claw at the man I tried to kill a few moments ago, kissing him with a broken and sick fury. My mind knows how wrong this is, but my body doesn’t give a shit.
He finds my center and slips two thick fingers into my soaking wet heat. I cry out at the sudden invasion, as he kisses my neck and throat, biting my collarbone hard enough to leave his mark. His eyes are wild and frantic.
I should be dead. He should kill me for trying to end his life—a pakhan’s life. Instead, he’s kissing me and touching me. I moan against his mouth, biting down on his lip enough to draw blood and tasting it in my mouth.
He growls and then teases my clit, sending me rushing toward the edge of explosion. He holds me down with one hand and grabs something from his bedside cabinet.
My eyes widen when I see him holding up a ball gag. He forces it into my mouth and tightens it around the back of my head. “No more biting,” he groans, grinding his long, thick length into me.
There’s such conflict inside of me it feels like I’m being torn in two. My body reacts to him in a way I despise and love at the same time. I’m at his mercy, restrained by his sheer power and size.
He grabs hold of my wrists, slapping the restraints on tighter than before. He does the same to my ankles, holding me down to the bed without mercy. His cock is free from his boxers within seconds and he rubs the thick, swollen head through my center, coating himself in my juices.
FEAR, panic, and wanton desire flood me all at once.
Is he going to take me?
The man I loathe, fucking me without my permission. He doesn’t need my permission, as he owns me. I’m his virgin to do what he wants with. I brace myself, clamping my eyes shut and waiting.
Instead, he moves back on his haunches and lowers his mouth to me. I writhe in pure ecstasy, as he kisses me there with such tenderness compared to the way he kissed me. There is such conflicting intensity in the way he devours me. One minute hot and furious, the next controlled and careful.
My mind turns to a blank mess when he slips his fingers inside of me, hooking them inside of me. The pressure is building, and it is hot, fiery need that takes over my body. My mind no longer fights to hold on to the truth. No matter how hard I try to cling to my resolve and force myself to hate it, I can’t.
I moan around the ball gag in my mouth the moment his tongue connects with the sensitive nerves between my thighs, sending unmatched pleasure through my body.
The tightness of the leather restraints cut into my skin, adding a thrilling pain that increases the sensations. He drags his teeth across my clit and I could explode. He halts, making me whimper.
“I will not let you come until you tell me why you tried to kill me,” he says, eyes meeting mine. There’s a darkness burning in his irises, and he isn’t bluffing.
I swallow hard, recalling my training. Surely, being submitted to torturous pleasure and no release will be no different to withstanding pain with no release. I shut my eyes and try to picture the place I always go.
A hard hand slams into my thighs, forcing my eyes open.
“Keep your eyes open,” he growls.
He slaps me again on the other thigh. I moan, finding the pain thrilling. It’s not what I’m used—pain isn’t pleasurable. This is different, when he slaps me, it lights me up.
I try to breathe as he works on my clit again, sucking and nipping me with his teeth. My body is wound so tightly. Release is the only thing I crave in this moment, but he won’t give it to me.
He knows my body better than I do. Every time I’m seconds from coming undone, he holds me there and denies me the pleasure.
He stops and gazes at me. “Are you ready to tell me yet?”
I shake my head, glaring at him. No one broke me in that bastard virgin camp, and he won’t be the one to do it.
HE CONTINUES TO TORTURE ME, drawing out my pleasure. The need to release becoming difficult to withstand, but I will not break. Pain is easy to block out after enduring so much training to be ready for it. No training prepared me for what this man is subjecting me to.
I can’t tell you how long he continued because it felt like a lifetime. Every time, he pushes me to the edge only to back off at the last second.
His ability to read the way my body works is impressive. By the time he gives up, tears are prickling at my eyes, and I can’t breathe.
He moves to undo the restraints from my ankles, still not offering me my release. I clamp my thighs shut, feeling embarrassed and violated. He sits back on his haunches. His huge cock still semi-hard. “Vera, look at me,” he commands.
Out of instinct, I do as he says, looking into his dark brown eyes. “Whatever revenge you want against me is most likely the result of lies.” He narrows his eyes. “Many men want me dead, but I can’t think of a reason a girl like you would want me dead.”
Bastard.
He killed them. I saw the photos of him with the knife and the blood dripping from it. He stood over their bodies and watched them die.
I feel my throat constricting, as he shifts forward to undo the gag, allowing me to draw breath. As he frees me from them, a sudden flood of pentup emotions hit me.
I bite my lip, trying to keep the truth inside, holding on with as much restraint as I can, even though he has caught me in the act.
What difference does it make now?
“You killed them,” I wail, feeling a mix of rage, sadness and odd release bubbling inside of me. The tears threaten to spill down my cheeks.
He kneels before me still naked. This situation is so fucked up. “I killed who?”
“My family,” I say, tears falling down my cheeks as I remember the moment I found them as if it were only yesterday. The pain so acute, as I never mourned them—not properly.
“When?” he asks. His eyes are hard as steel and his jaw is clenched.
“Three years ago, in Saint Petersburg.”
He grabs my hand and squeezes. “That would be rather difficult, considering I haven’t been back to Russia for ten years since I fled with my father.”
The restraints on my wrists make it impossible to get away from him.
“You’re a liar,” I spit.
He stands, walking to the other side of the room. When he returns, he’s holding his passport. “I haven’t been out of American for ten years.” He holds the passport up and flicks through it. “Whoever told you this, lied.” I shake my head, unable to process what he’s saying. He must have left with a different passport. “I saw the photos of you standing over my family.”
He brushes a hair from my face and tucks it behind my ear in a far too gentle gesture. “I didn’t do it, Vera.” I watch him, as he thinks for a moment. “Someone probably used photo manipulation. Who were you family?”
I narrow my eyes at him, but a nagging doubt forms in my mind. Is Andrei telling the truth? His character isn’t what my uncle described. He learned I’m here to kill him, and he’s acting with kindness and understanding.
“My father was Ivan Popov,” I say, my voice quiet.
He tenses and stares at me with wide eyes. “The Ivan Popov? The infamous pakhan of the Saint Petersburg brotherhood?”
I nod my head. “Yes.”
He blows out a long breath. “I never met your father or the rest of your family.” The sincerity in his eyes make me question everything I’ve believed. “I mourned for him when I heard of his passing, everyone here did. My father knew him well.”
I say nothing. I can’t. The lump in my throat is impossible to speak passed. As I try to process what he’s saying, my world is falling apart. My uncle insisted Andrei who killed them, before fleeing back to America.
He showed me the images—but what if Andrei is right? The images he showed me could have been manipulated with a photo editing program.
My uncle told me if I don’t kill him within a week of the auction, he will come and do the job himself.
Andrei presses his hand to my cheek. “How can I prove this to you?” he asks, searching my eyes for the answer.
There are no words I can find to reply to him. I sit stunned, confused, and more broken than ever. The only thing that had been holding me together was my quest for revenge, and now that is gone.
If Andrei didn’t kill my parents and siblings, then who did?