Owned By the Bratva Christmas Devil (Bratva Christmas Obsessions #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Elena

The entire world contracted to the greedy slide of his cock inside me. My head was forced back against the pillow, fingers digging deep into his rock-hard shoulder muscles. He thrust with a savage rhythm, as if determined to shatter me.

"Fuck, Elena, you're so damn tight!" His voice was low and magnetic, laced with that faint Russian accent that still twisted my insides. He slammed into me, his full balls slapping against my skin, our bodies producing wet, filthy smacks. Even the cheap bed frame creaked in protest.

As if he hadn't fucked me nearly enough, he suddenly scooped me up, spun around, and sat on the edge of the bed. I straddled him, my legs wrapping tightly around his solid waist. This position drove him even deeper, hitting my sensitive spot and making me feel completely under his control.

His chest heaved, sweat outlining the bold double-headed eagle tattoo. My fingertips traced those dark lines without thinking. I remembered the first time I'd seen it—I'd secretly Googled it. The results screamed Bratva, the Russian mafia symbol. My heart had nearly burst from my chest.

But I'd never actually asked him about it.

Just like I'd never questioned his wealth, his last name, the men in black suits who chauffeured him, or why, in our nearly six months together, I'd never met a single friend or family member.

Whenever I tried to broach those topics, a wall would shoot up, shutting me out.

If I were foolish enough to ask while wrapped around him, he'd just change his rhythm, claiming me harder and deeper until my questions melted into mindless moans.

He was an expert at making me forget everything but him.

A hiss escaped me—pain stung my left breast as he bit my nipple.

"Not paying attention?" His hips stilled along with his words.

I felt the sudden loss of his movement, a whimper slipping from my lips. He grabbed my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.

God, that face! No matter how many times I'd seen it, his handsomeness still stunned me. A masterpiece of sharp angles and seasoned beauty, tensed with focus. High cheekbones, a perfect Greek nose, a strong jawline, and those deep green eyes that darkened when danger loomed.

"Elena." He nipped at my ear, savoring my name like something precious. "What are you thinking about?"

What should I tell him? That I was pondering the questions he never answered?

"Maybe I'm just tired lately, Igor," I panted. "Christmas is coming, and the guests at the Winter Palace Hotel are triple the usual..."

His lips brushed my cheek. "I told you I'd pay off those debts. You could quit that shitty job and apply for that art course you mentioned."

The offer hung between us, as always. Two hundred grand—my late parents' medical bills, a mountain pressing down on my twenty-year-old shoulders. To Igor, it might just be a simple number, but accepting his handout felt like admitting defeat.

"I can't, Igor. We've talked about this." My fingers threaded through his dark brown curls, so soft they seemed out of place on such a dangerous, steady man.

"There's nothing to discuss." He lifted his head, that breathtaking face inches from mine. "You're too stubborn."

"Maybe I just want to earn my way to deserve you." The words slipped out, and I regretted them instantly. Too raw, too exposing of my insecurities.

"Deserve me?" he echoed, his expression unreadable.

I kissed him, not wanting to hear any comforting lies.

I knew the gaps between us went beyond age.

He drove a half-million-dollar Bentley while I scrimped for next month's rent.

The restaurants he took me to cost a month's wages in one meal.

I wanted to bridge that distance on my own, to stand beside him as more than just a charity case, even if it seemed laughably impossible.

"Thanks for picking me up from work tonight," I murmured against his lips.

He arched a brow—that damn sexy move. "Don't I do that almost every night?"

"You should see my coworkers' stares. They'd strip you naked if they could." I teased lightly. "Susan asked yesterday if I'd put some spell on you."

"Yeah?" His fingers trailed down my spine, sending shivers through me. "Did you tell her?"

"Tell her what?"

"That you're the one under my spell." He bit my collarbone.

I wanted to argue, but he chose that moment to thrust upward hard, pumping deep. All reason shattered into moans. My nails raked his back, leaving new marks on scars I didn't dare examine closely.

When climax hit, I cried out his name. As always, he said nothing, just buried his face in my neck, his body taut as a drawn bow.

Afterward, we cuddled close. His arm encircled my waist, protective yet possessive.

My head rested on his chest, ear pressed to his steady, powerful heartbeat.

In these moments, his invisible walls seemed to soften a little, letting me pretend we were just a normal couple, that I could step deeper into his world.

"Tell me something about yourself," I whispered, just for us. "Anything."

His body went rigid. The hand stroking my hair paused for a few seconds. That familiar defense snapped into place. I'd seen it countless times—whenever I edged toward his past, he shut down.

"You know everything you need to," he finally said, his voice hard as polished stone.

"I know your favorite brand of booze, that you hate jazz, and you insist on sleeping on the left side of the bed." I lifted my head, meeting his eyes. "But nothing real, Igor. Not a single thing."

Frustration left a bitter taste on my tongue.

"All you need to know is that I'm here." His tone turned icy, that distancing chill pulling us apart. "You belong to me. That's enough."

I didn't respond right away. The night outside seemed to press down heavier, moonlight filtering through the window in an icy blue haze.

"Christmas is coming," I tried a new angle to break through. "Don't you want to introduce me to your family? Or friends?"

This silence stretched on forever, long enough that I thought he wouldn't answer. The air felt thick, broken only by the soft rustle of curtains in the night breeze.

"My world isn't ready for you yet," he finally said, like handing down a verdict.

"What? Then why do you even—"

His phone rang, its shrill tone tearing through the quiet night and ending our fruitless conversation. His eyes sharpened as he glanced at the screen. Without hesitation, he released me and sat up.

"I have to take this."

His tone left no room for argument. I watched him pad barefoot to the bathroom. The door shut behind him, but the thin wood couldn't muffle the sound. I heard his lowered voice clearly.

"...I'll be on time..."

"...Tell him not to worry..."

My stomach twisted into a painful knot. This was his routine: secret calls answered immediately, away from my sight, followed by sudden departures. We'd been together nearly six months, but in this relationship, I was always just a visitor—allowed into his bed, but never his world.

My hand reached instinctively for my phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up. My e-pal, M, was online.

We'd met a year ago on a philosophy forum, becoming unlikely pen pals. She was cynical almost to the point of cruelty, brutally honest in a way that sometimes stung, but that's why she was one of the few people I could confide in about this relationship.

Me: [Hypothetically, if you've been with someone six months, he's perfect in every way, but he won't talk about his past or family... what does that mean?]

Her reply popped up almost instantly, as if she lived on the other side of the world where my night was her day.

M: [Not hypothetical—it's your reality, right?

Possibilities: 1. Spy/assassin/working for some shady government agency, identity classified.

2. Ashamed of his family—maybe they live in a trailer park, all addicts.

3. He's got a wife and kids stashed somewhere, and you're the side piece.

4. Alien. If you ask me, it's number three. ]

My breath caught.

Me: [Don't joke.]

M: [Darling, a mysterious man who won't introduce you to anyone. Isn't it obvious?]

The bathroom door swung open. I reacted on instinct—my fingers swiped the screen off, and I pretended to fuss with the sheets as if nothing had happened.

"What's wrong? You look pale." Igor's gaze swept over me, brows furrowing. He'd pulled on black pants and was buttoning his shirt with those long fingers. His tall frame was imposing, muscles honed by years making him look like a living sculpture.

"Nothing," I lied, forcing a light tone. "Just tired."

He nodded, but his eyes clearly said he didn't believe a word. That penetrating stare left me feeling exposed.

"I have to step out. Urgent business." He headed to the coat rack, movements crisp and efficient.

"Out?" My heart plunged into icy depths. "Igor, it's almost midnight. What could be so important right now?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he leaned over the bed and claimed my lips in a dominant, unrelenting kiss. It offered no explanation—just a clear declaration that the conversation was over, no discussion allowed.

"Don't wait up," he said, shrugging on his black suit jacket.

"When will you be back?" My voice carried a plea I could hear myself.

He paused at the door, standing tall and straight, but he didn't turn. "Go to sleep, Elena."

The door clicked shut, echoing in the silent apartment. I slipped on a nightgown and padded barefoot to the window. The street below was shrouded in New York's December night, with only sparse streetlamps casting dim yellow glows.

Minutes later, Igor's black Bentley pulled out from its spot. I watched the expensive car glide into the darkness in a perfect arc, its taillights like two crimson eyes flickering in the cold night before fading away.

My phone buzzed again.

M: [You there? Look, I'm not trying to scare you. But if he really has a family, protect yourself. Wives who find out about mistresses... You can imagine how vicious they can be?]

I didn't reply. I turned off the screen, not wanting to see any more words.

I took a deep breath, trying to sort my thoughts. I knew a man like Igor—at thirty-eight—had likely had countless women. His past hid something. But a wife? No, I couldn't believe that. The way he looked at me, the heat of his touch—it couldn't all be a lie.

But then why? Why leave at midnight? Why stay silent about his past? Why, after nearly six months together, did I still not even know where he lived?

I shuffled back to the bed and collapsed onto it. His scent lingered on the pillow—a mix of cedar and raw masculine edge. I hugged it tightly, curling into a small ball.

Outside, snow began to fall. Flakes danced in the night wind, while Christmas lights from the building across the street blurred in the misty glow—red, green, and gold twinkling alternately.

Christmas was approaching. It should have been the warmest, most joyful time of winter, but I'd never felt so lonely or cold.

I sat up and pulled the rarely worn necklace from the nightstand drawer. A swan pendant glittered with crushed diamonds. It was Igor's gift from a month ago, exquisite and beautiful.

"Because you remind me of a swan," he'd said in that deep voice. "Beautiful, pure."

His words had touched me so deeply I'd been speechless. So I kept it stashed away, afraid of damaging it, treasuring it like a precious secret.

Now, my fingertip brushed the swan's wings. I suddenly recalled a biology fact: swans mate for life, with only one partner forever.

But what if your mate already belonged to someone else? The thought struck like ice water, extinguishing the last bit of warmth in my heart.

I closed my eyes, trying to force the thoughts away, but they only grew more insistent. Where was Igor now? Who was he with? Had that woman received similar exquisite gifts? Heard the same sweet words? Was everything that made me feel special just his well-worn routine?

The night deepened, the snow falling thicker outside. And I lay there, chewing on the bitter taste of despair.