Chapter 25 #2
Fear ices my blood, and I bolt, running for the side gate exit of the cemetery that leads to the conservatory.
Boots thud rapidly behind me, kicking up more dried leaves.
I run faster, praying the conservatory door isn’t closed.
Heavy breaths pursue me, body heat closing in.
I don’t get past the next tree before one strong hand grabs my arm, twisting it sharply while the other gets my hair, yanking me hard. My back collides with a muscled chest.
“Ow—fuck!” I shriek, but the cry is cut off by the barrel of a gun pressed against my neck, the cold metal kissing a threat. I freeze.
“Now, now, dorogaya,” the man coos in my ear, thick Russian. Oh, that bastard did not just call me ‘sweetheart’. “Make one more sound, and I’ll paint the snow with your pretty little skull.”
The gun doesn’t move. Neither does he, apart from one arm around my waist. He’s too calm for someone holding a weapon.
Too collected. Like he’s done this before.
Like he enjoys it. My heart hammers as he lowers his voice, “You scream, you run, you even breathe wrong, and I swear, sweetheart, no one’s finding enough of you to bury. Now…where is your boss?”
“My boss?” I seethe through clenched teeth. Does he seriously think I’m the help? In this goddamn coat?
“Roman Makarova,” he spits the name like it’s poison.
“He’s not here.”
The gun presses harder, and I gulp.
“Lie to me again, and I’ll—”
“My husband is not home!” I emphasize without hesitation.
Better to let him know exactly who I am and the status I hold. The last thing I want is for him to shoot me and move on, thinking I’m no one important.
The man pauses and…oh, hell, Roman will cut off his hand for this and watch him bleed out while we kick back vodkas. I wince, acid splashing in my throat as the trespasser paws at my chest.
“Nice, very nice.” He cups my left tit, and I almost regret wearing something so low-cut, since he gets a good half-cup handle. “What? Roman’s latest whore playing house?”
“Try his queen, motherfucker,” I snarl, hoping he doesn’t notice how much my hands are trembling. “Now, get your filthy hands off me before I bite your fingers off one by one.”
He lowers his hand—aka future bloodied stump—and spins me around, gun still trained on me.
Young—probably not much older than me—but he’s built like a soldier, all broad shoulders and brute muscle.
A winter cap covers most of his head, but dark curls peek out around his neck.
Rugged. Harshly handsome. Russian to the bone.
“Bloody Christ.”
Everything changes. Shock etches his features. He blinks a few times and scrubs a hand down his face before staring at me again. His brows lower, and his eyes gleam with undeniable lust.
“Well now, the bastard has balls, I’ll give him that.” He chuckles, and the sound twists my insides. “Valentina Volkov herself, Princess of the Alaskan Peninsula.”
Volkov. The name itches at my memory, but I still don’t know it.
“I’m Valentina Makarova,” I insist, raising my chin, head held high.
“Of course you are.” His grin is sadistic. “Kakoye naslazhdeniye.” I don’t know what it means, but I can tell by the way he’s licking his lips. “So, the man of the hour is not here. Do you know when he will return?”
I snort. “He didn’t exactly give me his itinerary.”
“Well then, I’m certain he will make a quick return once he learns I have his prized princess in my possession.”
Great. I’m bait.
“Queen,” I correct him again.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I stare him down with all the feminine savagery. “And what’s to stop me from screaming?”
He tilts his head and cocks the gun. “Live or dead bait, I don’t rightly care, sweetheart. He will come regardless. But it doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun in the meantime. If you’re a good girl, I’ll make sure you’re alive and warm and breathing when he does arrive.”
I try to deflect. “What do you want with Roman?”
He bares his teeth, his eyes turning deadly black. “He has many enemies.”
“That didn’t answer my question.”
“Don’t you even know what your husband does?”
Politics adjacent. Military adjacent.
When I say nothing, my chest throbbing with a painful, familiar ache, he tips his head back and laughs in mockery.
“You will learn soon enough, dorogaya. I will make him pay for the sins he’s committed against me, for the lives he’s taken from me.
But first, I’m looking forward to learning more about you.
The wet dream and envy of every Bratva member. ”
Bratva? I feel all the blood draining from my face.
“Always wanted to fuck a princess,” he says, the gleam in his eye intensifying. “Show me your tits.” He jerks his head toward me, waving the gun.
“No,” I fume, balling my hands into fists.
“I don’t believe you grasp the situation, Valentina. I don’t give a fuck if I mark up that pretty face or if you’re missing your pretty fingers when Roman comes. Be a good girl. Your tits are half out already, sweetheart. Pull down your dress, or I’ll put a bullet in your kneecap.”
My insides are shuddering, and bile simmers in my stomach. But my heart burns hot with fury, rushing the blood back to my cheeks as I tug down my dress and bare my breasts. The icy wind lashes at them, turning my nipples hard as little stones.
I keep envisioning ways I could kill him. He hasn’t seen the blade in my belt yet.
“Christ, fuck!” He exclaims, ogling me. “Best looking rack I’ve ever seen. Now, pull up your dress and show me that wet, little pussy.”
“Oh, trust me, it’s dry as a bone right now,” I spit. “Dry as your bones will be once my husband is done with you.”
“Show me your cunt now, whore,” he growls.
Roman, where are you? I cry inside my mind, wondering if I can manifest him by sheer willpower. I can’t stop my hands from trembling as I lift the ends of my dress and expose my pussy since I’m not wearing underwear. A stipulation of Roman’s. And…I may have waxed for him.
“Come here, slut,” he barks.
It takes all my strength to cross the couple of feet of space. Tears sting my eyes as he jabs the gun at the side of my head while his other hand is free to grope me. I’m tense, completely dry down there as he spits on his other hand and jams two fingers inside, messy and unskilled.
My whole body seizes when he pulls himself out. Oh, God, fucking Russians. He’s nowhere near as long or thick as Roman, but he’s still pretty big.
Digging the barrel in, he orders, “Get down on your knees and suck it like the filthy bitch princess you are.”
I’d rather eat glass than suck his cock. But I’m too determined to survive, too eager to see what Roman will do to him. But as I lower myself to my knees and come within an inch of that cock, a thought crosses my mind. It will have to be quick and lethal. If I can catch him off guard…
I am Valentina fucking Makarova. And this spineless, impotent dumbass is going to be sorry he messed with me.
So, I suck him off like a goddamn bitch, like the best fucking slut he’s ever had.
“Jesus Christ!” he exclaims, tipping his head back as I swirl my tongue all around his cock. “What a hungry whore you are, sweet, little cocksucker. Can’t wait to feel you wrapped around me. Look at those gorgeous tits jiggling. Get it nice and wet, girl. That’s it.”
Oh, I’ll get it wet. Nice and wet.
“Finger yourself,” he says as I bob up and down, rejoicing at my good fortune when he switches the gun to his left hand while his dominant one takes hold of my hair.
I lower one hand to my pussy while slipping the other inside my coat. I go deeper, taking him into my throat, and he tips his head back and puffs out rapid breaths. Now or never.
Quick as a flash, quicker, I grab the blade and thrust it up, up, up—driving it right into his motherfucking ball sac.
The gun drops. I don’t know what’s louder.
The shot ringing out or his bloodcurdling scream piercing the air.
I don’t fucking wait. I don’t fucking run.
I don’t even bother pulling up my dress.
I grab the knife still stuck to his privates.
He’s still screaming when I grab it free, kick him onto the ground, and lunge.
I don’t stop. I can’t stop.
I stab him again, and again, and again—blade sinking into muscle, bone, sinew, until his blood is spurting hot and wet against my skin, painting me in vengeance. My heart slams. My breath’s ragged. Adrenaline screams through me, euphoric and blinding.
He twitches. He gurgles. I keep going. I drive the knife into his hand—his filthy fucking fingers—over and over while sobs and screeches rip from my throat.
He groped me. He touched me. He made me suck him off.
I finish it with a clean slash across his throat, and his blood spills onto the snow like beautiful melted poppies.
A twig snaps.
I freeze, panting, blood dripping down my face, my breasts, my dress, my hands. I look up.
Roman.
Standing at the edge of the cemetery in a black suit, like he just stepped out of a black market boardroom. His golden hair is pulled back into a pristine, low ponytail, not a strand out of place. He looks like a glorious god. I look like a fucking Carrie knockoff.
I glance down at the ruined mess at my feet, then back up at him. “I can explain.”
He starts toward me, slow, one hand clenched at his side, his jaw ticking—
—but there’s a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
I jab a finger at the corpse. “He started it.”