Stolen By The Bratva King (NYC Russian Royals #2)

Chapter 20

20

Emery

T he door is locked, obviously. But where would I go anyway?

I don’t know what happened to Dante, but he’d find me there if I went to my apartment. As for my father, he apparently traded me, his only daughter, to avoid financial ruin and destitution.

I laugh bitterly. If I’d known it’d come to this, I could have relaxed and simply waited for my knight in shining armor to come along and save me.

Except Leon is no knight.

He stalked me from the second he laid eyes on me, beat up my fiancé, then followed me home and brought me food.

Now I find out he let himself into my apartment and lay beside me as I gasped his name, my clit swollen and sensitive beneath my fingers as I thought about him fucking me?

I’m so embarrassed.

Add the obsessive prowling over the rest of the week, and I wish I was crazy. That padded cell sounds like a good call right now.

This multi-million-dollar fishbowl is a cell of another kind. The view across the city is staggering—my apartment was decent, but nothing compared to this.

Everything is overly designed and expensive; Leon bought the things but didn’t necessarily choose them.

I groan inwardly, imagining his reaction when he saw my Totoro statuettes and Studio Ghibli stuffies. Leon’s home is so cold, so severe.

What could he and I possibly have in common besides hatred for Dante and a love of noodles?

The sound of fists hitting canvas gets my attention, and I make my way to the source. I find a door ajar and peer through the gap.

Leon is boxing. He has his back to me and is shirtless, his body flexing as he throws jab after jab at the punchbag, ducking and weaving as it swings.

Sweat glistens on his back, tracing lines down the tattoos that span his shoulders—a hawk poised above Cyrillic letters, muscles rippling beneath as though the bird might lift off.

I can’t help but stare. The raw power in him was scary, but the look in his eyes was hard to deny. It happened again, didn’t it? A kiss that melted my resistance and made me long for more.

Leon said he wouldn’t hurt me. Fool that I am, I’m desperate to believe him.

I press my fingers to my lips, still feeling the warmth of his mouth. The hands now slamming the punchbag held me as though I were something precious.

Thankfully, he backed off when I told him to stop. I had to stop him; I can’t let the man steal me away from my life without an explanation, spirit me to the highest tower like a fairytale princess, and keep me captive. I don’t even have my phone; my father was holding it for me.

And where is Dante? Maybe he’s gone for good.

The thought gives me a sharp, shameful thrill. It wouldn’t be unprecedented; wealthy people like Dad, Dante, and Leon can dispose of people if they wish because money and crime go hand in hand.

Sweat pours down Leon’s spine as he works, the thumps landing hard and rhythmically in tandem with his grunts of exertion.

I close my eyes. Is this what he’d sound like? Holding me in place, muscles taut as he thrusts deep, the groan of pleasure low in his throat?

The fantasy is too vivid, so I retreat to the bedroom.

The room Leon and I will share is vast but as colorless as the rest of the apartment, and I get the feeling he rarely sleeps well.

Yet the bedlinen surprises me—luxurious cotton, a faux sheepskin throw—tiny details that hint at a side of him I don’t yet understand.

The closet holds rack after rack of clothes, from soft jersey sweats to evening gowns, complemented by rows of shoes.

The ensuite is stocked with the makeup and toiletries I use, and I’m weirded out until I remember Leon had free access to my place whenever I was out. All the stuff is new, laid out neatly, and ready for use.

A fatalistic irritation seizes me.

Fine. If this is how it is, I will make myself comfortable.

I strip out of the dress and dump it on the floor before changing into loose-knit joggers and a matching cropped tank top.

The clothes fit beautifully, and although this set is loungewear, it’s expensive—Stella McCartney, no less.

Dante never let me wear things like this. He’d make me squeeze into tight jeans and scold me for every soft curve, every hint of flesh.

Whatever happens next, it can’t be worse than surrendering my virginity to that cruel man who didn’t show me an iota of respect.

“Discipline,” he’d sneer, his voice dripping with contempt. “If you can’t manage that, what good are you?”

That voice still echoes in my head, taunting. You’re not smart. You’re not special. Just a fat little girl who learned to do one thing well.

When I pushed Leon away, he didn’t fight me. He stopped. Just like that.

He didn’t pout, didn’t pressure me, didn’t call me a tease, or accuse me of playing games. He didn’t try to talk me into it like Dante always did when I set boundaries.

However much I wanted the kiss to continue, to feel his hands all over me, I had to discover whether he’d respect my right to decide, even in the heat of the moment.

And he did.

What could be more alluring than self-control? Knowing he’s holding himself back for my sake?

That he can keep his powerful sexuality on a leash tells me so much about the man he is. Dante acted like a bratty teenager, whining about his needs, but I can’t imagine Leon putting his desires before mine.

That restraint, that patience . It’s unsettling, but it’s also reassuring.

Okay, so I didn’t want this. I didn’t ask to be whisked away from everything familiar, from my old life—even if parts of it were suffocating.

But now I’m here, standing in the middle of his world, I can feel the anticipation sparking up my nerves like a live wire.

I could let something happen. Let this tension between us unravel. That wouldn’t be wrong, surely?

It’s probably a sensible move to keep Leon sweet and off his guard while I work out how to escape this nightmare. Or at least figure out what he really wants.

If I’m honest with myself, I’m genuinely curious.

Perhaps this isn’t a nightmare after all. I know I should be angrily plotting my escape, but something about his words stirs me inside.

I can almost hear him now. You’re mine.

What if he really does see me? Not as a pawn or an accessory… but as his equal? As someone worth fighting for?

It’s absurd. Ludicrous. I barely know him. He’s dangerous, controlling, obsessive.

Yet he really did save me. Protected me from Dante’s cruelty, from my father’s cowardice.

And he’s given me space. Despite his possessive words, he’s giving me time to breathe, to adjust.

It would be easier if he were a monster.

If he was like Dante, pathetic and manipulative, then I wouldn’t feel this pull, the raw, simmering need that’s only growing stronger.

But he’s not Dante. He’s like no one I’ve ever known.

I lie on the bed, exhausted, my thoughts whirling in every direction. My eyes are closing, and the lids are suddenly like lead.

I’ve always been passive, so I could let something happen. Right?