Bound By Hate (Born in Blood #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

VIKTORIYA

I ce Queen. Frigid Bitch.

Those are just some of the names people call me.

And it’s all true. I don’t bow for any man. The men who surround me have large egos, and they don’t appreciate me putting any of them in their place. Only the best man is worthy to marry me. One of high status and wealth. One who is in control of a city and commands the people within it. That is the man who will win my hand.

But so far, all the men who’ve proposed marriage to me haven’t been good enough. They’re either too poor, too ugly, or not in a high-ranking Bratva position. I expect perfection. Nothing less will do.

I resist the urge to sigh as the man before me—Anatoly Sobol—goes on and on about his college education. “Yale really is the best school,” he says, puffing his chest out. “It’s the best way to make connections and grow your wealth. I had a wonderful time there. Do you have a formal education, Miss Morozova?”

I snap back to what he’s saying when I realize he just asked me a question. Enough is enough. “Anatoly, I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t care one wit about Yale. I don’t care about the acapella group you were in or the secret society you joined. I don’t care about the women you dated.” I know all this because he just spent the past fifteen minutes telling me all about it. “What I care about is having a husband who will provide for me. Care for me.”

“I can do that,” Anatoly says eagerly.

I hold up my hand. “I wasn’t finished.” I start ticking off my fingers. “I need you to be a high-status man. You currently work for the Bratva of New York, but you’re not a boss. You’re not in charge. I need a man who is. And frankly, you’re not as wealthy as I am, meaning you don’t add anything to my life. You’re wasting my time. Now, I would like it if you left my house.” I pause. “Straight away.”

Anatoly blinks like he can’t believe what I just said. That’s something I’ve noticed about men—they really are in shock when I speak. I’m not a wilting wallflower. I am a queen of my castle, and I deserve a king at my side.

“Are you deaf?” I ask. “Leave.”

He slowly stands up and starts walking away. Before he leaves the living room, I hear him mutter, “Bitch,” under his breath. As if I haven’t heard that before.

The moment he’s gone, I sigh in relief and settle back on the large couch in my spacious living room. It’s a surreal thought that this large house is my house now.

All because my parents are dead.

They died a few months ago, and since then, my world has been in chaos. Mine and my sisters’ lives. Because I’m the oldest, they left me the house.

Though I’m the oldest, I’m still unmarried, while my younger sister, Sofiya, is in Russia living happily ever after with her husband, Mikhail. Now, Mikhail was a man worthy of me. Head of the Bratva in Moscow, he commanded everyone’s attention when he entered a room. Handsome and wealthy, he would have made a perfect match for me.

But he had eyes only for Sofiya.

I tried not to let it sting, but it did. I may be an ice queen, but I still have a heart, and rejection hurts more than almost anything.

Almost.

Losing my parents was the hardest part of my life, next to losing Sofiya to Mikhail. I reject men, not the other way around. I’ll be damned if any other man thinks he can do that to me again.

I sigh and fluff my light blonde hair. It’s practically platinum all on its own. I prefer not to dye my hair. What you see is what you get from me. I don’t sugarcoat anything.

I’m not surprised Anatoly was a bust. I only entertained him because I was curious about what he had to say, and once again, he disappointed me. No man will live up to me. I just may have to resign myself to becoming a crazy cat lady. The problem is—I fucking hate cats. All animals, really. They’re smelly and leave fur everywhere. I’m sorry, but I refuse to have cat hair clinging to my clothes.

At twenty-five, I’m old in the eyes of the Bratva. The men who are a part of our world expect young, obedient wives. Freshly eighteen and innocent. A lot like my youngest sister, Mila, who’s currently in her room practicing ballet like I told her to.

I could go out and find a man to have sex with. It’s not like I’ve never thought about it before. But when my father was still alive, he made sure my life was consumed with ballet and nothing else. Ballet and the Bratva have been my life. No man ever fit into it.

Until both my parents died at the same time—a bullet to both their brains. Their killer was finally caught: some guy trying to rob them. It wasn’t even a rival Bratva member who wanted to take my father down. It was just bad luck.

My father, Denis Morozova, was head of the Bratva of New York, making me its princess. He kept a tight fist over my life, but now that he’s gone, I have more freedom. I can find a man to have sex with whenever I want. I know I’m beautiful. It’s not egotistical to state what’s true.

I just have an aversion to men who aren’t good enough for me. That keeps me from having sex with any of them. Mikhail was the only man who ever lit a slight spark inside me, but that quickly vanished when he set his sights on Sofiya.

Now, I’m stuck trying to find a husband to protect Mila and me. An unmarried woman in the Bratva is always at risk.

It’s just annoying when no one is worthy of me.

Feeling incredibly annoyed, I go into the kitchen and grab a piece of cheese. I don’t hesitate to eat it. This is my punishment for my intrusive thoughts—eat food I know I shouldn’t.

My ankle twinges in pain as I rest my weight on it. A few months ago, I broke my ankle during a ballet dance with Sofiya. It’s healed now, but I’m still in physical therapy, meaning I haven’t danced ballet in months, and I miss it terribly. Unlike Sofiya, who didn’t care that much about ballet despite doing it with Mila and me to please our father, I love ballet. I love dance. I can’t imagine my life without it.

But for these past months, I’ve had to, and I’ve been eating to help with the pain of it. I know I’m not as stick thin as I used to be, but once I’m ready to dance again, all will be well.

I know it.

I head upstairs and knock on Mila’s bedroom door. Without waiting for a reply, I open the door to find her … writing. No, not writing. Drawing.

When she should be dancing.

“What are you doing?” I ask her, making her jump. Her golden hair bounces right along with her.

That’s the thing about us sisters. We were known as the Three Blonde Ballet Dancers. Me with my platinum hair, Sofiya with her dark blonde hair, and Mila with her golden tresses. All different shades, but all still blonde. I think people liked to fetishize us when we danced on stage together. It never bothered me. As long as I was dancing, nothing else mattered.

Mila quickly puts her sketch pad down. “Nothing.”

“Why aren’t you practicing your steps? In just a few short months, you’ll be the lead in Romeo and Juliet . You need to be prepared.” I always dreamed of having the role of Juliet, but I lost out on it because of my ankle. Mila got the part instead.

“I already practiced,” Mila says, not meeting my eyes, which tells me she’s lying.

“You know how important this is to me. You need to be ready.”

“I know it’s important to you, Vik.” I hate when Mila speaks in a kind, soft tone. It makes it harder for me to be annoyed with her. “I’ll practice right now.” She gets up and starts dancing.

I watch her for a moment. “You need to work on your pirouette. It’s getting sloppy.”

“Of course.” She spins faster and faster until she stumbles.

“Mila. Be better.”

She tries again, but just as before, she trips over her feet.

“What’s going on with you?” I ask. “I could do that spin in my sleep.”

“Well, I’m not you,” she snaps, surprising me.

“I’m just trying to help. You landed this role. You need to take it seriously.”

Mila sighs and bows her head, nodding. “I know. I will. I’ll practice harder. I’ll make you proud, Vik.”

“Good. I know you will.” Hesitating, I reach out my hand to touch her arm, but I drop it at the last moment. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Practice. Don’t waste your time drawing.” I turn to leave, and when I glance back, I see Mila take in a deep breath and begin to move.

Shutting her door, I lean against it. I need to be nicer to her. She just went through something traumatic less than a month ago. Mila and I had to go to Moscow for Mikhail’s protection to get away from a man named Boris, who took over after our father died. He wanted to marry Mila, so he followed us to Moscow and kidnapped her and Sofiya. They both survived, unharmed, with Sofiya killing Boris and another man, Andrei, who was in cahoots with Boris.

Mila didn’t even have to kill anyone.

But ever since we returned to New York, just her and me, I’ve noticed she’s been out of it lately. Surely, it must be from that. If I were Sofiya, I’d empathize with Mila. I’d tell her everything is going to be ok.

But I’m not soft like Sofiya.

I’m hard. I’m Viktoriya. The Ice Queen.

And I don’t empathize with people. I don’t offer comfort to others. It’s not my natural setting.

But now, Mila is stuck with just me, and I don’t know how to help her. Ballet means everything to us. Hopefully, when she just focuses on that, everything will be ok for her.

Everything will be ok for me too.

The women of the Bratva in New York are some of the most elegant women you will ever meet.

As well as the cattiest.

This is my first invitation to Vera Smirnov’s lunch gathering at the Ritz. She’s a powerful woman in her fifties, with bleach-blonde hair and a vicious smile. She has the power she does because she’s married to Grigory Smirnov, the leader of the Bratva in New York after Boris died.

I can tell by how she’s smiling and soaking in the other women’s compliments at the luncheon that she loves having the power she does.

My mother, Ania, was once in Vera’s position.

Until she died.

As I sit at the table decorated with fine linen and cucumber sandwiches in the elegant dining room at the Ritz, I wonder what Vera would look like dead. I bet her blonde hair wouldn’t stand so tall. It’s like she’s trying to get closer to God.

I may have thought myself immortal at one point, but that all changed after my parents’ deaths.

“So, Viktoriya,” Vera says, drawing me out of my thoughts. “How kind of you to finally join us. This is your first luncheon with us, correct?” Her sickly sweet voice is grating to my ears.

“Yes, it is,” I respond.

Vera claps her hands together and shares a smile with the woman next to her—a busty redhead named Darya with too much makeup. She and the rest of the women at the luncheon are all married to men in the Bratva. I’m the odd one out as a single woman.

“How wonderful,” Vera says. “Your father never let you or your sisters join us for lunch before. Why was that, do you wonder?”

Because he could be controlling. Because I worked my ass off to please him every day. Because I suffered through broken toenails and bruises from ballet to make him happy.

And it was never good enough.

Of course, he wouldn’t let me out of his sights. I wasn’t allowed to enjoy my time with other women. Just ballet and nothing else.

Now, I don’t even have ballet.

“I’m not sure,” I lie. “He wanted me to focus on ballet, so that’s what I did.”

“You didn’t have any time for fun?” Darya asks. “I heard about your ankle. That must have been terrible.”

I can feel my lips thin as I force a smile. “It wasn’t fun, Darya.”

“Breaking an ankle usually isn’t,” Vera says, laughing and making the other women around the table laugh with her. There are five of us in total. Vera and Darya, as well as Olga (unfortunate name, but at least she’s not ugly, with her tan skin and black hair) and Jasmine (who married into the Bratva life unlike most of us).

Then there’s me.

I don’t typically feel out of place … until now. Honestly, I fucking hate it.

“So,” Olga says, turning to me, “What are you going to do now? Find a man to marry?”

“It’s expected,” Vera answers for me.

“I’m still going to dance. I just need to let my ankle heal a little more.”

The four women share pitying glances. I seriously hate these women.

Olga pats my hands. “You keep telling yourself that, dear.”

“Such a shame,” Vera says, bringing her champagne glass to her lips, “that you haven’t found a man to marry you yet. Why do you think that is?”

“Why do you ask?”

Vera takes a sip of her drink slowly before setting it back down. I hate this woman for making me wait for an answer. “Oh, well, because you’re so beautiful. Anyone can tell. But you haven’t found a husband. Your younger sister did, but … not you.”

Reminding me Sofiya got married before me is a deliberate slap to my face.

“Didn’t you have your sights set on her husband?” Darya asks.

I almost choke on my stupid cucumber sandwich. “What gave you that idea?”

“Oh, honey,” Vera says, waving her hand. “It was obvious to everyone. When you broke your ankle, everyone was talking about it and how Mikhail Ivanov was there, and you reached out for him, but he walked away. Straight to your sister.” She can’t even hide her vindictive smile.

I try not to remember that day. That super painful day. There was the obvious pain of my broken ankle, but the internal pain of knowing Mikhail didn’t want anything to do with me hurt just as much. I have no love lost for him. I never loved him.

I was just … attracted to him. On paper, he would have made the perfect husband for me.

But he chose Sofiya, and I accepted that. I don’t want Mikhail any longer. But I wouldn’t mind a man just as powerful as him. No, I demand a man just as powerful.

That man just doesn’t exist yet.

“Mikhail and Sofiya make a good couple,” I say. “He loves her, and she loves him. I’ve seen firsthand how he’s gone out of his way to make sure she’s safe.” That’s all true. When Sofiya and Mila were kidnapped, I saw how much Mikhail fought for her. I know she’s in good hands with him. Despite the fact that Sofiya and I never really got along growing up, I would never wish her ill will. I want her to be happy.

I just want to be happy more. Is that too much to ask for?

“Well, that’s wonderful,” Vera says, sitting back in her seat with a slight look of disappointment in her eyes. “Just wonderful.”

“It is,” I say, smiling back.

She leans against the table quickly, like she got a second wind. “But doesn’t it upset you? I mean, you’re … what? Thirty now? And you’re still not married?” Vera slowly shakes her head, catching the attention of the other women, who all shake their heads as well. “Don’t you feel a little ashamed about that?”

“I’m twenty-five,” I remind her.

“Oh!” She clasps her hand to her chest. “My mistake.”

And people think I’m a bitch?

“If I were still single at your age,” Jasmine says, looking beautiful with her long brown hair and green eyes, “I would have been mortified. It’s a good thing I met my husband when I was nineteen.”

“I was eighteen,” Vera says.

“Eighteen as well,” Darya adds.

Olga sits up straighter in her seat with a smug smile. “I was seventeen.”

All four of the women laugh. “You have us beat!” Vera says.

I can only watch and fight back the sudden urge to cry. Never in a million years would I expect four frivolous middle-aged women to make me feel bad about being unmarried. It’s unconventional within the Bratva. I know this.

And that’s why their words sting.

Because, while I want a man worthy of me and I refuse to settle for just anyone, I’m also riddled with embarrassment at being unmarried at twenty-five. It signals to these women there’s something wrong with me.

I hate when someone thinks I’m defective. These women are implying I’m the problem, not the men. That I’m the one who isn’t good enough.

Utter fucking blasphemy.

“You know,” I say, interrupting their laughter, “I think it’s a good thing I’m still single. No man is worthy of me. All you ladies should know that. My father was the leader of the Bratva. I have men clamoring to be with me.”

“Maybe that was true before when your father was alive,” Vera says. “But ever since he died, all I’ve been hearing about is how his eldest daughter keeps pushing men away with her attitude. If you want to attract a man, Viktoriya, you need to be subservient. There’s no use in thinking you’re better. Because you’re not.”

I blink.

And before I know it, I’m standing up and tossing my napkin at Vera’s face. She gasps like I just threw gasoline on her and lit her on fire. “I am better. I am the Bratva princess.”

“Not anymore,” Vera says. “Now that my husband is in charge, my daughters will run this world. You’re old news, Viktoriya. Do yourself a favor and get married. And put aside that ego of yours.” She chitters, and the other women join her.

I walk away before I can make an even bigger fool of myself.

I find myself standing outside Celine’s dance studio. She was my instructor and is the choreographer for the New York City ballet.

I wipe away the tears that have spilled from my eyes after that horrible luncheon, rip open the door, and walk inside. Celine is in the middle of teaching a class to four-year-olds. If Mila were here, she’d be gushing over all of them.

But she’s not. I’m here, and I find four-year-olds to be annoying and disgusting with their sticky hands and needy ways.

I catch Celine’s eyes, and she gives me a warm smile. I wait for the class to be over, and once it is, she approaches me. “Viktoriya,” she says in a faint French accent. “I haven’t seen you around in a while.”

“My ankle has been healing.”

“I was so sad when that happened. You were one of the best dancers I’ve ever worked with.”

Were one of the best? I think. “I’m still a dancer,” I remind her.

“Oh, of course, of course,” she says too quickly. “I just meant … well, I assumed …”

“You assumed wrong. Once my ankle is fully healed, I’ll be back to dancing soon.”

“Well …” She averts her gaze.

“Well, what?”

“It’s not just … your ankle, Viktoriya.”

I cross my arms and stare Celine down. She’s worked with me since I was four years old. She knows I don’t back down from anything. “What is it, Celine?”

She sighs. “It’s … everything. Your weight.”

“My weight?” I wrap my arms around my stomach. “What about my weight?”

“It’s obvious you’re still thin, but … just looking with my eyes, you’re too big now to be a ballet dancer.”

Before, I was barely a hundred pounds. And as a taller woman, at five-seven, I know I was underweight. Ever since my ankle broke and I haven’t been able to move as much, I’m now resting around a hundred and twenty-five pounds. If I’m being honest with myself, I’ve preferred the way I’ve been looking lately.

But Celine’s words punch me in the gut.

“I … weigh too much?” I ask.

“You have hips now, Viktoriya,” she says gently. “You’re not as thin as you once were. Maybe once your ankle is ready and you drop a few pounds, I’ll consider letting you dance again on stage, but until then …”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. First, I’m not good enough for Vera and her band of insipid bitches. Now, I’m not good enough for ballet.

“But I’m technically in a healthier weight range now,” I say, feeling dumb as I say it.

Celine shrugs. “That’s not good enough. I need you skinnier.” She reaches her hand out and hovers it over my arm before dropping her hand. “I’ll talk to you later.” She leaves me standing in the dance studio I once trained hours in, all alone, feeling completely unworthy of anything.

The moment I get back home, I rush to the kitchen, grab a piece of cheese, and stuff it into my mouth. Then I feel myself swallow, and I regret it instantly.

Rushing to the sink, I stick my fingers down my throat and force myself to throw back up my food. The acid burns my throat and tastes disgusting, but the second the food is out of me, I feel instantly lighter.

“What are you doing?” Mila’s voice makes me jump.

I wipe my mouth and turn to her. “What?”

“Are you sick?”

I glance at the sink and slowly begin to nod. “Yes. I think I caught something.” I cross my arms, staring Mila down. “What are you doing down here? Shouldn’t you be rehearsing?”

“I already practiced the dance steps for hours, Vik.”

“That’s not enough. You need to do more.”

She flinches at my harsh tone. “Sorry.”

I sigh and feel the words I’m sorry on the tip of my tongue, but before I can get them out, the doorbell rings.

I look between her and the door before deciding to answer the door. On the other side is a very handsome man I’ve never seen before.

Tall, dark haired, strong jaw.

“Uh …” I’m never speechless.

“Hi,” he says, smiling down at me. “I’m Gleb Vesna.” He extends his hand to me. Slowly, I shake it.

“I’m Viktoriya. This is Mila.” I nod to my sister behind me. She’s also staring at Gleb in awe.

“I know who you are. Boris told me.”

Boris’s name rings through my head like a bell. Mila stumbles back.

Gleb holds up his hands. “I heard about what happened with him. I promise you, nothing like that will happen with me. Boris was instructed to care for you girls after your father died. Well, Boris instructed me to look after you in case of his own death. That’s why I’m here. I have no intention of marrying either of you. Think of me as a father figure, if you will.”

“We don’t need another father,” I say, slowly shutting the door, but Gleb slams his hand down against the door, stopping me.

“I understand, but it’s my job to care for you two now. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

His words are a threat. I hate threats.

All I can think as I stare Gleb down is, Who exactly is this man who wants to be a father figure to us? He’s not old—probably only in his thirties. So, what does he get out of this?

I just know I want him gone.