Sold to the Bratva Devil (Valentine’s Forbidden Deals #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Anthea

"No... Not so deep... Please, Silas!"

I arched my head back, fingers clutching the silk sheets so hard my knuckles turned white. The pleasure was overwhelming—brutal, almost enough to break me.

Silas Thorne didn't stop. His face was buried between my thighs like a top-tier predator finally allowed to feed.

His tongue was rough, insistent, every drag across my most sensitive flesh lighting my nerve endings on fire.

And those two long fingers that had driven deep inside me were merciless—calloused fingertips grinding, curling, digging against my inner walls like he was hunting for the exact spot that would shatter me.

"No..." I sobbed.

The intense, aching fullness made me instinctively try to squirm away, but the iron grip of his hands on my upper thighs pinned me in place. I couldn't move an inch.

I was his prisoner. On this bed. In this opulent estate.

Finally, he pulled back, not because of my begging, but because he'd decided to switch tactics.

He lifted his head. The dim, amber wall sconces caught the glossy sheen on his lips and chin, making him look wicked and devastatingly hot at the same time. Those predator eyes raked over my body, slow and evaluating.

"You're saying no?" His voice came out rough, still thick with lust. "But the outfit you chose says something very different, Anthea."

I turned my face away in shame.

The pathetic black lace thong had been ripped apart and tossed God-knows-where long ago. Right now, my lower half was completely bare, thighs forced wide and shameless in front of him. Up top, I was still wearing the cheap lingerie set I'd ordered online.

Black lace hugged my ribcage but had obscene cutouts right at the nipples. My pregnancy-swollen, dark-red peaks stood stiff in the cool air, practically begging to be tasted. Worse, the open-front hem had been designed to frame and display my rounded belly.

It covered everything that didn't need covering and exposed everything that should have stayed hidden.

"You wore this on purpose to tease me," he concluded. His thumb brushed over one exposed nipple, sending a sharp, stinging jolt of electricity through me. "Is this your way of reminding me it's Valentine's Day? Or reminding me there's a Thorne heir in that belly, so I'm supposed to go easy on you?"

I moaned, unable to argue. Yes. I'd put it on deliberately. Because today was Valentine's Day.

Even if I was nothing more than collateral, a walking womb bought to settle a huge debt, I'd still hoped, pathetically, to get a scrap of attention from this cold-blooded Bratva heir on the one day of the year that sells romance.

"Take it off," he ordered.

But before my shaking fingers could reach the straps, his hands were already there. One sharp rip and the last scrap of fabric was gone.

His gaze dropped to my chest. Eight months pregnant, my body had changed dramatically. Breasts that used to fit perfectly in his palms were now heavy, full.

"Bigger," he murmured, tone unreadable, maybe appreciation, maybe judgment. "Heavier."

Then he dipped his head and took one into his mouth. Tongue swirling over the swollen areola, sucking hard. Wet, obscene sucking sounds filled the room.

"Mmm…" Electricity shot down my spine. I arched, shamelessly pushing more of my breast into his mouth.

This felt so surreal. Ten months ago, I was stressing over tomorrow's lesson plans, grading middle-school essays. Now I was sprawled on a mafia heir's bed, belly round and ripe, letting him use me however he wanted.

"You're mine," he growled against my skin as that massive, rock-hard length slowly, cruelly sank back inside me, stretching me to the limit. "Every inch. Including that womb."

I couldn't argue. I could only moan while my fingers blindly traced the jagged scars crisscrossing his back. The black ink on his bronze chest and abs shifted with every brutal thrust, the tattoos seeming to come alive as they devoured me.

"Look at me, Anthea."

I lifted my head and crashed into those eyes, storm-gray, bottomless.

God, he was gorgeous. The low light carved out the sharp angles of his face. Damp strands of dark brown hair clung to his forehead. Even in the middle of raw, animalistic sex, he radiated that suffocating, innate dominance.

"Silas," I whispered his name without thinking.

This man was usually ice-cold, transactional, emotionless.

But right now, every muscle in his body was strung tight, sweat dripping from his temples onto my collarbone, scalding.

He braced himself above me, careful not to put weight on my stomach.

That tiny thread of restraint at the edge of his control made me feel… cherished.

It wasn't supposed to feel like this. We weren't supposed to have this.

I was the auction-block collateral my father used to clear his two-million-dollar gambling debt. A rented uterus. Yet somehow, in all the little details, I kept reading tenderness. And that was why I'd fallen like an idiot.

He kept changing the rhythm, deep, shallow, deep, dragging me through orgasm after orgasm until I lost count.

Finally, he pulled out with a low grunt and came hard across my belly.

When it was over, the room held nothing but our ragged breathing, his crisp cedarwood scent mixing with the raw musk of sex.

Silas gathered me against him, lazy and sated, propped against the headboard. His arms stretched out, biceps still carved even at rest. I curled into the crook of his shoulder, soaking up the afterglow.

"What do you want to name him?" I asked softly, unable to stop myself even though I knew better.

To my surprise, he didn't snap at me. He looked down and said, "You get to decide. You're his mother."

Without the usual violence masking him, he actually looked… calm.

"I was thinking Olei," I whispered, hand drifting to my belly. "It means happiness will stay with him his whole life."

Silas's father, the Bratva Pakhan, took the bloodline extremely seriously. I'd had monthly ultrasounds. I already knew we were having a boy.

The baby kicked once, as if answering me. Silas's gaze slid from my face to the swell of my stomach.

"Olei," he repeated in that low, rolling Russian accent. "Good name."

My eyes widened. For a Thorne heir, "happiness" was a frivolous, weak word—something to be mocked. I'd braced for him to laugh at how naive it sounded.

But he didn't. Instead, he reached over and covered my hand with his big, rough one. For one absurd second, we felt like a real couple on Valentine's night, quietly waiting for their baby together.

Then Silas suddenly moved. That tall, powerful body left the bed. A pang of loss hit me instantly.

He rummaged in the nightstand drawer, metal and wood clinking. When he turned back, he held a deep-red velvet box. My heart stuttered.

He sat on the edge of the mattress and opened it.

Inside was a breathtaking rose-gold diamond ring—a pear-shaped center stone surrounded by a halo of smaller pink diamonds. Stunning. And obviously obscenely expensive.

"This is…" My throat closed up.

"Hand."

I extended my left hand, trembling, eyes stinging.

Oh my God—he was giving me a Valentine's ring.

Even though I'd told myself a thousand times this was just business, just a contract to keep my father alive, right now my brain was collapsing.

I let myself believe, for one stupid heartbeat, that he might actually love me.

He took my ring finger and tried to slide it on.

It stuck. Hard. Pregnancy swelling had made my knuckles thicker; the ring wouldn't go past the joint.

Reality crashed in like ice water. Even the ring was rejecting me. Of course it was.

I tried to pull back, cheeks burning. "Sorry, the doctor said it's just edema. Water retention."

Silas didn't let go. He studied the stuck ring, brow creasing slightly.

"Hold still."

He tugged it free. I waited for him to snap the box shut, toss it back in the drawer, maybe throw in a cruel remark about my delusions.

Instead, he grabbed a thin silver chain from the drawer, threaded the ring onto it with quick, practiced movements, then leaned in. His arms came around my neck.

His warm breath ghosted my ear, patient in a way that felt like poison.

A tiny click. The ring settled heavy and cool against my chest, resting right between my breasts.

"Wear it like this then," he said. "Valentine's gift. I figured the swelling might be an issue, so I got the chain ready."

His words were still clipped, but I heard what he wasn't saying.

Desire, emotional this time, not just physical, flooded me again. I needed to know this tenderness wasn't imaginary.

I leaned up and kissed his jaw, awkward because he never liked mouth kisses. His stubble scraped my lips. I didn't care.

"One more time, Silas." My voice came out shameless. I pushed at his shoulders. "I want you."

One dark brow lifted. Amused, he let himself sink back against the headboard.

I took a shaky breath and straddled him. The position forced me to face my own swollen belly and his intense stare. I probably looked ridiculous. But the heat in his eyes gave me courage.

I gripped him, still slick and hard, and slowly sank down.

"Fuck…" we both groaned at the same time.

I started moving, rolling my hips, controlling the depth, the angle. The control made my scalp tingle. Silas clearly loved the view. His big hands immediately claimed my breasts, squeezing, kneading, thumbs flicking the sensitive tips.

"Ride me, Anthea," he rasped, fingers digging in like he wanted to milk me.

Pleasure built in crashing waves. I moved faster, sweat slicking my skin, vision blurring. I was so close—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Silas froze.

"Sir," came Maria, the housekeeper's tense voice through the door. "Miss Zaitseva is back from Europe. She and the Pakhan are waiting in the living room."

In a heartbeat, the man who'd been buried inside me turned ice-cold. He gripped my hips and lifted me off him without ceremony.

The sudden emptiness ripped a startled cry from my throat. I watched him roll out of bed, back to me, already reaching for his shirt.

"Silas?" My voice cracked.

He didn't turn around. Just kept buttoning.

"Stay in the room," he said flatly. "You don't leave without my permission."

"Why?" The question burst out before I could stop it, the most dangerous question someone in my position could ask.

"It's an order, Anthea."

He finally glanced back. No trace of desire left. Just cold, absolute control.

Then he was gone.

The door closed with a heavy click.

Maria's voice murmured something obedient in the hallway.

Alone in the huge room, the silence pressed in. Outside, the wind howled.

My body cooled. My brain started working again. Zaitseva.

I crawled off the bed on shaky legs, grabbed my old phone from the dresser—the one they monitored but still let me use for "approved" browsing.

Fingers trembling, I typed his name and Zaitseva.

The results loaded instantly.

Photos. Red carpet. Galas. Her arm looped through his.

Stunning red curls. Sultry eyes. Designer gown. She looked like she belonged on his arm.

Headlines screamed:

"Silas Thorne's childhood sweetheart. Vanessa Zaitseva returns from London—wedding bells soon?"

"The only woman worthy of the Thorne name. Why has Silas waited three years?"

"Waited three years…"

Articles gushed about their perfect match—old money, power, shared history. Rumors said he'd delayed the engagement announcement so she could chase her art career in Europe.

Romantic. Noble. Perfect.

Every word felt like a slap.

I was never even a mistress.

I was just the rented surrogate. The placeholder womb.

Perhaps I was here only because Vanessa was studying abroad and was temporarily unable to have children.

Is that so?

Tears hit the screen, smearing her smiling face.