15. Vadim
15
VADIM
The click of crutches announces her arrival before I see her. When Lacey enters, my breath catches. The emerald dress hugs every curve, and makes her look even more alluring than before.
Her blonde hair falls loose around her shoulders, and those amber-flecked eyes lock onto mine with the unmistakable fire of defiance.
I notice that she's still wearing her custom-made flats instead of the heels I provided with the dress. And while this in anyone else would've annoyed me, somehow it only makes her seem more endearing.
She maneuvers to her seat on crutches, movement stiff yet graceful at the same time.
This woman is an enigma.
Lenka bows slightly and backs out, closing the heavy doors behind her. The soft click echoes through the formal dining room.
I remain standing until Lacey settles into her chair at the far end of the long mahogany table. A light spread of caviar and blini awaits us, along with chilled champagne.
"Why the distance?” Lacey's voice carries clearly across the distance. "Are you afraid I'll bite?"
"Given recent evidence, it's a legitimate concern." I show her the spot on my hand where her teeth left their mark earlier.
"Those were different circumstances." She picks up her champagne flute, studying me over the rim. "Unless you're planning to kidnap me again from this very table?"
"The night is still young, Ms. McKinney."
"And you're so far away." She sets down her glass with a deliberate click. "Is this some power play? Making me crane my neck to see you?"
I lean back, loosening my tie. "Maybe I enjoy the view."
"Do you now?" Lacey traces her finger along the rim of her champagne glass as she speaks. "Have you been thinking about me all day?"
"No,” I reply as I pour myself another glass, using the fizz to distract me from what her movements are doing to me.
"Really?" Her eyebrow arches in disbelief. "I find that hard to believe."
"I had other business to attend to." I take a slow sip. "Planning a heist takes time. I can't do that if I spend all day thinking about you, as tempting as it is."
"Right." She leans forward, and the emerald silk shifts enticingly. "I forgot that a mafia don has other responsibilities."
"Bratva." The correction comes automatically. "Not mafia."
"Oh, excuse me." Her lips curl into a teasing smile. "Is there a difference?"
"Several," I say. "I would never lie to you."
"Of course not." She rolls her eyes. "Because criminals are known for their honesty."
"I may be many things, Ms. McKinney, but a liar isn't one of them."
"So if I ask about Nathan..."
"I'd tell you exactly what you'd want to know." I meet her gaze steadily. "Even if you might not like the answer."
Her fingers still on the glass. "And if I asked what you plan to do with me?"
"I already told you—make you my wife so that you can help me take down a dangerous human trafficker."
"Am I supposed to believe that's all you want to do?"
I watch her reaction carefully, the way her chest rises and falls with each breath, and how her fingers tighten around the glass stem. She wants this as much as I do. That much I know for sure. Right now, in this moment, we both know exactly what this is about.
A struggle for power.
One where I'm supposed to be in control, but somehow she's the one holding the reins.
"What do you think?"
"I think." Her smirk carries a challenge. "You're holding back your truth. I think you're afraid to tell me because you're afraid that I won't be up for it."
"Is that what you believe?" My voice comes out husky and low.
"Isn't that why you invited me to dinner?" She leans forward. "So let's do away with these pretenses and be honest with each other."
"You want honesty?"
"Isn't that what you promised?"
"Fine." I rise from my chair, stalking toward her with measured steps as I speak. "I want to bury my face between your thighs. To devour you. To feel your dripping cunt quivering against my tongue as you come. To drink you dry and hear you scream until your throat is raw.”
Her lips part and her breath quickens, a light flush creeping up her neck.
"I want to possess you completely. To mark every inch of your soft skin with my mouth, my lips, my teeth, and my hands."
Her chest rises and falls faster now, the emerald silk shifting enticingly across her curves as defiant words die in her throat.
My hand slides along the back of her chair. "I want to take my time exploring you. I want to learn what makes you gasp and what makes you whimper. Those little sounds you try to hold back? I want them all."
She doesn't look away. Instead, she meets my gaze with that familiar defiant fire that drew me to her from the start.
But I catch the slight tremor in her fingers.
She wants to believe she's in control, when control is the last thing she has right now.
"I want to have you spread out beneath me, begging me to claim you. And when I finally do..." I lean down, my lips brushing her ear. “I want to make sure you never forget who you belong to."
She tries to maintain her composure, "You think I'll be that easy?" Her voice wavers.
"No." My fingers trail along her shoulder. "You'll fight it at first. But that's what I'm counting on. But in the end, you'll be the one asking—no, begging —for more."
Her breath quickens. "I don't beg. Remember?"
My hand cups her chin and feel her pulse racing from my touch. "Would you like to put that to the test?"
My thumb traces over her lower lip, and she parts them slightly. The tip of her tongue darts out, teasing against my skin. Heat rushes through me.
But something feels off.
This is too easy.
"What game are you playing?" I ask. "You're being deliberately provocative."
"Am I?" She tilts her head, eyes dancing with mischief as her tongue traces those tempting lips again. "Maybe I just want to see if the big bad bratva boss can handle a little teasing."
"Pakhan," I correct her. "Not boss."
"Pakhan," she repeats the word, tracing her tongue over the sound slowly as if it's something sweet. She shifts in her chair, the emerald silk riding higher up her thigh. "Well, my pakhan? Am I wrong?"
She is baiting me. And like a moth drawn to the flame, I rise to the challenge.
Even as something dark uncoils inside of me.
Something I’ve tried to keep suppressed for all these years.
Something that I’ve been running from.
"Careful." My voice comes out as a growl.
"Or what?" She leans forward, giving me a perfect view down her dress. "You'll do all those things you say you want to do to me?"
“Yes.”
"Then do it.” Her eyes flash with challenge. "Unless you're afraid?"
My control snaps. I grab her arm and yank her to her feet. She gasps—part surprise, part excitement—as she stumbles against my chest. The darkness unfurls with a savage satisfaction, and it urges me forward.
"Is this what you wanted?" I demand.
Her only response is a smirk.
I pin her wrists behind her back with one hand. Her skin burns hot against my palm. "I should throw you over my knee for this insolence."
"All talk and no action." She pushes back against me, her ass grinding deliberately.
With my free hand, I sweep the table clear. Crystal shatters. Silver clatters. The champagne bottle rolls off and explodes against the floor, leaving a trail of fizzing gold.
That familiar dark desire seeps through my bones, whispers at my ear, and tells me to hold nothing back.
To make her scream.
To leave her a wet whimpering mess.
To test her boundaries while obliterating every one of mine.
"That sounded expensive," Lacey taunts.
I bend her over the polished mahogany surface, pinning her wrists behind her back as I do so.
She gasps—a tiny little squeal that sets my blood on fire and sends my cock hardening in response.
Her dress rides up, exposing a tempting expanse of her creamy thigh. I can see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat, tinging her skin with another deepening shade of pink.
Pressing my weight against her back, I lean over her. My cock strains against my slacks where it nestles against her exposed ass. She gasps, and then lets out a breathy laugh.
I yank her head back by a fistful of her hair to expose her exquisite throat.
“You think I’m afraid?”
“Aren’t you?” Her breath comes faster now.
My fingers tighten around the hem of her dress, pushing it higher to expose her round ass. "I won't be gentle."
"Promise?" She wriggles beneath me, managing to spread her legs wider despite her injured ankle.
Do it! The darkness within me snarls. Remind her who’s in charge.
As if acting on its own, my hand rises and comes down hard on Lacey’s exposed ass. The sharp crack echoes through the dining room, followed by her gasp of pleasure. Her skin flushes pink beneath my palm.
The darkness purrs with satisfaction, and my cock throbs against its restraint.
"Is that all you've got?" she breathes.
I strike again, harder this time. This time, she cries out—a sound that sends a thrill through me.
"That's more like it." Her voice comes out husky, wanting.
She arches her back, pushing her ass against my hand, silently begging for another blow. I can see the dampness growing between her legs, soaking her panties. I can smell her own arousal, thick and heavy in the air.
"Another…" she rasps.
The third blow lands, and she lets out a moan—a deep, guttural sound that reverberates through her body and shoots straight to my groin. My cock throbs painfully against my zipper, straining for release. I want to take her right here, right now.
I feel my control slipping away. Blood rushes at my ear. My heart drums against my ribcage. The red print of my hand on her pale skin, and the way her ass is spread so helplessly before me makes a heady combination.
Do it! The darkness urges me. Rip off her panties. Fuck her! Hurt her! Break her!
My fingers are clumsy as I rip at my belt, sending it clinking to the floor, but I don't care.
I yank her panties aside, baring her sex to the cool air. I'm struck by the sight of her—the delicate pink of her inner lips, puffy and swollen with desire, glistening with her arousal. Her clit peeks out from its hood, like a wildflower blooming just for me.
I pull her to the edge of the table, spreading her legs wide, as I grasp my cock in my hand.
"Remember, zvyozdochka ," I whisper. "You asked for this."
Her breath catches and she looks back at me. "Is that what Pyotr told your mother?"
Those words send ice flooding into my veins. My hands freeze. The room spins and suddenly I can't breathe.
I flip Lacey over and step back, my hands shaking as I tuck myself back into my pants. The room, despite its immense size, now feels too small as I take sight of everything in front of me.
The smashed plates and glass all over the floor. Lacey sprawled across this table, her dress a crumpled mess around her waist. Her fingers clutch the edge of the table, knuckles white with tension.
All of them remind me of something awful.
Of the endless sounds of torment that once echoed in all corners of this vile mansion. Of the shrieks and tears. Of the way people and things were broken.
Of him.
My stomach churns. For a moment, I was about to take her right here on this table. Just like Pyotr would have done.
The thought roils my stomach. I take another step back, keeping my distance from Lacey. Rage builds inside me. Not at her words or what she said, but at how easily I succumbed to my own desires.
At how easily I almost became just like him .
My hands clench into fists as I fight the urge to put them through the nearest wall. To destroy something. Anything. To prove I'm different from him.
But wouldn't that just be more proof that I'm exactly the same?
I've spent years telling myself I'm different. That I'm better than him. That I would never become the monster that he was.
But I almost did.
The defiant spark that burned in Lacey's eyes mere moments ago extinguishes, replaced by something else.
She scrambles to sit up, and yanks her dress back down over her thighs.
The silence between us stretches, heavy and oppressive. A deep flush creeps up her neck—not from desire, but from something else.
“Where did you learn that?”
“Lenka said that your mother?—”
"My mother is not a topic for discussion." I reach for the champagne flute, needing something to do with my hands.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—" She swallows hard, those amber-flecked eyes now unable to meet mine.
The softness in her voice catches me off guard. For a moment, I'm transported back, not to the cold day my mother refused to lift a finger as Pyotr ripped me from her arms, but to earlier memories. Faint impressions of gentle hands and a lilting voice singing lullabies in Russian. And a single old picture: the only one in which she ever smiled.
Before Pyotr extinguished that smile forever.
"I thought?—"
"You thought what?" I force myself to meet those amber-flecked eyes. "That you can bat your eyes at me, spread those lovely legs, and make me spill my heart to you? We're not that close, Ms. McKinney, arrangement or not.”
The words hang between us, raw and honest in a way I didn't intend.
I drain the flute with one gulp. The bubbles fizz against my throat, buying time to steady my voice.
"Be ready at nine tomorrow morning," I tell her. "We'll be visiting my jeweler."
"Another ring to get stuck on my finger?” Her attempt at our earlier playful banter falls flat, weighed down by the information of what we just shared with each other.
"You'll know how to remove it this time."
"Olive oil." She smooths the front of her dress, her eyes never leaving mine. "Coconut if it's platinum."
I'm acutely aware of every movement Lacey makes: from the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, to the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathes.
But above all else, I'm aware of the way her eyes look at me. Not with disgust or anger or resistance, but with a genuine concern.
As if she cares about me.
Something is shifting between us. The playful spark from before has transformed into something deeper, something far more dangerous. Each shared glance carries a fresh weight—one that speaks of recognized pain and hidden wounds.
We eat in silence, but it's not entirely uncomfortable. Somehow, it feels… right.
Demyon's words echo in my head.
"What if by the time this ruse is over, you realize that you can't let her go?"
This was supposed to be a simple arrangement. A means to an end.
But now I'm not so sure.
Maybe I never was.