Vendetta Crown (Dragunov Bratva #2)

1. Aurora

1

AURORA

Sunset bleeds across the desert sky, painting everything in shades of orange and crimson that remind me of blood as the sun dips behind the San Gabriel mountains.

We've been driving for nearly four hours with the hum of the engine and Kristofer's occasional grunts the only sounds between us.

I keep my face neutral, even as my heart races. My hands rest in my lap, where I've been twisting Liliya's ring back and forth. The diamond catches the dying light, a tiny sparkle of hope I'm desperately clinging to.

We should have turned onto I-40 at Barstow , I think, if we were really headed to Kansas City .

But we're still on I-15, driving deeper into the desert. What happens when night falls completely? When we need to stop?

My stomach churns at the possibilities. Will he force himself on me tonight? Will it be in some cheap motel room with paper-thin walls where no one will respond to my screams? Or will it be right here in this car, pulled over on some abandoned stretch of highway where no-one will see us?

I clench my fists, digging my nails into my palms until it hurts. The pain grounds me and keeps me from spiraling.

"Relax, Jamie." Kristofer's hand lands on my knee, and it takes everything in me not to flinch away. "We've still got a long drive ahead of us."

"What are you going to do to me?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.

His fingers find my knee and give it a slow squeeze. "We need to make a stop in Vegas first."

My blood turns to ice. Vegas .

No witnesses, no questions. And plenty of cheap seedy motel rooms where he can?—

Stop it! I scream silently.

"I'll make an honest woman of you yet, Jamie," he continues, his voice sing-song cheerful like we're discussing a picnic instead of my worst nightmare. "There are chapels all along the Strip. They do weddings 24/7, no waiting period, no questions asked."

"I'm already married." The words escape before I can stop them.

Kristofer's face darkens. His fingers dig into my knee painfully.

"Aurora Castellanos is married," he spits. "Jamie Fields isn't."

Kristofer shifts in his seat, his eyes flicking between the road and my face. The smile that spreads across his lips makes my skin crawl.

"And once we're married, Jamie." His hand finds mine again, and he strokes his thumb across my knuckles. "We'll have ourselves a proper honeymoon. Couple days in Vegas. Just you and me."

His eyes drop to Liliya's ring, and he lifts my hand to examine it closer, nearly swerving into the oncoming lane in the process.

"It's a good thing that Russian thug gave you something worth having after all." He whistles. "That's at least fifteen grand right there. Maybe twenty. We'll pawn it after we get married."

I feel sick at the thought of Liliya's ring, the symbol of everything Ruslan and I promised each other, being traded for cash at some seedy pawn shop.

"With that money, I'll buy you all the dresses you want," Kristofer continues. "You always did look so pretty in blue. Remember that dress you wore to prom? The one with the low back?" He licks his lips. "I'll get you something like that."

My stomach turns as he narrates his fantasy.

"We'll see all the shows. Cirque du Soleil. Maybe some magic show. During the day, we can lounge by the pool. Get you a tan." His hand tightens on mine. "And at night, well... with the money this ring will get us, we can book a suite with a view of the Strip, and I'll make love to you until morning, Jamie."

I yank my hand away, unable to hold back the wave of revulsion that washes over me.

"You think I'll pretend that I want any of this?" I hiss. "I'd rather die."

The cheerful mask slips from his face, revealing something dark and dangerous underneath. His jaw tightens, his eyes cold.

"Yeah?" He jerks the wheel, and the car swerves onto the shoulder, gravel crunching under the tires as we skid to a stop.

He turns to me, and his sausage-like fingers grab my chin roughly.

"Here's the deal, Jamie. Either you play nice and we have ourselves a romantic honeymoon in Vegas." His fingers dig into my skin as he leans closer, breath hot on my face. "Or I drag you out this car, bend you over the hood, and fuck you bloody on the side of the road. What's it gonna be? Don't make me do something I don't want."

I recognize the words instantly. That disgusting mantra from my nightmares, slightly twisted.

Look what you made me do.

I stare at the dashboard, calculating my options. The car's still running. There are no other vehicles on this stretch of road. Even if I manage to open my door and get out, I'm in the middle of nowhere.

He'd catch me before I got fifty feet.

"I'll play along," I whisper, the words bitter on my tongue. "I'll be nice."

The transformation is instant. Like flipping a switch, his entire demeanor changes. The murderous glint in his eyes vanishes, replaced by that boyish enthusiasm that fooled me when I was seventeen.

"That's my good girl." His grip on my chin softens to a caress. "See? Isn't it better when we're nice to each other?"

Before I can respond, his mouth is on mine, wet and demanding. I keep my teeth clenched shut as his tongue probes against my lips, trying to force its way in. His meaty hand gropes my breast painfully.

When I don't open for him, he pulls back. For a split second, I see confusion in his eyes.

The mask slips again.

His hand rises.

The slap lands hard against my cheek and snaps my head to the side. Pain explodes across my face, and I taste blood where my teeth cut into my inner cheek.

"You fucking whore," he spits. "That's what you are now, isn't it? Ruslan Dragunov's whore?"

He jerks the car back onto the highway, tires screeching as we accelerate.

"You think I don't know what he did to you? What you let him do?" He's gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles are white. "If you want me to play rough, Jamie, I'll play rough. I'll fuck you like the filthy whore you've become. All night. Until morning. Until you fucking bleed all over the fucking sheets if that's what it takes for you to forget about him!"

He glances at me, eyes wild. "You're mine now. You understand? Mine!"

I raise my hand to my cheek, fingers trembling as they meet the hot, tender skin where his palm connected. The sting spreads like wildfire across my face. I can only nod, mute with fear and self-preservation.

Kristofer's still ranting, his words washing over me in waves of hatred and possession.

"...always belonged with me. Not with that Russian piece of shit. He can't protect you. Just like your parents couldn't..."

My mind detaches from his tirade, searching desperately for options. Vegas. We're going to Vegas. Once we're there, there'll be people around. Maybe I can lose myself in a crowd.

But he'll never let go of my arm, I think. He'll drag me down the Strip if he has to.

The highway signs flash by, illuminated in our headlights. Las Vegas: 87 miles.

Less than two hours and we'll be surrounded by neon lights and slot machines. Two hours until a window of opportunity opens. If there even is one.

Maybe I can create a scene at the chapel? No… Nobody would care.

This is Vegas. They'll have seen it all. A bride with cold feet wouldn't raise any eyebrows.

Something nags at the back of my mind about Vegas. Why does it not feel like a dead end? Why does it feel like there's someone there who might be able to help me? A name hovers at the edge of my consciousness, teasing me with the possibility of salvation.

But for the life of me, I can't recall it.

An hour later, Kristofer takes the exit ramp, the car slowing as we merge onto the road that leads straight to the Strip. The lights of Vegas glow on the horizon, a false beacon of hope in the darkness.

I close my eyes, trying to calm my racing heart. There must be someone, anyone , in Vegas who can help me escape this nightmare.

"You better have that resting bitch face fixed by the time we get there," Kristofer growls, glancing sideways at me. "I want you smiling for our wedding."

Then a memory strikes me.

At my wedding—my real wedding—Gregor Belov pointed to a severe-looking man with a permanent scowl etched into his face and his young wife with shoulders curved inward like a wilting flower.

" Vyacheslav Potyomkin ," Gregor whispers in my memory. " The lord of Las Vegas ."

The name surfaces in my mind like a buoy in a storm-tossed sea, throwing me a lifeline when I thought all hope was gone.

I stare out the window as the neon lights of Vegas grow closer, the casinos on the Strip silhouetted against the night sky, as thoughts turn in my head.

Vyacheslav might help me.

Not out of kindness, I'm not na?ve enough to believe that, but out of respect. I'm still Ruslan Dragunov's wife. I'm still a pakhan's wife.

That has to count for something in this world.

Anything's better than being chained to Kristofer.

The car slows as more cars start appearing.

Vyacheslav would own businesses in Vegas, I'm sure of it. Hotels. Casinos. Clubs. But which ones? And how do I find him without tipping Kristofer off?

My heart hammers in my chest as I formulate a plan.

"Kristofer, dear?" I turn to him, forcing myself to sound meek. "Can I use your phone?"

His eyes narrow with suspicion. "Why?"

I swallow hard. "I want to look for hotels. Find the one with the prettiest views." I force a small smile that makes my bruised cheek throb. "Ones that we can look at together while you make love to me."

The words taste like acid in my mouth. But I have to say them.

I have to make him believe me.

His expression softens slightly, but he's not completely convinced. "You're not trying to call anyone?"

"Who would I call?" I laugh, a hollow, broken sound. "Everyone I care about is dead."

This seems to satisfy him. He pulls out his phone, unlocks it with his thumbprint, and hands it to me.

"No funny business," he warns, eyes flicking between me and the road. "Just hotel websites."

I nod, already opening the browser on incognito mode. My fingers tremble as I type: Vyacheslav Potyomkin Las Vegas

The search results load, and there it is. The first link: Potyomkin Enterprises: Luxury Hospitality Group . I click through, scanning the page.

A portfolio of high-end properties across Las Vegas. I check one after another, looking for one on the Strip.

Neva Gardens Hotel, Winter Palace Club, Siberian Oasis, Czarina's Retreat.

There!

The Hermitage Casino & Resort.

And it's right on the Strip.

"Find anything good?" His hand lands on my thigh, and squeezes so hard that I wince from pain.

"The Hermitage Casino & Resort looks perfect," I tell him, scrolling through photos of impossibly lavish suites with floor-to-ceiling windows. "The view of the Strip is beautiful, especially at night."

My voice sounds convincing even to my own ears, despite the throbbing pain radiating across my cheek.

"I can book us a room right now if you want." I tap the reservation button, heart racing.

"Do it." Kristofer grins, reaching into his back pocket with one hand while keeping the other firmly on the wheel.

"Here." He tosses his wallet in my lap. "Use my card."

I open his wallet, fingers trembling slightly as I pull out a credit card. "This might be a bit expensive."

"Doesn't matter." Kristofer's eyes gleam in the dashboard lights. "Ruslan Dragunov's paying for it, remember?"

My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. When this is over, you piece of shit, I swear to God I'll make you pay for everything you've done.

I enter the credit card details, selecting the penthouse suite. Under the special requests section, I quickly type: "Tell Mr. Potyomkin that Ruslan Dragunov's wife is being brought here, and she needs his help."

I hit submit before Kristofer can see, and feel a small measure of relief when I see the confirmation screen load with the reservation number.

"All done." I hand the phone back to him, forcing a smile despite my cheek screaming in pain. "I can't wait."

Kristofer's hand creeps higher up my thigh, his fingers digging painfully into the soft flesh. The low, guttural moan escapes his throat as he crushes the flesh under his touch before pulling back is nauseating.

"Seven years, Jamie," he groans, his eyes clouding with lust as he glances at me. "I've been waiting seven fucking years for you."

I take a deep breath, pushing down the revulsion threatening to choke me.

"Shouldn't we go to the hotel first?" I ask, keeping my voice light, "I'd like to freshen up a bit before the wedding."

His eyes narrow, suspicion darkening his features. "No. Wedding first."

"But sweetie..." I gesture to my face, wincing as my fingers brush the tender spot where he struck me. "I can't get married looking like this."

"You look fine," he growls, but there's uncertainty in his tone now.

"Look what you did to me." I press my advantage carefully. "To my face."

He doesn't say anything, but his grip on the steering wheel tightens.

"Don't you want our wedding to be perfect?" I reach over, and place my hand on his arm. Every nerve in my body screams in protest at touching him, but I force myself to continue. "Don't you want me to look pretty for you?"

Those words hit their mark. His expression softens, the egotistical need to show me off as a trophy overriding his suspicions.

"You've always been pretty, Jamie." His voice drops to what he probably thinks is seductive, but it just makes him sound more psychotic. "Even with a bruise."

"Please, Kristofer. I want to be beautiful on our wedding night." I fight back the bile rising in my throat. "I want to look perfect for you when you make love to me."

He considers this for a long moment, then nods slowly. "Fine. Hotel first."

Relief floods through me, but I carefully keep it from showing on my face. Instead, I smile gratefully, leaning back in my seat.

"Thank you." My heart hammers against my ribs as we weave through traffic toward the hotel. "You won't regret it."

As the massive building looms ahead, I offer a silent prayer that Vyacheslav received my message.

And that he cares enough about Ruslan to help me.