Chapter Eight
Nora
Today I learned my own subconscious is a mastermind.
Because a few hours ago, I didn't understand why I was kissing a man I wasn't even into. Why it felt wrong the entire time and I still didn't stop until the last possible second. Why I left the front door unlocked, when I have never once done that in my life.
It took Slava spelling it out loud for me to realize my own unconscious mind—which apparently missed him far more than I ever let myself admit—planned this whole disaster from the start.
Did I actually want to be forced back to him? Want an excuse to return to his side with a clear conscience, because it wasn't my choice, because he made it for me?
I genuinely don't know.
All I know right now is that my legs ache and I'm sore everywhere, especially between them.
I watch, sprawled naked on the bed, as Slava climbs off me, tucks himself back into his pants, and starts typing something into his phone. He throws the blanket over me first, though, without even looking up, like it's a reflex.
I keep my eyes off the man tied to the chair.
Yes, he was pushy, and yes, he wasn't exactly charming, but he didn't deserve to be dragged into whatever went wrong between me and Slava.
I don't know what happens to him next. But I know that looking at him now will only make it worse for him, so I give him that one small mercy.
He's trembling against the restraints, fighting them uselessly, spitting out words around the gag that I can't piece together into anything coherent.
Some part of me still doesn't believe Slava actually let another man see me like this.
He's always been possessive to the point of absurdity.
But I suppose I pushed him somewhere he'd never let himself go before.
And I hate admitting it, but I liked it.
I fought it at first, but the second his hands were on me, every single inhibition I own packed its bags and left.
This isn't something I want a repeat of, though. And judging by the tightness in his jaw, neither does he.
A short, quiet knock sounds at the front door, and my brows pull together. Who visits at this hour? If Slava weren't here, I'd already be halfway to a panic attack.
And that's exactly the problem. He isn't safe. He is, by every measure that matters, a dangerous man. And yet nothing in me is afraid of him. If anything, some traitorous part of me runs straight toward him for safety.
My mouth falls open as I watch him lift the entire chair—man still tied to it—and carry it out the door like it weighs nothing.
I scramble up, legs shaking so badly I nearly face-plant, but I catch myself on the dresser, throw on my silk robe, and follow just in time to see Slava hand the whimpering mess over to another man, nearly as tall as him, clearly someone from whatever underworld Slava actually crawled out of.
What the fuck have I gotten myself into?
Slava shuts the door, locks it, and I turn the other way, wincing as I walk, cringing at the feel of his sperm dripping down my legs.
I crack my sister's door open just enough to check—still snoring, dead to the world as always, thank God.
I don't want her anywhere near this. I ease the door shut and head for the bathroom to clean up before I can be swept off my feet again.
Which, of course, is exactly what happens.
Slava is disgustingly good at aftercare. Always has been. He kisses my hairline, and I gather the nerve to ask, "What's going to happen to Luca?"
His gaze sparks. "Don't say that name to me again."
"But—"
"Forget him," he hisses, and then kisses my forehead so gently it makes no sense at all. What a walking contradiction this man is. I decide I've had enough excitement for one lifetime and drop it—for now.
He takes me into the bathroom, where he's already run a bubble bath. My eyes sting and I blink it back.
How does a monster manage to make me feel this cherished?
His hands make quick work of my robe, and it pools at my feet, leaving me bare. Not that there's anything left to hide from him at this point. He kneels and presses his mouth to every mark he left—the bruises blooming on my arms from his grip, the faint red still sitting on my backside.
"You did so good. My good girl." He looks up at me from the floor, voice rough. "Are you sore, little butterfly?"
I whimper and nod, because that's all I've got left in me.
He rises, presses a kiss to my lips. "I'm sorry, baby, I checked the fridge for frozen peas and didn't find any."
He used to freeze a bag just for this, for after, because I'm five-foot-three and he's six-foot-five and the sex can be brutal sometimes. Heat floods my face, and he lowers us both into the water. It's a tight fit with a man his size, but I've always loved being crowded by him.
His fingers dig into the base of my spine, working slow circles that have me melting. "I'm scared," I admit into the quiet.
"Of me, baby?" Something vulnerable flickers behind his eyes when he asks it.
I look away.
"Maybe. I don't know. I'm scared of what you do. The world you live in. What it'll turn me into."
"You'd flourish in my world." His hand stills on my back. "And you never have to be scared. You are the single most protected woman alive."
I shake my head, and even while my mouth is pressed to his chest, the words that come out are harder than I mean them. "I think we need a break. To think."
"No breaks." His voice drops flat, final.
"What is it you actually do, Slava? Drug lord? Assassin?"
He chuckles low in his throat. "I'm the pakhan of New York's Bratva."
Bratva.
Bratva.
He's a Russian mobster.
I try to fling myself out of his arms and he doesn't budge an inch. "I think you need to leave."
"Oh, we're both leaving." His mouth curves. "The Bratva's been dying to meet their new pakhanessa."
What. The. Fuck.
What has my life become?
"Oh, no, buddy. That's not me."
"It's you."
"Nuh-uh."
He stands, taking me with him, both of us dripping onto the tile, and I watch, mouth hanging open, as he towels me dry, dresses me in a bra and panties of his own choosing, then walks straight to my closet and just stands there.
"What. Are. You. Doing?"
"Choosing your outfit."
"It's two a.m. I'm not going anywhere, especially not with a Russian mob boss."
He hums like I haven't spoken and pulls out a loose black cotton dress anyway.
"Listen to me." I swat his hands away as he puts the dress on me. "I am not going anywhere with you."
His mouth twists into a snarl. "Suit yourself."
He pulls a length of red silk from his pocket, and I bolt, but he has me caught in under a second, wrists pinned gently but firmly behind my back, wrapped and tied.
"I didn't want to do it this way, baby. You didn't leave me a choice."
"Fuck. You."
The rest of my curses die in the noise of the hairdryer as he dries my hair one-handed, completely unbothered. I keep cursing anyway. Doesn't matter if he hears it.
Then he simply picks me up and carries me to a car idling outside, and we drive for what feels like hours.
I fight sleep the entire way, alternating between begging him to let me go and testing the silk at my wrists for any give at all.
There isn't any. He hums along to the radio like he's the happiest man alive, practically vibrating with excitement.
Eventually we reach what I can only describe as an actual castle, and he carries me inside, setting me down barefoot on cold marble tile.
The first floor is full of men—playing cards, drinking, a few practicing their draw against a wall target.
Then they see him. And every single conversation dies at once.
Chairs scrape back. Cards get set down mid-hand. The silence stretches out, every single face in the room turning toward us.
I feel every set of eyes drag over me, and I've never wanted to disappear into a floor more in my entire life.
His eyes never leave mine. "This woman right here is the reason your pakhan breathes. If your pakhan has a heart, it's her, and it's currently walking around outside his body." I feel my skin go hot. How is he giving me so much power even though my bound arms make it clear I’m a hostage?
"You will respect her the way you respect this family's name. You will fear disappointing her the same way you fear disappointing me. Because whatever happens to her, happens to me. There is no difference anymore."
An older man near the front lowers himself to one knee first, fist pressed to his chest. Then the man beside him. Then it moves through the room like a wave, until every single man on that floor is kneeling in front of me with their heads bowed.
I don’t like this at all. I’m just a normal human being, nothing special. There’s no need for any of this.
"Yes. Kneel," Slava says, even though there’s no need—they're already down. "This is your pakhanessa. Your loyalty belongs to her now. You protect her with your life, same as you'd protect mine."
A chorus of "Da, Pakhan," rings out.
I shift on my feet with my wrists still bound in red silk, surrounded by an army that just swore its life to a woman who didn't agree to any of this.
And all I can think, watching thirty grown men bow their heads to me like I'm something holy, is:
How exactly am I supposed to get out of this?