7. Dean
7
DEAN
C at stands up shakily, her face as red as her ass.
She can’t look me in the eye.
She pulls her panties up from around her knees and smooths down her skirt.
Her hair is a wild halo of black curls. Her skin has never looked more clear and glowing. Her dark lashes lay like twin fans against her freckled cheeks.
Cat has changed since she came to Kingmakers. She used to look weak and childish. But when I felt her body, there was a new firmness to the flesh, a flexible and pliant strength like a gymnast. When I picked her up, she easily wrapped her legs around my waist and held up her own weight while she bounce d up and down on my hand. I doubt she could have done that a year ago.
Her hair is longer than it was. Wilder. I’ve enjoyed telling her how to wear it each day. Enjoyed seeing the slim stalk of her neck when her hair is pulled up in a ponytail or bun. Enjoyed even more the days when it’s loose and wind-blown.
My heart beats like a war drum.
I want to pick her up and throw her down on that bed again.
But I have to pull back for a moment. I have to give her space.
Because I just discovered something very interesting about my timid little kitten.
She has a hunger inside her.
And when she’s hungry, she’ll do anything to eat.
I just gave her a little snack.
If I wait, she’s sure to want more.
Cat is fidgeting in place, unable to speak and embarrassed by the silence. I know she wants to leave, but I’m not done looking at her yet.
I’m fascinated by the dichotomy between her diminutive frame and the ferocity with which she kissed me. Fascinated by her innocent face hiding the depravity that lives inside of her .
Who the fuck is this girl? Who is she really?
“I don’t know what that was,” Cat says awkwardly.
Her tone is half apology, half resentment.
“Yes, you do,” I reply.
Now those dark eyes flit up for just an instant, before dropping again. Cat flushes redder than ever, biting hard on the corner of her lip. Her lips are swollen from kissing, a streak of my blood at the corner of her mouth.
“Cat,” I summon her.
Her eyes rise again without her control, fixed on mine as if mesmerized.
“Go to class on your own tomorrow,” I say.
She looks confused and almost disappointed. She doesn’t know if that’s a punishment or a reward.
I don’t clarify. I just stride over to the door and hold it open so she can leave.
Cat hurries out, without a word of farewell.
I close the door and lock it, before returning to my bed. I lay back against the pillows, staring up at the bare wooden beams of the ceiling .
I slip my hand inside my boxer shorts, gripping the shaft of my rock-hard cock.
I picture Cat’s ass, round and firm, glowing red from spanking, with a distinct handprint from the hardest slap.
I remember the way she squirmed against my thighs and the little shrieks and moans she let out, helpless against the pleasure and the pain.
My hand slides up and down the shaft of my cock, the flesh rigid and hot, the head throbbing as my palm glides over it.
Never in my life have I enjoyed a sexual encounter more, and I didn’t even cum.
I’ve fucked pretty girls. Dozens of them.
But fucking hell, there’s something different about Cat’s tight, petite little frame. The way I can lift and manipulate her so easily, the way I can hold her down with one hand.
I love my control over her.
Even more . . . I love the way she responded.
I wasn’t forcing her. I wasn’t making her do it.
She wanted it. She wanted it just as badly as I did. Maybe even more .
From the first instant that I kissed her, she responded like a little wildcat, feral and starving. She clawed me and bit me, clinging to me like she needed me for life.
And when I touched that wet little pussy, she was putty in my hands.
I lift my hand to my face, inhaling that sweet, musky scent off my fingers. My mouth waters and I lick my fingertips to taste her.
All the while, I’m pumping my cock with my other hand, imagining that Cat is touching it, imagining that I’m thrusting the head between those soft pink lips . . .
The orgasm explodes out of me without warning. Thick, hot cum pours over the back of my hand.
I picture her on her knees before me, begging to lick my fingers clean . . .
For the next week, I leave Cat alone.
It’s extraordinarily difficult, because my craving to take control of her again is almost irresistible.
But I know the same impulse is working on her. If I give her time for the shock and shame of our encounter to fade away, then a ll that will remain is the nagging desire to be touched again . . .
Meanwhile, I’m consumed by two things at once: my fixation on Cat, and my growing obsession with my boxing classes.
I’ve always loved to fight, but I’ve never been trained by a professional on Snow’s level. He sees everything. It can be frustrating, because he detects even the tiniest flaws in my form. But it’s also incredibly rewarding, because whenever I follow his instruction, I improve tremendously.
Our training sessions are long and grueling. I’ve never put my body through so much. Yet I’m becoming faster and stronger by the day, and that’s a fire that fuels itself. I’m greedy. I want more.
Everyone in the class seems motivated by the same desire to take advantage of Snow’s coaching for the single year he’ll be at the school. Leo and Ares work with feverish focus. Ares surprised me last year, when I fought him in Combat class. He almost seemed to be holding back deliberately. Then when he finally lost his temper, he was a far more imposing opponent than I’d guessed.
I hate to admit it, but Leo is likewise talented. It infuriates me that his skill comes without discipline. Still, I’d be lying to myself if I tried to deny his athleticism .
Leo Gallo has been the thorn in my side for as long as I can remember. The tormenting vision of what my life should have been. He has everything I should have had—parents that love him. A safe and happy childhood in Chicago. A network of uncles, aunts, and cousins, and now a baby sister too. And Anna, the only girl I ever admired, wildly in love with him.
I’ve hated him for so long.
Our fathers tried to kill each other. How different things would have been if mine had triumphed.
It’s not the sins of the father that are visited on the head of the son. It’s his failures.
My son will never feel that shame.
I’ll secure an empire for my son, or I’ll have no son at all.
Snow is late to class today, unusual for him. He’s strictly punctual, as a rule.
Ilsa Markov is warming up on the speed bag, muscle standing out on her arms and shoulders. Corbin Castro jumps rope, while Jasper re-wraps his tattooed hands.
Kade Petrov and Tristan Turgenev shadow box against the far wall where all the medieval weapons hang—swords and axes, maces and crossbows, notched and dented on their edges from the battles of centuries past .
“We’ve got weapons like this in the monastery,” Kade says, nodding toward an ornate broadsword. “All sorts of antiques, furniture and rugs, chandeliers and wine barrels . . . it’s a lot like Kingmakers, actually.”
“That’s in St. Petersburg?” Tristan says, puffing as he jabs toward his own shadow on the wall.
“Yup,” Kade says. “I’ve lived there all my life. It’s a huge old place. My brother lives with us, and my father’s men, in their quarters . . .”
“You mean your uncle’s men,” Vanya Antonov says.
He’s sitting cross-legged on a stack of mats with Bodashka and Silas, not warming up, just watching Kade and Tristan.
Kade frowns, tossing back his dark hair.
“It’s the same thing,” he says.
“No it isn’t,” Vanya says, sliding off the mats and standing up. His hands are tucked in the pockets of his gray gym shorts, but the set of his shoulders and the tilt of his jaw is anything but casual. “Ivan Petrov is Pakhan, not your father. Ivan owns that monastery, and all those soldiers. Your father’s just a lieutenant.”
“I never said otherwise,” Kade retorts, patches of color coming into his cheeks. “They’re brothers. ”
“But Ivan’s the eldest,” Vanya says, taking another step toward Kade and dropping his hands to his sides.
“What’s your point?” Tristan says quietly, no longer shadow-boxing.
“My point is that Dominik Petrov came to the meeting in Moscow as if he were boss. He’s been doing a lot of things as if he were boss. Giving orders. Making changes.”
“What the fuck do you know about it?” Kade demands.
“I know your father has been taking money out of the Gazprombank,” Bodashka says to Kade, likewise rising. “A lot of money.”
Bodashka’s father is derzhatel obshchaka in St. Petersburg, head accountant just like my father. He has connections at all the major banks, so Bodashka’s assertion rings with truth.
“Are you making an accusation?” Kade says.
The three older boys have all stood up from the mats now and formed a half-circle around him.
“I’m not the one saying it,” Vanya informs Kade, his voice low and insinuating. “It’s everyone in Moscow. They say your father is overstepping. Doesn’t know his place. Just like Adrik when he was at school, thinking he was an Heir when he’s only an Enforcer. ”
“Don’t talk about my brother,” Kade hisses, tendons standing out in his neck. “Or my father, either.”
“I’ll say whatever I like about them,” Vanya scoffs.
“Leave him alone,” Ares says sharply.
He’s crossed the gym to intervene, which is strange because he generally avoids conflict at all costs, unless Leo Gallo drags him into it. This is the first time I’ve seen Leo tagging along instead, following his typically peaceful friend.
Kade doesn’t appreciate the rescue. He throws Ares an angry look as if he’d prefer him to stay out of it.
“My father is an honorable man,” Kade spits at Vanya. “You know nothing about my family.”
“I know more than you think,” Vanya says, with an air of holding back some secret.
The threat only makes Kade angrier.
“My father has run St. Petersburg flawlessly while Uncle Ivan’s been in America. The business prospers as it never has before. And the dispensaries in America are raining money!”
“Yes, so your father says,” Vanya hisses, his eyes narrowed to slits. “It’s him making the reports, after all . . .”
“If you have something to say, then say it!” Kade cries. “And I’ll break your fucking jaw for you! ”
“All right, I will. I think your father is a lying fucking thie?—”
Kade rushes at Vanya and I run forward at the same moment, intersecting the two before they meet. I put my back to Kade and shove Vanya so hard that he stumbles backward, falling on his ass on the mats.
Instantly, Bodashka and Silas surge forward, as do Leo and Ares.
I find myself in the bizarre position of facing off against my own friends, with my enemies by my side.
The truth is, I like Kade Petrov better than Bodashka, and I fucking despise Vanya and his father, who are conniving rats, always trying to improve their own standing within the Bratva by tearing down those above them.
I only met Dominik Petrov for a moment, but he seemed like a man of honor. Besides, Ivan Petrov is one of the most feared bosses in all the Bratva. He controls the entirety of St. Petersburg, as well as massive holdings in America where he capitalized upon the legalization of marijuana to open seven of the largest dispensaries on the west coast. I highly doubt his brother would be stupid enough to embezzle money from him, or whatever the fuck Vanya’s trying to imply.
“Back off,” I snarl at Vanya. “If the high table has a problem with Dominik Petrov, then they’ll convene a council.”
“They are,” Vanya smirks. “My father is heading it. ”
“Then let them decide if there’s been any malfeasance. It’s not up to you to make accusations.”
“Why are you defending him?” Bodashka says, glaring at Kade. “He and his brother are both the same. Arrogant. Grasping. Above their station.”
“You’re just mad because Adrik beat your brother in the Quartum Bellum three years in a row,” Ares says, staring down Bodashka.
The petty rivalries amongst the Bratva are almost as vicious as those against their foreign foes. There’s antipathy between St. Petersburg and Moscow, between the Paris Bratva and London, and intense jealousy against our brethren in the States.
I’m not familiar with the drama Ares is referencing, but I’m sure he’s right.
It doesn’t matter. I’ve gotten enough shit from the children of Bratva over my own family’s standing. I’m not gonna watch Vanya heap the same abuse on Kade’s shoulders.
“Keep your ignorant opinions to yourself,” I say to Vanya, who has climbed to his feet once more, his handsome features distorted with anger. “It’s none of your concern how the Petrovs run their business.”
“It’s you that should watch yourself, Dmitry,” Vanya sneers. “You ought to learn where to make allies. The Antonovs are rising in Moscow. If you pay your respects, I might find a place for you when Danyl makes me lieutenant.”
I snort. “I’ll find a place for you shining my boots when I earn that spot.”
Vanya opens his mouth to retort, only to be interrupted by Snow clapping his hands sharply, calling the class to order.
“My apologies,” he says. “I was delayed by the Chancellor. I hope you all took the opportunity to warm up, because we’re going directly into drills. Pair up.”
I nod to Kade Petrov. “Want to join me?”
“Sure,” he says, surprised but gratified. I haven’t voluntarily sparred with him before—it’s usually Snow who rotates the more experienced fighters through the younger students.
Snow orders us to grab pads. I slip the targets on my hands so Kade can go first for the drill.
I take him through a jab, hook, cross combo. Kade punches the pads viciously, exorcizing his residual animosity against Vanya.
“Never mind him,” I say to Kade. “He’s a fucking asshole, everyone knows it.”
Kade throws me half a grin. “I thought that’s what everybody says about you . How come you stood up for me? ”
“I may hate everybody, but I hate Vanya the most,” I shrug.
Kade laughs. He hits the pads in combination again, hard enough that my palms sting. His punches are getting cleaner.
“You drop that right shoulder too much,” I tell him.
Kade tries again, this time keeping his shoulder in better alignment. His punch pops the center of the pad with a satisfying thwack.
“You’re a good teacher,” Kade says. “Like Snow.”
“I’m not like him,” I say. “I’d never have the patience to teach a bunch of degenerates.”
Particularly Bodashka and Vanya, who are lazily going through the drill with sullen glares in our direction.
Glancing at Kade again, at his clear, youthful face, I think how passionate he was in defending his father and brother.
“I liked your father,” I tell him. “He was faithful to your mother.”
“He’s always been faithful to her,” Kade says proudly. “And he’s loyal to Ivan. Vanya doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.”
“He never does.” I nod. “If you could capture half the shit that comes out of his mouth, you could fertilize Siberia. ”
Kade laughs. “He wouldn’t dare talk that way if Adrik was here.”
“No, he wouldn’t,” I agree. “You remember he didn’t say fuck-all at the Bolshoi Theater.”
Kade snickers. “He and his father were much too busy with their lips pressed firmly against Abram Balakin’s ass.”
Now I’m the one laughing. “ I brought you one of those cigars you like so much . . . god they suck.”
We’re not talking loudly enough for Vanya to hear, but he sees us laughing. His scowl darkens until he looks like a petulant toddler. A petulant toddler that drew his own eyebrows on with a pen.
A question strikes me that Kade could probably answer.
“Why isn’t Ivan Petrov’s son at Kingmakers?”
Kade shrugs awkwardly. I regret asking—I hadn’t meant to pry into family business.
“He didn’t want to come,” Kade says. “He’s very popular in America. Very . . . you know . . . occupied with his life there.”
“Of course,” I say, nodding.
A common problem when Bratva allow their children to grow up in the wealth and glamor of the states. They get into the playbo y lifestyle, fucking and partying, and they don’t want to learn the business.
Kade and I swap positions, Kade donning the pads so I can take my turn with the drill. I hit the targets harder and faster each round, until Kade is wincing and has to remove the pads to shake out his hands.
“Fuck, you’ve got a hammer for an arm,” he says.
I usually feel annoyed by compliments, because my skill is obvious. Today, however, I simply say, “Thanks.”
“My father says your dad is a brilliant bookkeeper,” Kade says.
“He likes to organize,” I say.
On the page. Not in our fucking house, unfortunately.
I wait, expecting Kade to follow that up with some comment on my father’s appearance. It never fails. People can’t help themselves.
But Kade says nothing at all. He just holds up the pads again, waiting for me to take my next turn.
That blessed silence is the best part of our conversation.
After class, as the students file out, Snow calls, “Dean. Wait a moment. ”
I wait, sweat drying on my skin. It was an intense session.
Snow stands silent with arms folded, until everyone else is gone. Then he says, “You worked hard today.”
I smother the impulse to tell him that I work hard every day.
“Thank you,” I say again.
Look at me, becoming humble and well-mannered. At least for a day.
“You’ve taken Kade Petrov under your wing.”
“I don’t know about that.” I shrug. “I don’t mind sparring with him. He’s not the best in the class, but he’s improving.”
“So are you,” Snow says. “I want you to come here Tuesdays and Thursdays when class is done. I’ll work with you one on one.”
The idea of boxing five days a week is daunting—my back is already knotted up harder than an oak tree from the current sessions. But I understand how valuable a gift Snow is offering me. I don’t think he’s offering it to anyone else.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’d like that.”
“Good.” Snow claps me on the shoulder. His hand is heavy and warm. “Hurry on then, Dean. I don’t want Professor Graves to lock you out again.”
Was that Snow’s version of a joke ?
He’s not smiling. But I’ve yet to see him smile—he may not be capable of it.
“Don’t worry, I’ll run,” I say.
“See you tomorrow.” Snow nods.
I jog across campus with long strides, my body sore but strangely light.