Bound By Desire (Born in Blood #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

MIKHAIL

I know the moment I see her she will be mine. Her porcelain skin is untouched. Her plump lips have never been kissed. I know I had to have her when I watched her dancing on that stage with her sisters.

The only question is—how am I going to do it?

I’m a man born in darkness. I prefer the shadows to the light. I have felt death and destruction, both done to me and by my own hands.

And Sofiya Morozova is destined to be mine, whether she wants to be or not.

SOFIYA

My younger sister, Mila, clings to me as we watch our parents’ coffins descend into the ground. Mila is sobbing. Her tears stain my dress, but I don’t care. If she were doing this to Viktoryia, our older sister, then she would have been scolded, even on the day of our mom and dad’s funeral. But not me. I would never scold Mila because all I feel is emptiness.

Our mom and dad are dead. Killed by a bullet to the brain—both of them. I remember when the police told me the news. Shock and confusion had filled me. How could someone kill them?

Not why, though. I knew why someone would kill them.

My father, Denis Morozova, was head of the Bratva in New York. He had a lot of enemies, even though he never told my sisters or me about who those could be. He tried to keep us sheltered, but you can only be sheltered for so long when you belong to the Bratva. It holds you in a tight grip and never lets you go.

It holds me now as my father’s coffin is fully laid into the ground. The Bratva will only hold me tighter in its grip. Because my father is dead, and my sisters and I are not safe.

I gaze around at the other attendees. Mostly men, with a few women sprinkled in. The more I look around, the more acutely aware I am my sisters and I are the youngest women there. The other women are wives to the men who worked for and with my father. They’re all strangers to me, though, so I just assume they were coworkers. A spike of fear goes down my spine at the thought that a lot of these men might be enemies. That they might even be the men who killed my father and mother.

My mother. My poor, sweet mother. Ania Morozova did not deserve to die. Where my father filled our world with darkness, my mother filled it with light. She showed each of us affection, never playing favorites. I know we all loved her, and her death hits the hardest because she was an innocent. She didn’t have enemies, but being associated with my father put a target on her back.

I’m amazed my sisters and I are alive, but I know the target that went after our parents will come after us next.

The only way to protect ourselves is through marriage, which scares me. I’m twenty-two, which may be too young to be married to non-Bratva people, but to the Bratva, I’m more than old enough. I know my father kept us protected. He could have married us off at a younger age, but he didn’t.

And now, as I look around at the men gazing at us with lust and darkness, I know we won’t be spared. These men are coming for us. They want to eat us alive.

We don’t have a man in our lives who can protect us. We’re all alone.

I should be focused only on grieving right now, but instead, my brain and body are filled with fear.

I turn to Viktoryia for guidance, but she has her eyes glued to the caskets. A stony expression covers her eyes. Vik is the Ice Queen. She rarely shows emotion, and when she does, it’s usually contempt. Right now, I need my big sister—but who does she have?

Her fine blonde hair looks even lighter in the gray afternoon sky. Her eyes don’t speak to what she’s feeling. She’s unmovable. The Ice Queen, for sure.

I turn to Mila, who’s now sniffling instead of sobbing. She’s golden-haired and the most cherubic, heavenly-looking of us. At eighteen, she’s the youngest and most innocent. I know our father favored her the most. His “little angel,” as he called her.

He called Vik is strong daughter. But me … well, I was only ever Sofiya. I think that, as a middle child, he sometimes forgot about me. It used to hurt, but now, it lessens my grief. I know I’ll get over his death sooner than I will my mother’s.

The thought of my mom being dead causes a sob to escape me. I’ve been trying to hold it in for Mila’s sake, but I can’t any longer. It comes out of me, and there’s no stopping.

“Pull yourself together,” Vik snaps quietly. “Everyone’s looking.”

Her words bring me right back to the situation we’re in. I wipe my tears as my eyes meet the gaze of a man in the crowd. A lot of people came out for my father’s funeral. My sisters and I didn’t invite any of these people, but here they are. The man smiles slowly at me, almost … seductively. His eyes rake over my body. The sight of it makes me shiver. He’s not a handsome man. Far from it. His large belly strains against his suit jacket. But even if he were handsome, I would still be scared. It doesn’t matter what a man looks like—handsome or ugly. If he wants to hurt you, he will.

I know a lot of the men here want to hurt us. I see it in their eyes. They want to control us. They want to put us in our place for having a father who was the leader of the Bratva. They want us to feel pain.

I tighten my arm around Mila’s shoulders, pulling her closer to me. If there’s one thing I can do in this world, it’s at least try to protect Mila. The sad reality is, I’m not sure Vik will try as hard.

Vik steps forward to throw dirt onto our father’s casket. I watch as all the men look at her like she’s a prized, elusive deer to be hunted. They want to mount her head on a wall. Vik doesn’t show any concern. She keeps her nose held high, reminding the men around us she’s still Denis Morozova’s daughter. She’s worthy of respect. I admire her strength. I wish I had the capability to show that nothing ever bothers me. It’s what makes Vik so admirable, but it’s also what makes her tough to be around. My older sister isn’t exactly known for her warmth.

She throws dirt onto our mother’s casket next. She doesn’t waste her time. Get in, do what you have to do, and get out. She returns to my side, still not looking at me.

Then it’s my turn. I bring Mila with me as we approach our parents' graves. Mila stumbles like she’s incapable of standing on her own. I pick up some dirt and toss it into each of their graves. Mila doesn’t move. She only clings to me tighter.

I see how the men smirk and laugh like her pain is amusing. Like she’s a little girl, which makes it ok to mock and ridicule her. But it’s not ok. None of this is ok. My parents should never have been killed. My sisters and I should never have been in this position to fend for ourselves against men more powerful than us.

I want to tell these men off, but I don’t have the courage. I look to Vik. Help us , I mouth to her.

Her eyes flick over to the laughing men, and she steps forward. “Do you think this is funny?”

A few of the men immediately frown, but a few others continue to smirk like Vik is the paid entertainment for the evening. Except this is a funeral. There’s no entertainment anywhere.

“Our parents are dead,” Vik continues. “My youngest sister is crying, and you’re laughing at her. You should be ashamed of yourselves. This is not how you conduct yourself at a funeral. Learn some fucking manners.” My sister rarely cusses, so when she does, I know she’s using it for impact.

Her scolding puts a couple more into their place, but there’s still one man smirking. Vik gazes him down until his smirk slowly leaves his face. Then she turns back to me with a nod and resumes her composure.

I’m so grateful for Vik at this moment. She used her coldness to her advantage. She’s not afraid like I am. She’s not shy like I am. At twenty-five years old, she’s had more time to find her voice. But just like Mila and me, she’s been kept sheltered from the world. Our father never let us date.

I guess we’re free now to date , I think as I look at the caskets, which are now six feet into the ground. The thought doesn’t provide me with excitement. It only fills me with horror.

I pick up some dirt and hand it to Mila. “Here. Toss it in.”

She nods through her tears and does as I instruct. The moment she’s done, we hurry back to Vik’s side. The coldness emanating from Vik is a comfort right now. It’s keeping the men at bay. They don’t want to cross the Ice Queen.

The service ends, but now, it’s to the reception, which means we’ll have to mingle with the men who attended our parents’ funeral. I think I’m going to vomit.

The three of us hurry to our car and get in. Our driver, John, glances back at us. “Ready to go?”

No , I want to say, but Vik speaks first. “Yes.” I look at her, and she shrugs. “I want to get this day over with. No use sitting in the car waiting around. The sooner we’re done, the sooner we can start to move on.”

“You make it sound easy,” I say.

“I never said it was easy. Don’t put words into my mouth, Sofiya.”

Properly scolded, I sit back into my seat, my arms still around Mila. She hasn’t stopped clinging to me since we arrived for the funeral.

“Thank you,” I muster up the strength to say to Vik. “For standing up for us.”

“I did it for Mila. I hated seeing those men mock her. She didn’t deserve that.”

But I did ? I want to ask, but I know it’s futile. Vik is a stubborn woman and doesn’t change her opinion easily.

When we were kids, our father pitted us against each other. He wanted to see who could be the smartest in school, who would be the prettiest as we got older, and who would be the most capable of landing a good husband. Because Mila was Father’s favorite, he never pitted her against Vik or me.

There’s been a strain between us ever since. We don’t exactly hate each other, but we don’t exactly like each other either.

We arrive at the reception, which is being held at our house. I didn’t want it to be because I figured it would be weird to have random men coming and going from our most intimate place. But Vik insisted. She said we should be proud of our home—our parents’ home—and we should welcome the guests into it.

Our house is a large mansion in the suburbs on the city's outskirts. Father didn’t think it would be appropriate for us to grow up within the city, seeing as he thought the city was for vagabonds and degenerates. I always thought that sounded old-fashioned, but I guess my father was an old-fashioned sort of guy.

He became ruler of the Bratva when he was thirty, which was back in the ‘80s. He learned how to rule in a day when women weren’t as respected as they are now—if women are even respected today because, right now, it doesn’t feel like it. The way those men laughed at our pain says we’re not respected at all.

Father was in his seventies when he died. Mother was only in her fifties. They had a large age gap, which I know made my mother uncomfortable. I always got the sense she never quite wanted to be with our father. She would shy away from his touch. She would leave the room when he entered it. That’s how it had been since I was a little girl. My father didn’t seem to mind it. I think he liked having a younger, pretty trophy wife on his arm to parade around for his men. It’s sickening, the thought of that. The way he could shelter my sisters and me but not our mother.

Honestly, the way he tried to shelter us only showed just how old-fashioned he was. It was like he was obsessed with us being innocent. I was never sure why—not until today when I saw the men looking at us with lust-filled eyes. These men—these adult, much older men—want us for our innocence.

We have to protect it even more at all costs.

Vik glides out of the car with a gracefulness I always envied. The three of us are all ballet dancers—something my father insisted we become. We all know how to move gracefully, but Vik is the best of us. She’s picturesque. Her body is the perfect ballet body—tall and lithe. Mila and I are a little shorter, with Mila being the most round out of us. She’s petite and light, which works in her favor, but I’m just average. Average height, average weight. Not too thin but not too fat. Not too tall, but not too short. I’ve always been invisible compared to my more striking sisters.

That’s ok. I’ve grown used to it. In fact, it works in my favor. Men don’t look at me like they do them. Maybe I’ll get out of this situation scot-free.

We enter the house, which is somehow already filled with the men from the funeral. Our maid, Sarah, must have let them in. Seeing them in our house without our permission sends me into a panic. I grip my chest to calm my heartbeat, but I have to bend over to catch my breath.

“Stand up straight,” Vik says. “Don’t embarrass us, Sofiya.”

I suck in a breath and do as Vik says. I will not embarrass our family. I will help protect our family.

We enter the living room where men are lounging on the couch, their feet on the coffee table as if this is a casual get-together with friends rather than a funeral. There are men everywhere. In the hallways, in the kitchen, eating food and laughing. Spit leaves their mouths as they laugh. It’s disgusting. It’s a violation how they take over our home.

“What do we do?” Mila asks, her doe eyes widening.

I want to curl into my bed and cry. That’s what I want to do.

But once again, Vik answers for us. “We talk. We accept condolences. And then we get these men out of our house.”

We stand in a line in the living room, each trying to look strong. For Vik, it comes easy. But Mila looks scared, and I’m sure I don’t look any different.

A man approaches us—the same one who smiled at me back at the funeral. The one with the large belly. “Ladies, I am Boris Smirnov. I’d like to talk to you in private. Right now.”

Vik blinks. “We’re being good hosts. We can’t leave.”

“If you want to be a good hostess, you’ll come with me right now.” His tone is light, but his words are slightly threatening. Who is this man, and why does he think he can talk to us like this?

“If you have something to say, then say it.” Vik crosses her arms. “We’re not going anywhere, especially alone with you.”

Boris chuckles darkly. “Trust me, Viktoriya, you’ll be safe nowhere. Not anymore. Not now that your father is dead.”

“How dare you?” she gasps. “You don’t get to speak to me like that.”

“Maybe we should go,” Mila offers. “Hear what he has to say.”

“Don’t be naive,” Vik scolds, and Mila looks like she wants to cry even more. Mila has a tendency to be so innocent that I’ve silently nicknamed her the Disney princess.

“Talk,” Vik orders Boris. “If you have something to say, then say it.” More men are starting to look in our direction. I feel so exposed even though I’m covered in a chaste black dress.

“Fine, then. I was a partner with your father in his business. He left me this”—Boris pulls out a letter from his pocket— “in the case of his death. I shall read it to you now.” He opens the letter and clears his throat. “Boris, take care of my daughters. See to it they’re married and taken care of. You were always a good partner to me. Be a good man to my daughters.” He smiles smugly at us as he closes the letter. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Let me see that.” Vik rips the letter from his hands. She skims it. “It’s Father’s handwriting. I recognize it.” She looks up at Boris. “So, you’re supposed to help us get married? Then you should know I’ll only marry a man worthy of my standing.”

Boris nods. “I understand. Which is why I wanted to tell you, Viktoryia, that you and I will be married.”

Mila gasps. I remain in stunned silence. And Vik, well … she looks so aghast it would be funny if the situation weren’t so un-funny.

“I’m not going to marry you,” she says, making Boris frown. His expression clearly shows he never thought he would get rejected. “I just told you I’ll only marry a man worthy of my standing. And you …” She looks him up and down with a sneer on her face. “Are not worthy of my standing.”

Boris straightens up and sniffs, trying to look cool even though he just got rejected by a beautiful, much younger woman than him in front of all these men. A few of them are laughing again, but most look angry—as if how dare Vik turn down a marriage proposal.

“I am more than worthy of your standing, Viktoryia,” Boris says. “I worked with your father. I was practically the leader of the Bratva.”

“Practically, but not actually,” she says, shutting him down with only four words. It’s impressive.

“Now that your father is dead, someone will take over, and that someone will be me.”

Vik waves a dismissive hand. “I’m done with you now. What did you say your name was?”

“Boris. Smirnoff,” he says through gritted teeth. The anger radiating off him scares me, but Vik seems unrattled.

“Well, Boris Smirnoff, I will choose the man who will become my husband. And it’s not you. Now, leave my sight. I’m tired of looking at you.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder. I’m doubly impressed. If I had an ounce of my sister’s confidence, I could take over the world. Or, at least, take control of my life. Because right now, I feel very out of control.

“This conversation isn’t over,” Boris says before walking away. I see a man shake his head in disapproval at Vik’s actions. I want to shout at him to applaud my sister for sticking to her guns, but nothing comes out.

Because nothing ever comes out. Because I’m too shy, and it hurts me.

“Can you believe that man?” Vik says in a low voice. “Thinking I would marry him ? Ridiculous.”

“Vik, what if he forces us to marry men we don’t want?” I ask.

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he has a handwritten letter from Father giving him express permission to do just that. I’m scared.”

“I’m scared, too,” Mila adds.

Vik looks at us, then rolls her eyes. “Don’t be scared. Being scared is pointless. We’re the daughters of Denis Morozova. We shouldn’t be scared of anyone.”

Right at that moment, my eyes land on a man standing in the living room archway. He’s not talking to anyone. He’s not eating or drinking anything. He’s only looking at the three of us.

Or, more specifically, me .

He’s handsome in an older man sort of way. He has to be in his forties at the youngest. Rich black hair with the tiniest bit of gray streaked through. Broad shoulders. A crisp, navy suit.

And eyes that are boring right into mine. Deep, dark eyes that reach my soul.

I’ve never felt this electric before. It terrifies me but also makes me want to walk over to him and introduce myself.

I feel rooted to my spot. Stuck. Moored to the floor.

Why is he staring at me like this? And why do I feel … this mixture of emotions in my body? A combination of fear and desire.

And as suddenly as I feel it, it’s gone because the man turns away from me and leaves the living room.

“I have to use the bathroom,” I tell Vik before following after the man.

“We’re supposed to stay together,” Vik calls out, but I ignore her.

When I round the corner, I see … nothing. The man, whoever he was, is gone. And I’m left shaken.

“Good riddance,” Vik says, shutting the door on the last guests to leave—a drunk middle-aged couple who kept making out instead of offering their condolences. “Thank god that’s over.” She slips out of her shoes, which gives Mila and me permission to do the same.

We go upstairs to Vik’s room and settle on her bed. She has the largest bed out of all of us. Mine is a queen, Mila’s is a full, while Vik’s is a king. Of course, it’s a king.

“I hated seeing those men all over our furniture,” she says, sitting ramrod straight. Vik has perfect posture. Always has, even when she was a kid. “I think I’ll burn it all. How does that sound?”

“Don’t do that,” Mila says. “Daddy bought that furniture.”

“Well, Daddy is gone. It’s just the three of us now, Mila. You can’t get attached. You’re eighteen, an adult. Start acting like it.”

Mila instantly breaks down into tears.

“You don’t have to mean,” I tell Vik as I wrap my arms around Mila.

Vik shrugs. “I’m not being mean. I’m being reasonable. And you know I’m right.”

I don’t answer because I’m unsure if I agree with Vik, and that bothers me.

“What are we going to do about Boris?” I ask, rubbing Mila’s back.

“Boris isn’t going to be a problem,” Vik says. “A man like that is nothing compared to a woman like me.”

“He wants to marry you, though, and he’s a man and the next possible ruler of the Bratva. If he wants to marry you, I don’t think you’re going to have a choice.”

“Then I’ll kill him. Father got his hands bloody. Why can’t I?”

“Because you’re a woman,” I remind her. “A woman in a man’s world.”

She scowls. “Don’t remind me. Now, I’m tired. We have our show tomorrow. We need to be ready for it. I don’t want you two slowing me down.”

That’s right—our ballet show. We’re the famous three ballet sisters. We’ve sold out a lot of performances. With our father’s connections, he made sure we became well-known in the ballet world.

I don’t want to go to our show tomorrow. I just want to stay in bed forever, but I know Vik will drag me out if I don’t go (and I mean that literally), so I nod. “I know my steps. Don’t worry. Come on, Mila. Let’s go to bed.”

After leaving Vik, we walk to Mila’s bedroom door, where she stops on the threshold. “I don’t think I can be alone tonight. Let me stay with you?”

“Of course.” But it’s not because I’m being a good older sister. It’s because I don’t want to be alone either.

The three of us stand behind the curtain, listening to the orchestra tune their instruments and the soft chatter of people in the audience. It’s our show tonight. There are other dancers who will perform pieces later on, but we’re the stars. We start the show, and we end it.

We’re in our ballet costumes—large tutus and ballet shoes. Our hair is tucked back. Our makeup is minimal but striking. Honestly, we kind of look like we’re in a cult with our similar looks and blonde hair. The thought makes me smile.

“Don’t smile,” Vik says. “It’ll give you crow’s feet.”

I frown.

“Don’t do that either. You’ll get wrinkles in your forehead.”

I sigh. “So, how am I supposed to look, Vik?”

“Like you can’t be fazed by anything.”

Her words send a jolt through me. I’m still thinking them over when the curtains rise and we begin our dance.

Vik, Mila, and I know how to move seamlessly together. We jump and plie and arabesque and pirouette. The crowd oohs and aahs at our graceful moves.

The dance we’re performing is one of sisterhood gone wrong. Vik plays a character who falls in love with a man, and my character gets jealous, so I try to kill her. Mila’s character tries to stop it but ends up getting killed instead. Vik and I mourn our sister, and then the show ends.

It’s dramatic. Our dance teacher, Celine, choreographed it. She said she was inspired by us to create it. I tried not to read too much into that.

When we get to the end of dance, and I’m leaning over Mila’s dead body, I glance up, and what I see makes me catch my breath. That man again—the one I saw at the funeral. He’s in the front row and still staring at me intently.

I quickly look away and finish the dance.

Once it’s over, the three of us bow and head off stage.

“That was great,” Charlotte, another of the ballet dancers, says. She’s in a group with three other women, all just as beautiful as she is. “Vik, you really nailed your allegro. That jump was beautiful.”

Vik’s expression doesn’t change. She’s not one to buckle under flattery. “Thank you, Charlotte. You could really learn something from me. I’ve noticed your jumps getting sloppy lately.”

Charlotte keeps her smile, but her eyes tighten. “Well, I’ll take that under consideration.” She turns to me. “Sofiya, wonderful acting as always. Are you as fake as your sister is?”

I feel like I’ve been slapped in the face. “Did I do something to you, Charlotte?”

“No. I just think your sister is a bitch, and you’re a bitch by association. Not Mila, of course.” She smiles warmly at Mila, who bows her head with a blush. Mila loves compliments, but she’s too nice to brag about that.

“If anyone is a bitch here,” Vik says, “that’s you, Charlotte. Leave us alone.” She pushes me forward as we leave Charlotte and her group behind.

“Hey,” I object. “Careful.” We walk around the side of the backstage to the hallway. No one else is there. It’s almost eerie. Everyone else is backstage, getting ready to go on.

“I hate her,” Vik seethes, ripping off her hair barrettes.

“No need to hurt your hair in the process.”

“I’m going to change.” Vik walks away, heading to her dressing room. That’s probably a reason Charlotte hates us. We each have our own dressing rooms while the other women have to share. Another perk of being our father’s daughters.

The knowledge that our father and mother weren’t here to see our show hits me in the stomach. I stumble back against the wall, trying to catch my breath.

“Are you ok?” Mila asks.

I don’t want to burden Mila with my feelings because I know she’s struggling with her own. “I’m fine. Why don’t you change? We have another dance coming up.”

“Ok,” she says in a small voice before hurrying away. I wish Mila would comfort me because Vik sure won’t. But I have to comfort Mila because Vik definitely won’t, so that means I have no one to comfort me.

“Hello,” a deep male voice says, making me jump and turn around.

It’s the man again. It’s just him and me in the hallway. Alone. That thought is not lost on me for some reason.

I can’t speak. My tongue won’t move. My vocal cords won’t work.

“You’re a beautiful dancer,” he says, gazing at me with those intense dark eyes. I shiver, very aware of my body in a way I have never before. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

I can't.

“It’s usually customary to say ‘Thank you’ after someone compliments you, but I won’t hold it against you. I know I can be an intimidating presence.” It’s only then I notice he has a slight accent. Russian. I would know that accent anywhere.

The Russians in New York, like my family, are really Russian American. None of us have Russian accents. Only New York ones.

But this man has a faint Russian accent as if he’s spent time in both Russia and other places in the world. This fact makes me uneasy. He’s not only older but more cultured. I feel like a little girl next to him, and for some reason, I hate that.

He tilts his head, gazing at me. “You’re looking at me like I’m going to bite you. But rest assured, Sofiya, I don’t bite. Hard.”

His words make me jump. How does he know my name? If he knew my father, then he probably heard of my sisters and me. He was at the funeral, after all.

But then it dawns on me what else he said. Something tells me he’s trying to make me uneasy, but I’m not sure why.

Slowly, he walks closer to me. I don’t think I can breathe. I don’t think I can do anything.

“You are beautiful,” he murmurs, gazing down at me with his dark eyes.

I gulp. “A beautiful dancer, you said.”

“Just beautiful.”

My body is alive in ways it never has been before. My breath hitches when he leans in closer.

“I’ll be seeing you, Sofiya.” He lets his eyes linger on me a moment longer—a full, long beat where I think I might pass out—before he steps away. Then he turns away without a backward glance.

I slump against the wall, feeling like I just ran a marathon.

Only after I’m getting dressed for my next dance do I realize I never got his name.

After the show is over, I change into my normal clothes—black leggings and a sweater (I like to be comfy after dancing a long show)—then leave the performing arts center with my sisters.

But we don’t make it very far out the back door before Boris intercepts us.

“What a lovely show,” he says, approaching us and making us step back. “Your father always talked about what lovely dancers you are, and now, I finally got to see it with my own eyes.”

“What do you want?” Vik asks in an annoyed tone. She’s always cranky after a show. Well, she’s always cranky period.

“I wanted to talk to Sofiya alone.”

“Why?” Vik’s voice drops even lower. “What would you have to talk about with my sister? Alone ?”

“That’s for her and me to discuss.”

I place my hand on Vik’s arm. “It’s ok. I’ll talk to him. I’ll meet you and Mila at the car.”

Vik doesn’t ask me if I’m sure. She knows I’m too polite to say no to things. “Be careful.” She turns to Boris. “And you be careful.” Vik storms away with Mila at her heels, leaving Boris and me alone.

“What did you want to talk about? Something to do with my father?” God, I hope it has to do with my father because why else would Boris want to talk to me?

He clears his throat. “As you know, your father wanted me to make a good marriage match for you and your sisters. So, I’m here to tell you: you and me. We’re getting married.”