Chapter 1
1
TOMASZ
“Y ou wanted collateral,” the English bastard scoffs, blue eyes flitting from my father to me before they go around the room of the busy club. “I’m handing her to you on a platter.”
I look over his shoulder at the girl sitting at the bar. Red silken hair cascades down her back, shimmering a deep burgundy in the muted light.
“Why make it so easy?” I ask, tracing my gaze down to her crossed ankles as she peruses her surroundings.
Skittish eyes flicker high and low until they meet mine. There’s a moment of pause before she looks down at her lap, tilting her head to the side so that our stares catch again, hers partially hidden behind the rich veil of hair.
“I’m a man of my word,” he replies, the severe and earnest tone of his voice making me chuckle.
“A traitor.”
The bastard scowls at me, ready to bite back, but Father beats him to the punch. “A traitor’s word is worthless.”
“You asked for the girl. I’ve brought her. You wanted a weapon?” The sneering grin on his face is dark-edged and slivered with the fractures of deep red light. It reminds me of the old paintings my babushka used to keep of Rasputin in the parlour of her mansion. “You have what you asked for.”
Standing, I shrug my shoulders so that my suit jacket adjusts. It’s new from my father’s favourite tailor on Saville Row—the same one that clothes the royal princes. As I button the jacket with one hand, I finish the last of the vodka in my glass—Russia’s finest from our very own distillery. It marries our caviar perfectly.
“Let’s see how well your weapon performs.” There’s a flit of worry as I put my glass down on the table and squeeze his shoulder hard enough that he stiffens. “I like a fighter.”
“Ne yebat’ tovar,” Father quips with a flare of his nose. The look he’s levelling me with makes his order explicit. Don’t fuck the goods.
“Poprobuyte pered pokupkoy…” Try before you buy ; that’s what he’s always taught me.
Not about the girls. Not usually, anyway. Except this one…
This girl is a weapon. She’s the answer to our problems with the powers that be in this country. There hasn’t been a time when their little brotherhood has let us in. Everywhere else, there’s always been a weak link.
Not here.
Not until now.
So, for every block they put in front of us, we take something they value. Their losses dwarf ours, and eventually, they will play by our rules. In our world, politics is nothing but a game for weaklings—rules binding power. What keeps them grounded is also burying them, eventually.
Rules. We have none. I have none because I am the exception.
“Tomasz.” My father’s growl is curt and sharp, taking on that chastising tone from my childhood.
Except, I’m not a child anymore. And as much as he is the boss right now, it is me who will take over and continue his legacy. That alone gives me power because I am my father’s only son. The only Vassily left to carry the family name and wear the crown.
I nod at him, an acknowledgement of his warning. However, it doesn’t stop me from sauntering towards the girl at the bar. The lick of her lips tells me I’ve already hooked her, and as I pause beside her, leaning over the bar top, she swivels on the stool to face the liquor-lined wall ahead of us. Slender hands flatten to the counter, red-painted fingernails drumming on the black marble.
“Two vodkas,” I ask the bartender in Russian.
While he pours the drinks, I glance down between the girl and me. The scent of summer flowers grows bolder the longer I stand here, admiring long legs that flex under my watchful gaze. Slender calves tighten around what I imagine being delicate bones. Breakable. Fragile. My thoughts reel at the idea of being the one to break her. She looks like she would fight back. Smells like it too, as I pick up one drink the bartender puts down and turn to face her side, stepping close enough that I can feel the heat of her body seep through the fabric of my suit.
When her eyes flicker up to mine, I hold my drink up between us, nodding towards the other on the bar as I tell her, “Drink.”
A brow quirks as though she’s about to argue. Instead, the girl sits straighter, shoulders pulling back while she takes the drink with deliberate slowness. Eyes never leaving mine, she licks her lips and sniffs the vodka before taking a sip. Short and steady, barring the minute flutter of her lashes that disguises her wince at the burn of the liquor.
The princess has delicate taste buds.
Delicate taste. Delicate bones. Delicate flesh.
The rhythm of my heart picks up as the light flashes between red and blue, marling her skin with the ghost of future bruises.
I want her for myself.
I want to be the monster she cowers from. The one that destroys her delicate spirit like her father and his band of brothers have tried to destroy our family. I’ll be the one to obliterate her fight, no matter the orders my father gives. I want this one for myself. To taste her fear on my lips and tongue long after she’s gone from this earth.
Nothing will stop me from having her. As if the girl can hear my thoughts, and is as eager for her destruction as I am, she turns, red hair cascading over one shoulder when she looks up at me.
“You must have forgotten your manners back there,” she utters, the sound of her voice low.
No inflexion. Devoid of feeling even with the slight smirk that tugs at one side of her lips as her eyes side-glance to the table my father and the English traitor are still sitting at.
The music trills as the curtain to the stage opens, and the security steps in front of the doors. It’s a good night tonight. For her, at least. This would usually be an auction, and she would be up there waiting to meet her fate. However, today it’s a mere show.
This girl would make a good pet. Easy to look at and all that milky skin so pleasant to mark.
Tipping the single measure back, I finish my drink in one and stand back to appraise every inch of pale silk skin on display. It’s always the ones with breeding that are the most rewarding. And this girl isn’t only bred to elite refinement; she also has noble blood in her veins. Centuries of nobility and aristocracy weave through her DNA. The British prime minister’s daughter is a wet fucking dream.
“Finish,” I order, nodding at her drink.
With a purse of her lips, she narrows her gaze on me for a beat. The blue light makes her eyes brighter even in the obscurity of our surroundings. It’s vivid and full of life. A life that I want to wither in my bare hands.
Little Red. That’s what I will call her—my pet.
My dick twitches at the thought. My hand closes around my empty glass tighter, as though it could be her neck.
The girl is petite, and the dress she’s wearing is snug, gloving her body in a way that makes the movement of her chest impossible to miss. Ample tits quiver beneath the square cut of her silk dress. A foot drops to the ground. The snake holding her heeled sandals around her ankle gleams a bludgeoned gold in the sudden rotation of light flashing around us. Blue eyes blink as they set on the centre of the stage, along with the strobe of light. Every eye in the room goes to the girl wrapped around the pole rising from the ground. Yet, mine zero in on the heavy curtain of hair that flutters with the hitch of Red’s breath.
Bringing the vodka to her crimson lips, she looks up at me again, holding my stare while she sips daintily.
“Let’s go,” I order with a nod towards the toilets once she’s finished the drink.
“Anyone ever tell you the rules regarding strangers?” she asks, turning back to the bar and holding two fingers up to the bartender. “Two vodkas.”
With a downturned glance at me, he waits for me to nod my permission as I put my glass down. Red follows suit, and once he’s poured us another measure, she takes her drink and clinks the bottom of her glass to the top of mine. Pushing it towards me, she asks, “So what is it you do…?”
“Women.”
“I was going for profession rather than orientation.” The grin on her face hitches higher to one side while her lashes flutter and her thighs press together.
“Women,” I retort.
It’s the most significant and valuable trade in our circles. Women and weapons. The things that spur wars.
I gulp down my drink, and when I clap my glass down on the bar, she makes a show of finishing hers, keeping the glass to her lips until she swallows down the burn that follows.
“What’s your name?” She keeps up with the questions.
My patience is wearing thin as I wait for the first drink to do the trick.
“I’m not really into the stranger-banging thing. I need a name at least.”
“Yet, you sit at the bar.” Lowering to her height, I brace myself on the bar top.
“Your point?”
“You sit where men will see you.”
“Your point?”
“You want to get fucked.”
A laugh erupts from her at my observation. The sound reverberates through me; it’s not what I expected, given the husk to her voice. The quiet allure has dissipated, leaving nothing but surety and confidence. As though she’s the one with the power.
Stupid, stupid bitch.
Coming closer, the girl twists in her seat towards me again, the outside of her thigh touching mine as she holds my stare with intent. A hand slips down from the counter to her lap, grazing my leg before it settles on her knee, and she inches her face close to mine, lips to my ear.
“Name,” she whispers at the same time as her hand hitches up her thigh, and I catch a sliver of silver.
In a flash, her hand is driving towards me. I barely have time to pull away and grasp her wrist, twisting it until the small dagger in her hand hangs from her middle finger by the ring pommel. Hooking her foot around my ankle, she tries to gain purchase to free herself. However, I tunnel my fingers into her hair and yank until she has no choice but to put her foot back on the ground to balance herself.
The girl is stronger than she appears. Next time, I’ll use more than a few drops of the sedative. It’s all it usually takes—a few drops, and they’re out like a light.
Not this girl.
This one has more fight than I’ve ever seen. The several seconds we tussle, her eyes never leave mine, burning fiercely with determination to finish what she started, even as I twist her hand, bending it back until her teeth audibly wince with all the grit she’s pushing back with.
All this fight is futile. A complete waste as her fingers twitch one last time before they go lax, the sedative finally coming to full effect.
What a shame. I was enjoying myself.
With the knife clattering to the ground, I fist the thick strands of her hair tighter, relishing the scent of summer flowers that envelopes me as I tell her, “Master. That’s what you call me.”
Before she can respond, I thrash her forward, hitting the side of her head to the stone counter hard enough that she loses consciousness, blue eyes blinking closed with a wispy exhale as her flowery scent is permeated with the metallic tinge of blood.
What a waste.