to the bike with tears in her eyes and terror on her face.

  Fuck. The walls break. My convictions wobble.

  It’s not a hero thing. Because I’m no hero. It’s that I want her. It’s that I’m still craving her. Or at least that’s the reason I give myself.

  “You come with me, you’re bringing that trouble onto my head, and I do not need that.”

  “Please—”

  “Stop talking.”

  She bites her lip. Her cheeks burn hotly.

  “If you come with me, you do things my way.”

  She nods eagerly. “Okay!” she blurts, hopefully.

  “I’m serious. My way, my rules, no fucking exceptions.”

  The corners of her lips turn up as she wipes her eyes with the backs of her hands. “Bossy much?”

  “Or I could leave that pretty ass right here to figure shit out for yourself,” I smile thinly.

  She glares at me. Christ, maybe she is an incredible actress. Because the sassy brat routine is right back.

  “Fine,” she mutters.

  I laugh coldly. “Well gee, princess, I’m so happy to hear that works for you.”

  She rolls her eyes. I get off the bike and throw the saddlebags over my shoulder. “This way.”

  She follows me across the parking lot to the far end of the row of motel rooms. I keep the key for the last one, one-twelve, and give her the key to one-eleven, next to mine.

  “Get in your room and stay there.”

  She blushes as she rolls her eyes. “Yes, sir.”

  I groan inwardly, and my cock throbs between my legs against my jeans. I can instantly remember the taste of her lips; the feel of her soft skin under my fingers. The way she moaned for me.

  “Now.”

  She rolls her eyes and turns to her door. “Okay, okay, jeez. I’m going.” She unlocks it and starts to step inside. But she pauses and slowly looks back at me. She tucks a strand of blonde behind her ear. Her big blue eyes hold mine.

  “Is your name really Trouble?”

  I’m seriously temped to say yes.

  “Just my middle one.”

  She grins. It takes effort not to grin back.

  “Nikolai,” I growl quietly. “My name is Nikolai.”

  She smiles. “Thanks for not leaving me, Nikolai.”

  I nod brusquely. “Yep. Night.”

  She swallows. Her cheeks are pink. Her lips part like she might say something. But then they close. She shrugs instead. “Night.”

  Belle slips into her room, flicks on the lights, and closes the door. When I hear it lock, I finally let go of the air in my lungs. I feel my pulse surge. I feel my cock pulse with an aching need.

  This is fucking stupid. And dangerous as hell. I’m on the run from the Volkov Bratva, after assassinating seven of their people. And I have something they want, aside from revenge. I have her; I have Belle. And she happens to be one of the most famous celebrities on earth.

  What the fuck am I doing?

  I slip into my room, shut the door, and slump against it. I need a fucking drink.

  7

  Belle

  “Hang on, you’re where?!”

  In spite of the dingy surroundings, I smile at River’s outburst over the phone.

  “A motel, it’s fine.”

  “Yeah but in the middle of nowhere you said?”

  “I mean it’s not in the middle of nowhere. It’s on a highway outside of Chicago.”

  “You literally just called it ‘a motel in the middle of nowhere’,” River mutters warily.

  I giggle. “Okay, I was exaggerating, okay? Calm down.”

  “Really?” She sighs. “You want me to ‘calm down’? Belle, people are losing their shit about you just running off like that!”

  I wrinkle my nose. “I know. I have like a hundred and fifty voicemails from Jim, you, and Daniel.”

  “Yeah, they’ve been blowing up my phone too. I’m so sorry I missed your call before, I’ve just been on shoot, and they were starting to get ticked about my phone constantly going off.”

  I smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “So, back up. What the hell is going on?”

  I groan as I drop back across the bed—definitely over the covers.

  “I don’t know, River,” I frown. “I don’t really know what’s going on, just that Daniel and I are done.”

  “Well, not missing much there,” River mutters.

  I smirk. “Well, the illusion is done. And my career is going with it.”

  “Girl, what are you—”

  “I walked in on Daniel fucking Penelope Croix.”

  River gasps. “Oh what the fuck!? Seriously!? Like you actually—”

  “Right in, in my own freaking hotel room.”

  “Gross!”

  “Yeah, tell me about it,” I groan.

  “How’d her ass look?”

  I frown. “What?”

  “Sorry! Sorry, I know this isn’t about me. But I’m still fucking pissed she scooped that Dior ad from under me. Do you know she literally fucked the casting director to get that?”

  I make a face. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, it was flabby. And skanky.”

  River grumbles. “Penelope Croix. Fuck, I’m sorry, Belle. I mean, I know it’s not like your heartbroken…”

  My best friend knows the all the gritty details about my manufactured tabloid “image” relationship.

  “Yeah, well, goodbye fucking movie career.”

  She groans. “You think so?”

  “I know so.” I stand and eye the mini-fridge across the room. Perfect. But when I walk over and open it, it’s empty. No mini-bar. No small little bottles of sweet-sweet pain-numbing alcohol. “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. There’s just no booze in this freaking place.”

  “You know I’m gonna ask, right?”

  I winkle my brow. “What?”

  “Please, Belle,” she snickers. “Your voicemail said you were ‘with someone’ and then you got all flustered about it.”

  I blush. “It’s nothing.”

  River hoots with laughter. “Aren’t you supposed to be good at this whole acting thing?”

  “Dick.”

  “Liar,” she giggles. “So who is he?”

  My lips purse. My heart thuds. “Who said anything about it being a he?”

&nb
sp; “You being cagey as fuck about the gender of this mysterious ‘someone,’ that’s who.”

  I groan.

  “So, it’s a guy.”

  “Maybe.”

  “So he’s hot.”

  “Where are you getting this?”

  She laughs. “Because I know you. And I think it’s hilarious that you being a fantastic actress somehow in no way shape or form translates into you being a good liar.”

  My face burns as I sit back on the bed.

  “So, you’re at a motel in the middle of nowhere—”

  “It’s not the middle of no—”

  “With a hot guy—”

  “I never said—”

  “Who you are clearly going to bang all night—”

  “RIVER!”

  She laughs.

  “I never said he was here with me! Jeez.”

  “Which side of the bed is he sleeping on?”

  I groan. “He’s in another roo—” I wince. Fuck.

  River crows with laugher. “Right into my trap.”

  “Look, it’s nothing like you’re thinking, okay?”

  “You have no idea what I’m thinking.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yes, I do. You’re thinking I’m shacking up with some strange guy in a motel.”

  She snorts. “Which you literally are.”

  I blush. “Well before you insinuate—”

  “Oh, please. You’re way too prudish to have fucked him. I know that.”

  My face burns as I roll my eyes yet again. “How about ‘too safe?’ ‘Too smart?’ ‘Too into the idea of a stranger not chopping me into pieces and wearing my skin?’”

  “Yeah, no, I’m gonna stick with too prudish.”

  “Dick.”

  She snickers. “Besides, you are too smart to have run off with someone actually scary.”

  “Thanks, I think.”

  “So, what exactly happened?”

  I frown. “I freaked, ran out of the hotel, got spotted by the paparazzi, dodged them, and then just ran into this guy on a motorcycle.”

  “Oh he rides a motorcycle now? Get it, girl.”