Untamed Hunger (Rogov Bratva #1)

Chapter One

Lauren

I have about five seconds before I’m tackled down by security.

My heart pounds as I duck under a floral arrangement the size of a car and slip inside the estate. A juliet rose petal has transferred onto my dress, and I flick it away with shaking fingers. Classic Bratva. Opting for the most expensive kind of flowers to flaunt all of the blood money they have.

The estate is much bigger than it needs to be. It’s a goddamn fortress and guards stand at each entrance waiting to pounce. They all wear black suits and poker faces, their hands clamped around their guns, itching to use them. Ready to kill.

Crashing this wedding was a mistake. A big one. One I might not make it out alive of. All of the thugs here are three times my size and ready to tear anyone apart without a hint of hesitation. They could simply blow me away if they wanted. Make me disappear and never be seen again.

But I have no choice.

I must save my bestie from the stupidest, most ridiculous mistake of her life.

Sophia and I go back since high school. It was the first day of freshman year and we were both friendless in math class, so we decided to sit together.

We clicked almost immediately. Same sense of humor, same taste in music, same taste in everything that mattered.

By the end of the week, we were inseparable besties and vowed to be the maids of honor at each other’s weddings.

We even practiced our speeches in my bedroom mirror, giggling until our stomachs hurt.

Funny how that’s all turned out.

But this is deeper than a fourteen-year-old girl’s promise. This is about loyalty. About a friendship that’s supposed to last forever.

Sophia and I always dreamed of breaking free from our families and carving out our own lives. As daughter to the all-powerful Charles Watson, those dreams remain dreams for me, but there was a real possibility for her. A chance at freedom.

Emphasis on was.

What sort of life is she going to have with a Bratva ring on her finger? What kind of future awaits her in that world of blood and violence?

Something was off from the start. She only told me about the wedding two days before the date.

Two freaking days.

That’s the sort of thing you tell your bestie as soon as you get engaged, and that didn’t happen either. No excited phone call. No squealing about the proposal. Nothing.

Sophia didn’t even have a boyfriend. She’s always been the type to stay clear of men unless it was something serious.

We used to go to the bar and guys would come up to her, but she’d always turn them away, even the handsome British ones with good hair.

She always told me that boys are a distraction and that she wanted to focus on her career first, working as a nutritionist.

About a year ago, she started her own business, and it blew up.

She always had an eye for it. Sharp instincts, good with people.

On coffee dates, we’d talk about what was going on presently in our lives.

I’d talk about my father’s shady financial transactions, what it’s like to work under him, and Sophia would go off on a tangent about niche topics, like how blueberries and garlic can positively influence a person’s metabolism.

We rarely spoke about men, and that was simply because we rarely entertained them. We had bigger things to focus on.

Then, all of a sudden, two days before the ceremony, Sophia messages me.

She’s getting married.

To Timur Gusev.

The Timur Gusev.

The ruthless Bratva enforces who is probably responsible for my mom’s death.

And I’m here to stop that from happening.

I curl around the wall and observe my surroundings, waiting for the perfect moment to make a move. I must admit, my plan wasn’t very well thought through, but I had to do something. I acted on impulse. I often do. One of my bad traits that has a tendency of getting me into trouble.

Deep trouble.

Like it will do now.

But I’m not backing out. I can’t bear to see another loved one taken away from me again, because of these people. Not Sophia. Not after everything I’ve already lost.

The Bratva are more vicious than birds of prey.

Suited men prance around with high chins and Rolexes, and women in elaborate gowns follow behind them wearing pearl, Cinderella-looking heels.

I make my move.

I exhale a sigh of relief when I successfully make it around the corner. I end up in a hallway that looks like it leads down to a bridal suite, looking at the juliet roses that have been arranged into a flower arch by the door.

Something is seriously wrong.

It’s me and Sophia against the world.

We’re each other’s ride or dies.

So, who the fuck are these bridesmaids?

Anger curses through my veins. I don’t know what to think or feel. Anger that she didn’t tell me about this? Scared, for the same reason, because none of this sits well in my gut? Either way, it’s a disaster waiting to happen.

I tense my jaw and make a run for it, all the way down the bridal suite. That’s when a hand clamps around my wrist.

Shit.

I shove forward, but the grip feels stronger than iron.

I try again.

No good.

Double shit.

Time to face the music.

“Going somewhere?” A deep, guttural voice says.

I spin around and collide with the fucker’s chest. Ouch. Hard as nails. Clearly, the guy never skips a workout. It doesn’t just feel like that. It looks like it too.

Blue eyes cut straight into my soul. They’re piercing.

Navy blue, like the ocean in Miami. Tattoos web around his neck, spreading onto his chest, although I can’t see past his collarbone because of the buttoned-up tailored suit.

I don’t know what any of the tattoos symbolize, but it can’t be anything good.

Especially when I see Russian Cyrillic inked into his skin too.

The man tightens his jaw, popping the cheekbones even more.

Black stubble peppers his cheeks, contouring them.

The lines look freshly trimmed - must be a special occasion for him and his degenerate friends if he made the effort to shave.

Although something tells me he always looks this put together.

He has immaculate posture and stands tall with his shoulders rolled back.

The calculated look makes it feel like I’m being psychoanalyzed.

Or something much worse.

I think about yanking myself free and making a run for it, but this time, it’s not just his grip that locks me in place. It’s his eyes too.

What sort of mind games is this bastard playing?

“I asked you a question.”

The thick, Russian accent ruptures me from my thoughts. “You’re in my way.”

“You’re in my house,” is the response.

I pick my brain for a punchy comeback line, but there isn’t one. Instead, I look at his hands.

The hands of a killer.

I wonder how much damage he’s done with those hands. How many lives he’s taken.

It’s probably best not to think about that, considering how close the two of us are, standing right next to each other. I can feel his breath fanning my face. A mixture of mint, and something masculine I can’t put a finger on.

I gulp. Take a step back.

“You are not supposed to be here.”

“Sophia is my best friend.”

“I don’t care. You were not invited,” he growls.

This turns some heads from people walking by in the lobby. Attention. Great. Just what I need.

I shuffle and run a hand up my bare arm to flatten the goosebumps that seem to have appeared from nowhere.

There’s something about this man’s presence that makes my blood run cold, yet somehow, there’s something exhilarating about that.

Being stuck in an office all day makes the days of the week all blur into one.

The most exciting thing about being Vice President of Portfolio Investment at Watson and Co.

Holdings are the outfits. Apart from that, it’s pretty monotonous.

It’s nice to have an adrenaline rush, I guess.

But I don’t want to push my luck and end up dead at the hands of a guy who makes it his life’s work to kill.

He’s in on the wedding—there’s no doubt about it.

First, there’s the Russian accent—that’s a huge giveaway.

The second is that cold, stoic demeanor that everybody in the Bratva seems to possess.

They are conniving people, there’s no point beating about the bush.

I look at his hand again, still locked around my wrist.

“If you let go of me,” I say, looking up into his eyes. “I’ll shut my mouth and keep the truth to myself.

“The truth?” The man tilts his head. “And what might that be?”

I shrug. “That my best friend is about to marry a monster.”

His ocean eyes continue staring at me like he’s searching beneath my pupils for something. Then, his gaze drops.

I feel air in parts of my body I shouldn’t, so I look down again.

See what he sees.

Shit!

The strap of my dress has slipped past my shoulder, sagging the material. It probably happened when I was trying to break free from his grip. Panicking, I flick the strap back up onto my shoulder, but it’s too late. He’s already seen the breast that was hanging out.

The nipple and everything.

I feel embarrassment crawl up my throat and heat my cheeks.

Oh my God.

As if this day couldn’t get any worse.

“Interesting strategy.” He stares there even after I fold the breast away.

I take the opportunity to bolt, but the hand re-locks around my wrist, and I spring back once more, defeated for the second time today. And if that’s not enough, the force loosens the strap, and it slides down my shoulder again. Thankfully, this time, the nipple remains under the material.

Dammit!

I go to fix the wardrobe malfunction, but the man’s powerful hands lock me in place, rendering me frozen.

I try to shove him away, twist my body in the other direction to loosen the grip, but his strength is unyielding.

I don’t even have time to take a breath before he picks me up and sweeps me away into another room, away from the hallway.

It takes my eyes a minute to adjust.