Chapter 23
KIR
I gave her her own space because I’ve been where she is.
Lost. Broken. Desperate to cling to any anchor after floating on the open sea for so long you’ve forgotten what solid ground feels like.
I’m also wary of pushing her too hard, too fast.
I want her , in every way a man can want a woman. I want to feel her submission under my palm when I take her over my knee again. I want to hear the gasp in her throat when I lace my fingers around it, her arms and legs trussed to the corners of my bed.
I want to savor her tight little cunt clinging to my cock when I drive into her for the first time.
But I refuse to be yet another monster in her life, another man who feeds off her vulnerability and desperation.
In the past, I may have been poor, at the mercy of systems that don’t give a fuck about you, and dogged by predators who would eat you alive just to laugh at your screams.
But I’m also acutely aware of the massive power imbalance between us.
I’m rich, beyond powerful, and untouchable.
Brooklyn, on the other hand, is destitute. Powerless. Adrift in the world with nothing and nobody to cling to.
Until now, that is.
The fierce, almost breathtaking urge to shield her from the world, slay her demons, and lift her out of the filth and the dirt hits me again.
My jaw tenses as my eyes adjust to the darkness and I lean forward in the armchair, my elbows on my thighs and my hands steepled as I slide my gaze over her sleeping form.
Yes, I gave her her own space. It doesn’t mean I’m not going to sit here and keep watch, ready to fight off the nightmares if they come.
As I look at the duvet, rising and falling with her breaths, my mind flickers back to earlier.
To her squealed moans. To the slick, messy way her pussy wrapped tight around my fingers as she came from my tongue.
I can still taste her .
It’s making me ludicrously hard, and seriously reconsider my stance on not pushing things with her.
But no. I will not be another one of those men in her life.
The motherfuckers from the club. Or any of the men who paid her to dance for them, or grind on their fucking laps.
I won’t be her ex—James, aka the dead man walking—who took what he wanted when he wanted it and left her with bruises.
So, no. For now, I won’t be taking things further than they’ve gone already.
I’ll touch her, yes. I’ll throw her on the bed, spread her gorgeous legs and feast on her pretty pussy until I’ve had my fill—which, honestly, might never happen.
Anything else can wait for now, even if she’s begging for it.
With all she’s been through, she’s not ready for my brand of fucking yet.
Not even close.
Are you going to fuck me now ?
Something about the way she said that twisted a blade inside my chest. There was this note of…I don’t know, expectation in her tone that made my hackles rise.
I’m both furious and pained that she views sex as transactional.
That’s another reason I’m holding back.
Again… for now .
My phone buzzes quietly in my pocket. I pull it out to see a text from Isaak.
It’s here.
I cross the room to the bed, looking down at Brooklyn as she sleeps. A feeling I don’t recognize, one I’ve never felt it before, slices through me. Then I lean down and kiss her shoulder before pulling the duvet up over it.
Outside, I exhale slowly, watching the flatbed truck unload the shitty old Accord. The thing is completely banged up, streaked with grime and scrapes, with a busted window barely taped over and bird shit covering the hood.
It’s shockingly out of place compared to the white gravel driveway, manicured grounds, rose gardens, vast mansion, and panoramic views of Manhattan on the horizon.
A profound sadness hits me as I walk over to the car and pace around it. My jaw clenches when I peer into the windows, glancing at the back seat.
She fucking lived here. For more than a year.
Christ .
When I was sent to Zavolzhsky Penal Camp Eighteen as a child, that was hard. Arguably much harder than having no place to call home and living out of your car.
But, in a sense, I’d been preparing for that hardship my whole life.
My father was never a wealthy man as he tried to build the fledgling Nikolayev organization into something bigger.
Home was a two-bedroom shithole in an old Brutalist Soviet apartment block.
I grew up on the streets, fighting sometimes for fun, but frequently for survival.
So, yes: Siberia was hell, and penal camp a nightmare. But I was ready for it.
Brooklyn, I’m guessing, was not ready for the life she’s had the past year or more.
Living out of this shitty car. Stripping.
Sending all her money to a lawyer to keep her stepfather out of prison, even if the idiot is the reason she went into foster care in the first place.
Even worse, she’s a young, attractive woman.
And she’s had no allies throughout this ordeal. No friends she could truly confide in or lean on.
In every scenario, even Siberia, I had things better than her. And I fucking hate how unfair that is, and how cruelly life has treated her.
Isaak clears his throat behind me, pulling my attention away from the miserable little Honda. He’s got one of “those” looks on his face, weighing his duty to protect me and aid me in decisions against his desire to speak freely.
I’ve told him for years that there are no restrictions there. But Isaak’s old-school, and takes the whole me “being his boss” thing to the level of King.
“Just say it,” I sigh.
He frowns, and I roll my eyes.
“It was easier to talk to you when you smoked, you know.”
He cracks a grin, lifting a shoulder. “Apparently, cigarettes are bad for you.”
“Imagine that.”
Isaak shrugs. “It feels good not to be addicted to them anymore. I wanted to get healthier for…well, me.”
I arch a brow. “And how is Kai.”
I will never, ever tire of watching my number two blush .
It’s like watching the bull in the china shop sit down and make tea instead of…doing what you assume he’s going to.
“Kai is good.” He cocks a brow. “And you ?”
“Care to get specific?” I grunt.
Isaak chuckles. “Not really.” He turns to eye the car, then glances up at the house. “But I do have to ask…”
“Anything.”
He peers at me. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”
“I can handle it,” I growl.
He clears his threat. “She’s a very talented dancer.”
“Indeed.”
“So talented that I hear she's trying to get into that fancy ballet company in Moscow, where your friend's the head honcho.”
My eyes narrow. “Where’s the headline here.”
His brows puzzle.
“The point , Isaak.”
He spreads his hands. “I was under the impression that this fancy ballet only has one opening. And that the terms of your agreement with Dimitri include?—”
“I’m well aware of what my arrangement with Dimitri entails,” I growl.
Isaak nods and levels a look at me. “I guess I was wondering what happens when the girl you’re bending over backward for asks you about her dream of dancing in Moscow, and your friend who could make that happen, and you have to decide what to do.”
I scowl, my teeth gritting. “The decision's already been made. Inessa goes to Moscow. That's final.”
Isaak nods. “Okay, then.” Then he wisely changes the subject and points to the Honda. “What do you want to do about this? It’s leaking oil all over the gravel.”
“You've gotten extremely bougie, Isaak.”
Part of me wanted to have the car destroyed when Isaak’s people found it. But then I put myself in her shoes and reconsidered.
Shit-box or not, this was her home for a year. It was the roof over her head. I’ll let her decide what happens to it, and then I’ll get to work fixing the rest of her.
I moved out of my darkness. She can too.
I’ll drag her out of it, if necessary.