Chapter 10
GAVAN
I have a problem.
My utter control over Eilish was supposed to subjugate her. Humble and humiliate her. Break her . Because as much as I’ve craved and desired her over the last year of prying into her every secret and stalking her like an obsession, I’ve always had to remind myself who she really is:
The enemy. A Kildare. A member of the family who killed mine. A weak pressure point for me to press and squeeze to destroy their empire.
Except my plans have gone askew. My plot has gone astray. And there’s a good chance it all started to go wrong with that single brutal kiss against my office door.
Since then, my master plan to destroy Eilish before casting her back to her family just in time for her to watch me dismantle their kingdom has started to unravel. Having her around is…a distraction. It’s consuming, and it’s addictive.
Part of the rush comes from the power I hold over her, of course. But even more of a thrill is the way she so eagerly submits.
It’s not overt. And she tries to hide it—both from me and from herself. But it’s there.
It's been three days now of having her in my immediate vicinity, in my office.
In her bra and panties, or more recently naked, submitting to my every demand and desire. I’ve fucked her mouth three more times since that first one, and fingered her greedy pussy to orgasm twice as many times as that.
The thing is, it’s not a pathetic or resentful submission. I doubt that would turn me on so much. It’s the fact that she fights me, even when she submits. It’s the defiant fire in her eyes mixed with her eagerness to obey me.
It’s that deep down she wants to. She just doesn’t know how to make peace with that.
The elephant looming in the room is why I haven’t fucked her yet. I’ve come down her throat four times. I’ve even had her grind on my lap, rubbing her needy little cunt all over the underside of my cock until she soaks me with her release.
But I haven’t fucked her.
Part of it is my assumption that she’s a virgin. Which is honestly not something I signed up for or wanted with this. I’ve never wished to be anyone’s first.
There’s too much of my own baggage wrapped up in that concept.
But the other reason I haven’t slept with Eilish yet is purely that I want to deny myself the pleasure until I can’t stand it anymore. I want to ride that dual rush of want and desire until I can’t possibly hold back anymore.
Because when I do dive in and finally have her, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to come back up for air. Before all of this fell into place, yes—I’d have had no problem sullying Eilish, making her my whore, and absolutely ruining her for any other man before casting her away.
But that was before that fucking kiss. Before the rush of adrenaline and roar of something I can’t quite place the first time I tasted the defiance and sweetness on her lips.
Now, I’m not so sure I’ll ever be able to “cast her away” once I’ve had her like that. It’s the same reason I haven’t feasted on her pussy yet.
Just her mouth is already a drug I’m spiraling into addiction with. So are her whimpered little moans and the way she chokes out a gasp when she comes.
Any deeper down the rabbit hole with my little solnishka , and—truthfully—I’m not so sure I’ll ever be able to climb back out again.
But for the time being, I make a valiant attempt to shake Eilish out of my head as I wrap a towel around my waist and step into the warm, steamy fog of the bathhouse on 78 th .
I hear Korol flush the toilet after taking a piss in the changing room behind me.
Soon, he joins me in the steam, also clad in a towel as we move through the empty, tiled rooms toward the back of the place.
Which I own. That’s why it’s empty today.
I like having meetings here with those I trust. It’s secluded, private, and it’s pretty much impossible to bug or otherwise eavesdrop, what with all the steam and humidity dripping down the tiled walls, white with blue Imperialist Russian designs.
Also, having a meeting soaking in a steam room while wrapped in a towel is fucking fantastic . I’m honestly not sure why corporate America hasn’t caught on to this yet.
“Hey, Boss-man,” Korol’s dark brow furrows when I turn to him. “I just got a message from my buddy Pytor. You know, Yuri’s guy.”
I frown. “And?”
“One of Yuri’s shipping tankers just caught fire docked in port, in France. Suspected arson.”
My jaw grits.
Fuck .
“Let me guess…”
Korol nods darkly. “Yeah. The rumor mill says it’s Drazen again.”
Goddammit .
Here we are trying to stop a psycho warmonger like Abram from using Okhrana Soveta to basically turn the High Council into his own personal fucking army. And now the temperature just went up even more.
Fucking great.
I’m still scowling as Korol and I step into the last steam room. From the looks on their faces, I can tell that Ilya and Misha have already heard this little tidbit.
“How bad?” I growl at Ilya.
His eyes flicker with the venomous, brooding edge he’s known for.
“The fire? Not totally terrible, as in no loss of life or merchandise, and the ship itself isn’t even that damaged.
But bad, because it’s thrown a giant spotlight on our operations out of the port of Marseille.
Local authorities that we’ve never even had to pay off because they’re coasting at the job anyway are suddenly swarming all over our shit like flies. ”
Next to him, Misha nods slowly. “I’ve got some connections in the French government. I’ll reach out after we finish up here, see if I can pull some strings and get the rug smoothed back down over all this.”
“Much appreciated,” Ilya sighs.
At well over six feet tall and built like a rugby player, Misha Tsavakov cuts an imposing figure.
The ink covering something like ninety percent of his body certainly doesn’t hurt, either.
I mean, we’re all tattooed—Ilya and Lukas a bit, and Konstantin and I both fairly heavily.
But Misha’s in another league with his body art.
His ink goes from his sharp jawline down to cover every finger and every toe. And yes, I’ve changed with the guy. That ink really does go all the way down.
While not technically from a Bratva family, Misha’s massive empire is firmly entwined with Bratva business.
He’s also got legitimate connections that the rest of us could only dream of.
Misha’s wife, Charlotte Bergdendem, is the crown princess of the small European kingdom of Luxlordia.
This makes our cocky, tattooed friend a literal prince who will one day be an actual King Consort of a nation. Ink and all.
Misha lifts his eyes to me and grins. “Shitty news aside, it’s good to see you, brother. It’s been a while. How’s that crown sitting on your head?”
I roll my eyes as I walk over and shake his hand and then Ilya’s before Korol and I sit down on the slick tile benches diagonally opposite the other guys.
“It’s fine. Easy transition.”
He snickers. “Man, Konstantin’s in for it. I’d take helming the entire Reznikov empire solo any day over wrangling fucking twins . Jesus Christ.”
I grin. “Any second-borns on the horizon for you and Char?”
They’ve got a son, Damien, who’s the same age as Ilya’s son Asher and my niece Luna. Misha’s trademark cocky grin widens and he laughs.
“I mean, we’re practicing a lot…”
I chuckle as Ilya rolls his eyes.
“And yeah, maybe one day. But two at the same time? Sounds like a goddamn nightmare.” He arches a brow at me. “How about you, King Tsarenko. When are you going to settle down with some nice or not-so-nice girl and sow your seed?”
I make a face. Misha chuckles. “What about you, Korol? Any babies on the way?”
“Better fuckin’ not be,” Korol mutters, his face paling a little.
Misha roars with laughter before he sighs heavily, raising his eyes back to me. “As much as I’m loving this conversation, you probably want to talk business.”
“I want both,” I shrug. “Which is why I have business meetings in a bathhouse.”
“You might be on to something,” Ilya smirks.
Misha clears his throat as he sprawls back against the heated tile wall, a heavy cloud of steam swirling around his grooved, inked muscles.
“So… I talked to Kristoff last night about your concerns with Anastasia Javanovi?. They’re not close or anything, but he knows her slightly, and he knew her father as well.
According to Kristoff, there’s not a lot of love lost between the Javanovi? and Diduch families.
Some bad blood from way back or something, I guess.
When he was still running the Diduch family, Olek Domitrovich heavily lobbied against Anastasia’s father, Branko, joining the High Council at all.
His nephew voting in favor of Ana joining once she was running things apparently came out of left field. ”
My brow furrows. “Are either of you aware of any dealings between Diduch and Javanovi??”
“Nope.” Ilya shakes his head. I know for a fact that his uncle Yuri takes meticulous note of who in our world does business with whom. So if Ilya says no, it’s probably accurate.
“I’m not gonna lie,” Misha says. “I’ve occasionally done some clandestine stuff to stay off Yuri’s radar,” he grins a lopsided grin at Ilya. “No offense.”
“None taken. He knows about those ‘clandestine’ deals anyway, for what it’s worth.”
Misha scowls. “Really?”
“Really.”
I suck on my teeth, eager to steer the subject back to the Javanovi? question. “So why the fuck is Anastasia siding with a family she doesn’t do business with, and even has a bad family history with?”
Misha shrugs. “Maybe they’re fucking.”
I make a face. “Doubt it. Ana’s a badass. Abram’s a—”
“Whiny little douchebag?” Ilya breaks in. “Yeah, I don’t see that either. Could be she’s in bed with Demyan Ozerov? Literally or otherwise?”
I shake my head. “Also seriously doubtful.”
“Still,” Ilya frowns. “I’ll have some of our top spies tail them both for a while, see if there’s any overlap. I doubt it too, but can’t think what else would make sense.”