CHAPTER SIX
Lev
“I’LL GIVE YOU a million,” Sergei repeats.
“No.” I take Alina by the arm and direct her to the bar, signaling the bartender for two drinks. No espresso tonight.
I only have to count to forty before Sergei appears at my shoulder.
He leans against the bar, a glass of whiskey in one hand and his eyes locked on to Alina like a predator sighting prey. His smirk is slow, deliberate, as if he’s already won. When he speaks, his voice drips with casual malice.
“She’s stunning, Lev. I’ll make it easy for you—name your price.”
A flicker of heat coils in my chest, slow and smoldering. My jaw tightens. “She’s not for sale.”
He chuckles, a low, knowing sound. “Everything is for sale, Lev. You know that better than anyone. Hand her over, and we can discuss an arrangement about that turf you’ve been sniffing around.”
The room stills around me, the weight of his words sinking in. My mask of composure slips for barely a second, but he catches it. I see the satisfaction in his eyes.
Rats. I should’ve known.
Sergei leans in, his voice a taunt wrapped in silk. “I have eyes and ears everywhere. I knew your move before you made it.”
He’s baiting me, and it’s working. The sting of being outplayed lingers, but my attention shifts to Alina. For the first time, I see her differently—not as leverage, not as a means to an end, but as something more. More valuable. More dangerous.
I turn back to him, my voice like a blade. “She’s not for sale.”
He studies me, the silence between us stretching before he tips his glass in my direction and takes a slow drink. Dismissal.
Keeping her works better for me. Maybe on a subconscious level, that’s why I bought her. I could lie to myself, pretend it was about strategy, about cutting Sergei off before he could sink his claws into her—but that wouldn’t be the full truth.
I saw the way he looked at Alina. That wasn’t just about the purchase. It was possession. Obsession. He wanted to own her. But now I do.
It’s going to eat at him.
My grip tightens around Alina’s arm as I steer her through the crowd. She doesn’t resist, but I feel the tension in her muscles, the way her pulse hammers beneath my fingers. She’s afraid. Good. Fear keeps people compliant. Fear makes them predictable.
Eyes track us as we move—some curious, others wary. I ignore them. Let them wonder. Let them make their assumptions. It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is getting her away from here.
The limo door barely clicks shut before silence swallows us whole. It stretches between us, thick and suffocating, pressing against my skin like a second layer. Outside, the city blurs past in streaks of neon and shadow, but my mind is elsewhere.
Sergei knew I was hunting him, which means someone close to me is talking.
I file that away, letting the anger simmer just beneath the surface. Alina shifts beside me, restless. I can feel her watching me, weighing her next move.
I finally break the silence, my voice sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Why were you at the auction?”
She exhales sharply. “I already told you. I needed the money.”
I turn my head, studying her. She meets my gaze, but there’s a flicker of unease in her eyes. She’s lying—if not about the reason, then about the extent of it.
“You didn’t tell me what for,” I press, keeping my voice low, deliberate. “And don’t tell me ‘things.’”
Her fingers twist in her lap, a small movement, but a tell nonetheless. She hesitates…too long.
Then, finally, she speaks, her voice barely above a whisper. “It was to pay off some bratva men. My sister owes them money.”
My jaw tightens. Bratva. The word alone is enough to darken my mood. They don’t extend credit unless they’re confident they’ll get a return—with interest.
“So, you sorted it?”
Her chin lifts slightly, a quiet act of defiance. “I will. The money just hit my account.”
There’s a new edge to her voice now, something braver, something reckless. It irritates me. It interests me.
I lean back, considering. I could pay the debt myself—should, just to tie up any loose ends. But curiosity tugs at me.
“Which bratva?”
Silence. This time, she presses her lips together and refuses to answer.
Stupid girl.
My patience is thinning, but for now, I let it slide. She’ll talk. They all do eventually.
I breathe in deeply, forcing my irritation down, but it barely helps. My patience is wearing thin, unraveling thread by thread. Tonight was a failure—two missed opportunities. I don’t lose. I don’t waste time. And yet, here I am, empty-handed and simmering with frustration.
I shouldn’t care this much about her. Shouldn’t let her crawl under my skin like this. But the thought of letting her go knots my gut in a way I don’t understand. It’s unfamiliar, unwelcome. I don’t get attached. I don’t second-guess myself. And yet, here she is—standing in the center of my storm, making me question everything.
I need control back. Need to remind myself who’s in charge here.
By the time we reach the house, the weight of everything presses down on me, burning through the last of my restraint. The air feels charged, and my voice comes out low, dangerous.
“Your bedroom. Now.”
Alina stiffens. Just for a second.
Her eyes flash to mine, hesitation warring with defiance. “Lev—”
“Now.”
It’s not a request. It’s an order. And she knows it.
Her lips part like she wants to argue, to push back, but she isn’t stupid. She knows when to fight and when to back down. This time, she relents, though every step she takes is slow, reluctant, heavy with resistance.
Good. Let her resist. Let her fight against it. It won’t change a damn thing.
I watch as she climbs the stairs ahead of me, her hips moving fluidly beneath the red silk of that damned dress. My fingers have been itching to tear it off of her all evening.
Inside her room, she whirls on me, fire burning in her gaze. “You can’t just—”
I cut her off, stepping closer, my voice rough with something I don’t fully understand. “You’ll do as you’re told.”
She sways back slightly, but she doesn’t cower. That fire, that goddamn fire—it’s still there, flickering in her eyes, daring me to put it out.
And I should. I should smother it. Break her down until she’s nothing but quiet obedience. But instead, I stand there, watching her, feeling the pull of something dark and unshakable.
She’s under my skin. And I hate it.
But not enough to let her go.
Her breath catches—a sharp inhale, almost a gasp—as I reach for her hair and loosen the knot, letting it fall down her back. My fingers trail across her shoulders, knocking the red strap of her dress down. I’m completely invading her space, but I don’t stop. The heat off her body pulses, but her gaze is filled with ice. I reach around and touch the zipper of her dress, pushing it down. The dress falls a little further off her shoulder, but something in her snaps.
Her hands push at my chest, palms flat, trying to create distance that I refuse to give. “Don’t,” she bites out, her voice taut with anger, with fear.
I catch her wrists, tightening my grip just enough to still her without hurting her. “You don’t give orders,” I murmur, my voice low, even. Dangerous. “Not to me.”
She jerks against my hold, wild and reckless, but I don’t let her go. She fights, twisting, her breath coming in ragged bursts as she tries to shove me back. I let her struggle, let her burn off that futile energy until the resistance drains from her muscles, until she stills beneath my touch.
“I hate you,” she breathes, eyes blazing.
A slow smirk tugs at my lips. “You didn’t hate me earlier.”
Her pulse thrums violently beneath my fingers, the rapid rhythm betraying her. Even as she glares at me, as she drags in shuddering breaths, I feel the shift—the moment her body betrays her mind. The way she leans into me, her breasts brushing against my chest.
“Turn around.”
The order leaves no room for hesitation, no space for argument. My voice is low, firm—final.
Her body tenses. Just for a second. I catch the flicker of defiance in her eyes before she exhales slowly, resigning herself to the inevitable. She closes her eyes like that will somehow make this easier and does as I say.
Good girl.
I take my time, running a finger down the zipper of her dress, feeling the delicate tremor beneath her skin. My touch isn’t rough. It doesn’t need to be. She knows I own this moment. I own her.
The slow, deliberate sound of the zipper lowering fills the silence between us, a quiet unraveling. The fabric slackens, slides down her arms, whispering over her skin before pooling at her feet in a useless heap.
She stands there motionless, shoulders tight, hands clenched at her sides. Waiting. Bracing.
I brush the hair off her neck, exposing her to me.
Her skin is pale, soft—too soft for someone with such a sharp tongue. I trace my knuckles over her spine.
My lips find the base of her skull, pressing a kiss there, breathing her in.
Her scent—faintly sweet, laced with something darker—seeps into my lungs, into my bloodstream. My cock stirs, thickens, and I don’t stop it. I press against her, letting her feel it, letting her know exactly what she does to me.
Her inhale is sharp, jagged—like she’s just realized she’s walked into a cage and let the door swing shut behind her.
I smirk against her skin.
“Tell me,” I murmur against her neck, “tell me you don’t want this.”
Her breath stutters. Her silence is deafening.
I already know the answer.
She does, too.
My hand slips around her, slow and deliberate, palm pressing flat against her stomach. She tenses, muscles taut beneath my touch.
I slide lower, my fingertips skimming the delicate lace of her panties before shoving them aside.
She sucks in a sharp breath, her body betraying her, reacting before her mind can catch up.
I drag a finger through her slick heat, finding her clit, rolling it beneath my touch, teasing, pushing. Her breath stutters, and she grips the edge of the dresser like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.
“Already wet?” My voice is low, amused. Mocking.
She shakes her head, lips parting, but whatever protest she was about to give dies in her throat the moment I sink two fingers inside her.
Fuck . Her cunt is tight. Warm. Perfect.
I push deeper, curling my fingers, and she arches into me, her back bowing, pressing against the thick length of my erection. Her reaction fuels something primal, something possessive. She can deny this all she wants, can pretend she doesn’t want it, but her body doesn’t lie.
I keep my mouth at the base of her skull, dragging my lips over her skin, inhaling the faint scent of sweat and surrender. I kiss her there, slow and deep, before sinking my teeth into the soft flesh, biting just hard enough to make her gasp.
She trembles.
Her walls tighten around my fingers, and I chuckle darkly against her skin.
“You hate me, don’t you?” I murmur, my voice laced with something wicked, something dangerous. I press deeper, pushing her closer to the edge.
Her breath comes faster now, shallow, uneven. She nods once, quick, desperate.
Liar.
I thrust my fingers again, sharper this time, rougher. Her legs shake, her body betraying her with every ragged breath, every stifled whimper.
“Say it.” My voice is a command, whispered against the curve of her throat.
She gasps, her grip on the dresser tightening. “I hate you,” she breathes, but it sounds like a lie.
I smirk against her neck, dragging my teeth over her skin before biting again, harder this time.
“Then why are you fucking dripping for me?”
She’s close—I can feel it in the way her body clenches around my fingers, in the way her breath shatters into uneven, desperate gasps.
I don’t slow down. I don’t ease up. I push.
My fingers work her mercilessly, curling, pressing, claiming. She’s shaking now, her body betraying every stubborn part of her mind that still wants to resist me.
I sink my teeth into her neck—hard—branding her, letting her feel the sharp edge of my possession as she breaks.
A strangled cry rips from her throat, her body locking up before shuddering violently. Her release crashes through her, raw and unwilling, and I don’t stop until I’ve wrung every last tremor from her. Until she’s boneless in my arms, trembling, spent.
I finally pull my fingers from her, dragging them over her thigh, smearing her wetness against her skin like a mark she can’t wash away. Like proof.
She sags against the dresser, her breath unsteady.
I grip her shoulders, turning her to me. My hand slides up, fingers threading into the damp strands of her hair. She barely flinches, too lost in the lingering effects of what I just did to her.
I lean down, my breath a whisper of heat against her ear.
“Now tell me again…that you hate me.”
She shudders, her hands gripping the wood behind her as if it’ll anchor her to something real.
I release her, stepping back just enough to watch the way her body reacts—to watch the way her thighs press together instinctively, how she still hasn’t caught her breath.
I fix the cuffs of my shirt before I speak again.
“The name.” My voice is rough, unwavering. “Who does your sister owe?”
A single shiver rolls through her, a fleeting aftershock, but my gaze pins her in place.
She swallows hard, her throat bobbing, hesitation thick between us. For a moment, I think she might refuse. Might push back one last time. But then—
She exhales, slow and uneven, and whispers the name. “Koka.”
The name stops me cold.
It’s one of my own men.