CHAPTER FOUR
Lev
THE HOUSE IS quiet, save for the soft click of the heavy door shutting behind me. Dima, the housemaid, is already waiting. Her posture is stiff, hands folded neatly in front of her, eyes carefully lowered.
Housemaids in the bratva are usually passed down from one generation to the next, their children serving the same family—a tradition of loyalty. But I had to hire Dima myself, plucking her from a list of vetted candidates. She came with solid recommendations, yet I don’t trust her completely—I don’t trust anyone. But she knows her place, and that’s enough. For now.
I rang ahead to tell Dima of Alina’s arrival and to prepare a guest room.
“I’ve prepared the guest room for Miss Alina,” she says, her voice even, almost rehearsed. There’s no curiosity in her tone, no hint of judgment. Just efficiency. “Shall I take her there?”
I flick my gaze to Alina, watching her carefully. She doesn’t fidget, doesn’t shift uneasily the way most do when they step inside a place like this. Instead, her eyes move, slow and deliberate, cataloging. The high ceilings, the dim lighting, the dark wood paneling. She’s memorizing details. Assessing.
“I’ll do it myself.” My voice is clipped, final. Dima nods, stepping aside immediately, as she should.
Alina doesn’t react to my decision, but I see the sharp inhale she takes as she crosses the threshold. She’s wary but not fearful. Curious but cautious. She doesn’t shrink, even when Dima’s gaze flicks over the thin slip she’s still wearing from the auction.
I don’t know why they don’t dress them properly after they’re sold. She’s bound to be cold.
I try to see my home through her eyes. The long, grand hallway stretches before us, the polished floors gleaming like dark glass under the low, golden glow of recessed lighting. White marble stairs curve upward, the railings gleaming, smooth from years of maintenance. To someone else, this might scream wealth, power, prestige. But to me, it’s just another fortress. A gilded prison where I control every inch, every shadow.
She stops for half a second, her gaze flicking over the framed artwork along the walls—original pieces worth small fortunes. She doesn’t linger. She doesn’t seem impressed. That intrigues me.
“Keep moving,” I say, my voice low, controlled.
She doesn’t argue. Just steps forward, falling into step beside me as we move up the stairs. Silent, alert.
I slow my pace slightly, letting her absorb the weight of each step, the hush of the space around us. Let her wonder what’s waiting behind the door at the end of the hall.
I glance at her from the corner of my eye. She hasn’t spoken since crossing the threshold.
“Not what you expected?” I ask, voice quiet, testing.
Her head turns slightly, just enough for me to catch the flicker of something in her expression—curiosity, maybe. Wariness.
“No,” she says simply. Then, after a beat, “But nothing ever is.”
I slide my palm across my jaw to hide the involuntary response that twists my lips.
As we walk, my mind flickers back to the paperwork I was handed earlier—her name, Alina Petrov. A common enough name in this region, unremarkable on paper. Just another woman thrown to the wolves, another transaction. But now, with her walking beside me, she isn’t just ink on a page. She is something else entirely—something unpredictable, something that doesn’t quite fit the mold.
Her steps are measured, careful. Not hesitant, not fearful. Calculated. I glance at her from the corner of my eye, watching how she carries herself—how she keeps her chin up, her shoulders squared despite the weight pressing down on her. There’s a quiet defiance in her, buried beneath that controlled exterior. She’s pretending to be composed, but I can see the tension in her fingers, the way she keeps her hands still at her sides, resisting the urge to clench them.
I think back to the auction. At the moment I was supposed to be focused on Sergei, I was instead watching her. I had one of my men look for his next appearance, declaring that he wasn’t at the auction. It was a lie my men could discover easily if they investigated, but they would never question me on it.
I didn’t want to admit, even to myself, that I’d missed him because I was distracted. Because of her.
The thought irritates me.
We reach the end of the hall, and I push open the door, stepping aside. The room is quiet, dimly lit by the faint glow of the city beyond the windows. It’s minimalist but comfortable—a large bed, a dresser, a small seating area near the window—no locks on the inside.
“This is where you’ll stay,” I say, my voice even.
She hesitates for half a second before stepping inside. Her eyes sweep the space, still scanning, still cataloging. She doesn’t touch anything, doesn’t linger too long on any one detail.
As her gaze lands on the bed, I see the tension beneath the act. The subtle way her shoulders resist curling inward, the way her breath is steady but slightly too controlled. A survivor’s instinct.
That smile from the auction—it had been a mask, meant to sell a fantasy. Now, standing in my home, she’s unreadable, her expression schooled into something neutral, careful. Smart. But I don’t trust what I can’t read.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, letting the silence stretch between us. She stands near the foot of the bed, still taking in her surroundings, still searching for something. A way out? A weakness?
“You haven’t asked where you are,” I say finally, my voice smooth, deliberate. “Who I am.”
Her gaze snaps to mine, sharp and unwavering. “I asked how long I was staying, and you didn’t answer. I assumed it didn’t matter.”
The answer is quick, too quick. Bold. A woman with nothing to lose wouldn’t care where she was. But a woman planning her next move? She wouldn’t ask, either.
I take a slow step toward her, and I smirk, just slightly. She’s already proving to be more interesting than I expected.
“Why were you there?” I ask, tilting my head slightly. The question is simple, but the answer won’t be. I want the truth, but more than that, I want to see how she delivers it. The way she chooses her words, the way her body reacts—these things tell me more than the response itself. My training kicks in—years spent perfecting the art of control, interrogation, and strategy.
The Irish military made sure of that. I elected to supplement my skillset with military training from several foreign governments, strategizing that it would make me a formidable asset for whatever bratva family I ended up with. My time has given me valuable inside information for the Irish, the Italian, and even the Americans. Every movement, every glance, every silence—I was trained to extract information, to dismantle resistance, to use psychology as a weapon. I adapted those skills for the bratva, where the battlefield isn’t dirt and blood but power and deception.
Alina doesn’t flinch. Her gaze holds steady, her shoulders squared despite the tension coiling just beneath her skin. “Why were any of us there?”
A deflection. A weak one. My lips curl slightly. She’s testing me. Playing this game like she has any control over the pieces. I close the distance between us—not fast, not aggressive, just enough to watch her reaction. Just enough to remind her who holds the power here. Her pulse flickers at the base of her throat, a tiny betrayal. She’s trying to remain indifferent, but her body is telling a different story.
I lift my hand, brushing my fingers along her neck, feeling the warmth of her skin and the way she stiffens just slightly beneath my touch, but she doesn’t pull away.
“Alina…why were you there?” I repeat, lowering my voice and making it clear that this time, I expect an answer.
Her breath is steady and measured, but her gaze drops. “I needed the money.”
A lie? Maybe. There’s truth in it, but not the whole story. I narrow my eyes, watching for the smallest hint of hesitation. “For what?”
For a second, just a second too long, she hesitates. The flicker of uncertainty, the momentary shift in her expression—it’s all I need to confirm she’s holding something back.
“For things.” She shrugs, trying to brush it off, but her voice is too forced, too casual.
"Things," I repeat, letting the word hang between us. “How much money did you get paid?”
She folds her arms across her chest. “Fifty thousand.” The words come out quieter than before, and I notice the way her cheeks pink at the confession. Embarrassment? Shame?
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You sold your soul for fifty thousand?”
I step back just enough to watch her reaction. Her jaw tightens, her fingers curling slightly at her sides. The flicker of anger in her eyes is unmistakable, like something simmering just beneath the surface, waiting to boil over.
"I hope it was worth it," I say, my voice laced with mockery, pressing just hard enough to see if she’ll break.
She doesn’t answer.
That annoys me.
I want a response. A flicker of weakness. A crack in the composure she’s fighting so hard to hold onto. So I make a bold statement, one designed to pull something—anything—out of her.
“You’ll be in my bed every night,” I say, watching her closely, waiting for the reaction I know is coming.
There it is.
Her lips part slightly, and for the first time, I see it—uncertainty. Just for a second. Just a flicker. Then it’s gone, replaced by the same careful mask she’s been wearing since she walked through my door.
“For how long?” she finally speaks.
It’s the same question she asked in the limo, and for some reason, I don’t want to consider the answer just yet. My jaw tightens slightly, though I keep my expression unreadable. “As long as I say.”
“I have other responsibilities,” she says while raising her head slightly like she has some form of control here.
“Yes, you do. Pleasing me is one of your responsibilities. Nothing else matters."
She swallows, just barely, her throat bobbing with the effort. A small betrayal of nerves. It’s not enough; the fire still rages in her gaze.
I want to extinguish it.
I step closer, watching the subtle shift of her body—how she braces, ready to snap or flee, even if she has nowhere to go. “Can I have some of my things brought over, at least? My phone, some clothing, my…sketchbook?”
“I’ve already had my staff purchase clothing for you,” I respond. “As for the rest…maybe.” I reach out and twine a lock of her hair around my finger, watching as her lips thin and tighten.
“You don’t like this,” I murmur.
“I don’t have a choice,” she bites back.
“No, you don’t.” My voice is low, dangerous.
Her breathing hitches.
I reach out, fingers grazing her jaw, then lower, trailing down the delicate column of her throat. Her pulse thrums against my fingertips—fast, erratic.
“Your heart’s racing.” I press my palm to her chest, just above her breast. “Are you nervous, Alina?”
She doesn’t speak. Not a single word. Her silence once again annoys me.
“I paid for you,” I whisper, brushing my mouth against her ear. “But what I want from you tonight, I’ll take .”
Still, she says nothing.
But she doesn't move away.
Not when I shove the thin lingerie she’s still wearing from her shoulders. Not when I grip her hair and pull her head back, baring her throat like prey.
“You want me to stop, devushka ?” I growl against her skin. I won’t, of course.
I don’t wait for permission or an answer. My lips smash onto hers, and I kiss her like I own her. Hard. Deep. Bruising.
Her lips part wider, but still no words. No pleas. No permission.
So I give her none in return.
My grip tightens in her hair, jerking her head back, exposing her throat. I drag my mouth across her jaw, down her neck, letting my teeth scrape, bite—enough to leave a mark.
She gasps, hips arching forward. Instinct.
I chuckle darkly. “You’re playing a dangerous game, krasavitsa. ”
“I didn’t—” she starts, but I cut her off with a hand on her throat. Not squeezing. Just a presence. A reminder.
“You didn’t stop me.” My voice is rough now, ragged with the control I’m barely holding. “You could’ve. But you like this.”
Her pupils are blown wide. Her lips swollen from my mouth. Her nipples peak against the thin fabric. I push the dress down, never taking my gaze from her. It pools around her feet like water.
I push her backward until her knees hit the bed. She falls, catching herself on trembling arms, eyes locked on mine.
No tears.
No begging.
I unbuckle my belt slowly, letting the sound echo in the silence between us. Her breath catches, but I don’t stop. Her fingers curl into the duvet like that will help. I push down my pants and boxer briefs and my cock springs free, pre-cum already coating the head. Her nostrils flare as her gaze bounces from my face to my cock. I pull off my tie swiftly before removing my shirt fully, then I reach down and stroke my hard cock.
Taking a step closer, I give my cock three more strokes, rubbing pre-cum all down my shaft before I let it go and crawl over her, covering her body with mine. I reach down and push my hand between her clenched thighs, spreading them to allow myself in between.
“You’re mine now,” I murmur, dragging my tongue along her collarbone. “And just so there’s no confusion…I don’t share.”
Her breath shudders.
I grip her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand, my other trailing down her ribs, to her waist and further, to the soft skin of her inner thigh. I don’t ask. I take. And her body welcomes me like it’s been waiting for this moment since the second she walked onto that stage.
She whimpers as my fingers tease her—wet, ready, perfect.
“So wet for a man you don’t even know,” I sneer, dragging my fingers higher.
She moans. A sound she tries to swallow, but I hear it. I feel it in my spine—raw, aching need. I lean down, my mouth against her ear.
“Tonight,” I growl, “you’ll learn what it means to be owned. To be ruined .” I release her hands and sit back on my haunches still between her legs, it gives me the perfect view of her pussy, glistening with her need.
Her knuckles are white from the grip she has on the duvet. If I were a good man, I would acknowledge her fear. I would stop this and give her back her dignity.
But I’m not a good man.
I take my cock again and give it one final stroke before placing it at her opening. She tries to close her legs, but I grip one thigh and push it open as far as I can.
Instead of placing my cock in her pussy. I drag my fingers through her folds, slow and possessive, watching her face the entire time. Her eyelids flutter. Her breath stutters. A whimper slips free before she can bite it back.
“Look at you,” I murmur, voice rough, low, taunting. “Dripping for the man who just bought you like property.”
No words. No denials. Just that silent, burning hatred that seems to be mixed with an invitation for me to continue.
I slide one finger inside her, then two, curling them until she gasps—legs trembling around my hand.
“I could make you come just like this,” I say, my thumb brushing her clit in lazy circles. “But that’s not what tonight’s for.”
I pull my fingers out slowly, deliberately, holding them up. Wet. Coated. Proof of just how ready she is. Just how much her body belongs to me already.
“Don’t pretend you don’t want this,” I growl. “You want to be owned. To be taken.” She must, to have to put herself up for auction among men who would only use her for one thing.
I grip her hips and line myself up, the head of my cock nudging her entrance—hot, hard, aching to be inside.
She sucks in a breath, her eyes locked on mine.
I push into her—slow at first, just the tip, letting her feel the stretch. Her walls clamp down around me, tight, so fucking tight I have to grit my teeth to keep from losing control too soon.
She gasps, her back arching off the bed.
“Shh,” I whisper against her throat. “Take it.”
Another inch. Then another. I bury myself fully with one brutal thrust that punches the air from her lungs.
I pause, holding myself there, buried to the hilt, feeling the way her body trembles around me. Then I move—dragging out slowly, then slamming back in, deeper, harder, claiming every inch.
Her hands leave the sheets, and they grip my shoulders. Her breath comes in frantic little moans that grow louder with every thrust.
“Say it,” I growl. “Say you want this.”
But she doesn’t speak.
All I get is another roll of her hips, a broken sound from her throat as she meets my thrusts.
So I give her what she won't ask for.
I fuck her like I own her.
Like I paid for her soul, not just her body.
Like I’m not just inside her—I’m claiming every part of her that’s ever dared to fight. I don’t hold back now.
Her body is molding to me—tight, slick heat gripping my cock like it was made to take me. She gasps with every thrust, her moans rising higher, more desperate, the rhythm of her hips frenzied and broken.
I fuck her like I mean to ruin her.
Because I was, and I do.
Every snap of my hips slams her into the mattress, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room. Her nails rake down my back—leaving marks, claiming me in return—and I fuck her harder for it.
“You feel that?” I snarl against her throat, thrusting deeper, harder, punishing. “That’s what you belong to now. My cock. My bed. My rules.”
She cries out, legs shaking around my waist, her heels digging into my ass like she’s trying to pull me even deeper.
“Fucking take it.”
Her walls flutter around me—tightening, pulsing—she’s close. So close.
I press my fingers to her clit, rubbing her in sync with my thrusts, rough and relentless.
She splinters.
Her body locks up around me, a guttural moan tearing from her lips. Her pussy clenches so hard, I know. The moment she falls apart beneath me, I lose it, too.
I growl—deep, primal—and slam into her one final time, hips jerking as I spill inside her, filling her with everything I’ve been holding back. My release is violent.
Her body milks every drop, shaking around me, twitching as the aftershocks tear through her.
I stay buried deep, my body blanketing hers, sweat slicking our skin, her hair tangled between my fingers.
I’m still buried deep inside her, her legs tangled with mine, her scent thick in the air—lust and sweat and mine, when I lift slightly and look down at her.
She turns her face away.
I grip her chin, forcing her face toward mine. “Don’t hide.”
Her lips are red. Bruised. Wet. I trace the corner of her mouth with my thumb. “I want to see what I did to you.”
She flinches, not from fear—but shame, maybe. Confusion. The aftermath of craving something that should repulse her.
I lean down, pressing a kiss to her collarbone, where my teeth left a mark. One of many. “You didn’t say no.”
She swallows. “You didn’t ask.”
“Didn’t need to.”
She doesn’t argue. She can’t.
Because her body still pulses beneath me, soft and warm, clinging. Her breath still catches when I drag my palm over her hip.
“You think you’re different than the others,” I murmur. “Like you’re not made for this world. But you are.”
She opens her eyes, glaring. “You don’t know anything about me.”
I smirk. “I know your cunt begged for me. I know your silence was just another lie. I know you got wetter every time I reminded you who owns you now.”
She gasps, but I don’t stop.
I reach down and grab her thigh, hiking it over my hip again, thrusting once—slow and deep, just enough to make her gasp.
Her nails dig into my arms. Her eyes flutter shut.
“Still so greedy,” I growl, lips brushing hers.
I want to fuck her again, but I also need her to see that I am in control, not her. I slide out of her wet pussy and start getting dressed. I don’t have to turn around to know when she slides off the bed and begins to frantically dress in the silky slip puddled on the floor.
I slowly retie my tie, keeping my back to her, allowing her some small semblance of dignity that I had taken away from her.
Guilt is a funny thing, one I don’t experience much, and I don’t like how it shows up now. I push it down and turn around, defying the guilty feeling.
She won’t look at me, and I’m ready to demand she does when my phone rings, shattering the moment. I exhale sharply, irritated at the interruption as I step back, fishing it from my pocket. “What?”
It’s one of my men. Sergei will be at a charity event tonight.
My gaze flickers to Alina as I listen to the details—location, time. She tilts her head slightly, her eyes locked on me, studying me. The movement is subtle, but I catch it. She understands English. I file that away—a useful detail.
“Perfect. I’ll be there. And you had someone pick up my car from the auction?” I ask, my tone casual, but I watch her as I speak. I had opted for leaving the auction with Alina in the limo provided by the auction house—a perk that comes with every purchase.
“Great,” I say, ending the call.
Alina doesn’t react, not outwardly. But I see it—the slightest shift in her posture, the way her shoulders tense, the way her fingers twitch before she stills them again. She understood every word.
“You understand English,” I murmur, watching for her reaction.
She says nothing. Doesn’t confirm or deny. Just holds my gaze, waiting.
My mind starts working through the possibilities. Sergei was interested in her at the auction. If he still wants her, then showing up with her on my arm will send a clear message. More than that—it will force his hand. And if I want to use her, I need to test just how well she plays the game.
I smile without humor, the decision already made.
“We’re going to a party.”