Chapter 6
VAL
The itch won’t go away.
It's lurking inside me—a gnawing, incessant hunger twisting and pulling at every fiber of my being.
And it’s fucking with me. Distracting me. Bleeding into every waking thought.
A few days ago, I was a block away from my apartment enroute to rehearsal before I realized I’d left my dance bag behind. You know, that twenty-odd-pound thing that I’ve lugged from home to class every day for the last seventeen years of my life. How do you not notice that.
I put salt in my coffee the other day, for fuck's sake.
Worse, the itch has been knocking me off my game in rehearsal, to the point that Madame Kuzmina is screaming for my fucking blood and barking at me like the Stalin-era prison guard she so obviously wishes she was.
This distraction has a name.
Roman. Fucking. Nikitin.
Someone I would typically vote for as Straightest Straight Dude of the Year. President of the We Only Fuck Pussies Club. Allstar captain of Team Hetero.
…But that was before I pinned him to the ground and felt his cock pulsing against mine. Before that goddamn whimper escaped his stubbled throat.
Before he met me in the woods—having pretended to be a girl online for some insane reason, though yours truly isn’t complaining—and groaned when I bit his ear, ground my dick against his gorgeous, tight ass, and breathed against his neck while he desperately humped his erection against mine.
And fuck me, that erection.
Roman is fucking packing. I won’t lie, half my distractedness the last few days has been entirely due to that fucking cock of his throbbing and pulsing its way through my thoughts on the daily.
I'm almost exclusively a top. But that doesn’t mean I don’t get turned the fuck on by a guy with a fat dick I can stroke and tease while I pound his ass.
“Dude.”
For an insane half second, I worry that Brooklyn has learned how to read minds, and is thoroughly disturbed by the images she’s just peeked in on involving me, Roman, some thick rope, and a ball gag.
Then I realize it’s not telepathy that has her jaw dropping. It’s the apartment I’ve just let her into.
My new apartment.
I make a face, sliding my hand through the back of my hair.
“Yeah. It’s…a little much, isn’t it.”
Brooklyn blinks as she walks further into the massive Soho loft I've been calling home for the last month. I haven’t brought anyone else here yet, mainly because I knew I’d have no fucking idea how to react to…well…reactions like hers.
It's probably the same reaction I’d have if she suddenly showed me a brand-new multimillion-dollar living situation.
Actually, there’s no “probably” about it. I literally did have this reaction when she first brought me over to her and Kir’s insanely huge mansion in the Bronx.
I mean, the girl was living out of her goddamn car before that. Talk about an upgrade.
Brooklyn and I come from similar backgrounds. We both had shit parents, “did time” in the New York state foster care system, and struggled to survive while pursuing ballet as a career.
So for us to be where we are now—her in Kir’s literal Vanderbilt mansion in the Bronx, me in a trendy loft big enough to host a runway fashion show—is…surreal.
“I mean, it’s gorgeous…” she breathes, gazing at the double-height beamed ceilings, massive factory windows, and stunning wide-plank wooden floors.
“…But a little much, right?”
She smirks, tucking a strand of blonde behind her ear as she turns to me, her brow arched. “Do you want it to be a little much?”
I frown. “Meaning?”
“Meaning that you, having spent most of your life fighting for survival in shitty homes, are having a hard time processing the idea that life is finally not going to be so difficult for you. And because of that, you feel a sensation somewhat akin to guilt, which you assuage by self-sabotaging your own happiness and safety.”
I blink, staring at her as she grins at me.
“Did you…practice that?”
Brooklyn giggles. “Fuck you.”
“No, that was solid. You know, if ballet doesn’t pan out, and if this whole soulmates-with-a-smoking-hot-gazillionaire-Bratva-leader thing falls through—”
I smirk when Brooklyn holds up both middle fingers.
“I’m just saying… Therapist might be a decent career path.”
She rolls her eyes. “Talk about the blind leading the blind there.”
I laugh deeply.
“No, seriously, this place is beautiful, Val. Just don’t forget to allow yourself to believe you deserve it, okay?”
“I’ll do my best,” I shrug. “Hey—what are you doing tonight? What do you say to chilling here at my glamorous new digs, ordering pizza, popping some bubbles and watching dumb movies?” I smirk. “Provided BDE doesn’t get all alpha possessive about it, of course.”
Brooklyn blushes deeply. “Can we please just call him ‘Kir’?”
Before they became a thing, “BDE” was Brooklyn's and my codename for Kir—AKA, Big Dick Energy.
I mean, if the man could bottle his vibe and sell it, he’d be even more of a gazillionaire.
“Why?” I grin. “Does me mentioning your older boyfriend’s huge dick make you uncomfortable?”
She groans, flushing redder. “How about we just let me think about Kir’s dick?”
I sigh. “If you insist.”
“I do. And for the record, Kir would be totally fine with me hanging for pizza, bubbles, and movies.”
I frown. “This better not be some fucking queer-equals-feminine bullshit.”
She rolls her eyes. “No, it’s some ‘Kir and I are completely secure in our relationship and trust either other implicitly’ bullshit, if you must know.”
She sighs and punches me in the chest playfully when I close my eyes and fake a dramatic snore.
“Laugh away, asshat,” she grins. “Maybe you’d know what I meant if you were capable of having a relationship that lasted longer than two hours.”
I have my fucking reasons.
But she doesn’t, and doesn’t need to, know that.
“Hey, I have had several extremely long-term relationships,” I say with mock indignation. “Some even lasted days.”
Brooklyn giggles and shakes her head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Don’t make me return you.”
We both laugh. That’s our inside “foster kid” joke.
“Anyway, I’d love to hang out tonight, but I can’t. Kir and I have a thing.”
I smirk. “Another fundraising gala for elephants?”
She grins and flips me off again. “That was last week. No, it’s a fancy ball Evie’s dad is throwing. I guess like a pre-engagement celebration for Roman?”
The smile evaporates from my face.
“What?”
Brooklyn frowns. “Don’t you remember? Roman’s marrying some Bratva princess to secure a mafia alliance thing.” She shrugs. “I dunno. Those arranged marriages seem batshit crazy to me. But I doubt Roman cares. I mean she’s gorgeous, and the girl has a rack on her.”
A vicious, violent, and snarling sensation that I don’t quite understand and definitely never saw coming steamrolls through me.
What. The. Fuck.
I’ve had enough questions since that night in the woods. Like why Roman was cosplaying as a chick on the Club Venom app. And why, once we actually met, he went all psycho and started screaming about being hetero, when he was hard enough to burst.
But this is a brand-fucking-new one.
Somehow, in the whirlwind of figuring out my relationship with my brother, moving house, and the daily chaos of ballet, I did, in fact, forget Evelina saying that her grouchy-hot older brother was getting engaged to some Bratva chick.
But the big question isn’t “why did I forget about that”.
…It’s “why the fuck does it piss me off so much, and why do I feel like someone is taking something that belongs to me”.
Why the fuck do I feel so goddamn possessive about him?
“That’s tonight?”
Brooklyn nods. “Yeah. So, sorry, I’ll be sipping bubbly with a slightly fancier crowd.” She winks at me. “No offense.”
“None taken,” I say lightly, the wheels starting to turn. “This thing is fancy?”
She nods. “Black tie. Why?”
Don’t.
Stop it.
It’s not that I’m crazy—not in the diagnosable sense. It’s just that sometimes…
Okay, fuck it, I’ll go full cliché after all.
Sometimes, it does feel like there are two wolves inside me.
One is normal Val, who smiles at people on the street, expresses himself through dance, and holds doors for little old ladies.
The other is a god of hedonism, chaos, and vice.
Furthermore, at times, those opposing forces will… argue with each other.
Loudly.
Like right now.
One side—the “good” side—is telling me to fucking leave it be. Roman is clearly confused, and obviously has issues that he needs to work through before he marries some poor girl who—I assume—wants a heterosexual husband, babies, all that shit.
But the other side is…not shutting the fuck up.
That side, the side that’s feeling a possessiveness I have no fucking right to feel, starts scheming.
And in the end, that’s the side that wins out.
“Oh, no reason,” I smile at Brooklyn. “Unrelated question: is Evie bringing anyone to this shindig?”
Spoiler: Evie wasn’t. But she is now.
I know this is probably crossing a line.
At the very least, it’s involving myself in something I shouldn’t.
Roman’s issues are his own. And however fucking hot it was to tackle him to the ground in the woods and feel his big cock get all hot and hard for me, and however much he turns me on…
showing up to his fucking engagement party is a supremely shitty decision.
And yet, here we are.
Evelina’s father’s house is always dripping with luxury and power.
But tonight, they’ve gone all out. Limos, supercars, and armored SUVs form a line outside the front gates, and armed, violent-looking motherfuckers with earpieces and scowls scan the rooftops and quietly size everyone up as they file in.
Two of the fuckers glare at me as I make my way up the front steps, a shit-eating grin on my face.
“No,” one of them growls in a thick Russian accent. “Turn around, now.”
I have no idea what the guy’s name is, but we’ve met. I’ve been to Evie’s house like a million times.
He clearly doesn’t give a shit about that.
I clear my throat and flash an even wider grin. “I think you’ll find that I’m on the guest list. I’m Ms. Nikitin’s date for the evening.”
I show them my ID. The familiar-looking guy glares at it, then glances down at the tablet in his hand sourly and nods to his buddy.
“All good, Mr. Bancroft. Please enjoy your evening.”
I smile broadly as I adjust my bowtie and strut past them, shoving the voice screaming “no straight boys” into a box and slamming the lid down.
“Oh, I plan on it.”