Grovel Bratva Bully (Milky Breeding Fantasies #41)

1. Emilia

EMILIA

The pavement hums beneath my sneakers, still damp from last night's rain. Brighton Beach stretches ahead, a grid of Cyrillic signs and steam curling from bakery vents. The scent of rye bread and caramelized sugar clings to the air, thick enough to taste. My stomach growls, but I can't be late.

A fruit stand glows under the morning sun, oranges stacked like fire, cherries dark as fresh blood. The vendor watches me pause, her gaze lingering on the full grocery bag in my hand.

But it's not just groceries. My knives and a few cooking utensils. The only things left from the restaurant where I used to work before the owner decided he doesn't want to pay my salary anymore.

"You lost?" Her russian accent rolls the word like a threat wrapped in honey.

I shake my head, fingers tightening around the bag's handles. "First day at Egor Vetrov's."

The name hangs between us, heavy as the humidity. Her eyes flick over my shoulder, toward the ocean, then back to me. A beat. Two. "You'll need luck working for Pakhan. He may be the youngest one the Bratva ever had, but he's also the toughest."

"Youngest?"

"He just turned thirty-one, so he moved up pretty quickly," she replies. "I hope you last a week."

The warning settles in my bones, but I force a smile. "I've got a recipe for borscht that'll make him weep."

She doesn't laugh. Just grunts, turning back to her fruits. "Don't let him catch you crying first."

The weight of the grocery bag digs into my palm, the plastic handles biting into my skin. My breath comes too fast, shallow little sips of salt air that do nothing to steady the tremor in my ribs. The vendor's warning echoes, sharp as the gulls screaming overhead.

It's crazy I decided to work for the Bratva. But I have no choice.

Not when rent's due. Not when the fridge is empty. Not when the only other job posting was for a stripper at the club down the boardwalk.

"Thank you for the warning."

She nods. I square my shoulders and step forward, heading to my destination.

The mansion looms before I'm ready. White stone, black iron gates, a driveway long enough to swallow a city block. My breath stutters.

I knew he was rich. I didn't know he was this rich.

A man steps forward, all broad shoulders and mirrored sunglasses. "Name."

"Emilia Walker. The new private chef."

He doesn't check a list. Just nods, like he's been waiting for me. "Pakhan's waiting for you inside."

The gates groan open, and I step through, my pulse hammering in my throat.

The front door is already ajar.

Inside, the foyer swallows sound. Marble floors, a chandelier dripping crystals like frozen tears. My sneakers squeak loudly. I clench my fists, nails biting into my palms.

A shadow detaches from the staircase. Then a figure steps into the light, and my lungs forget how to work.

Six and a half feet of muscle carved into something just shy of human. Dark brown hair, the kind that looks black until the light catches it, revealing streaks of deep brown like aged whiskey.

His pewter gray eyes are like cold metal, the kind that doesn't tarnish, doesn't bend. They lock onto me, and suddenly, the marble beneath my feet feels like the edge of a cliff.

He's wearing a black Henley, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing forearms corded with veins and old scars. The fabric clings to his chest, outlining every ridge of muscle, every shift of his body as he moves closer.

His jaw is sharp enough to cut glass, stubble shadowing it in a way that makes my fingers twitch. I wonder what it would feel like against my palm. Against my throat.

My mouth goes dry. I've seen men built like this before, guys who think their size makes them gods. But none of them carried themselves like this. Like the world is a thing he's already conquered, and now he's just deciding whether to keep it or burn it down.

So this is Egor Vetrov.

"Are you Emilia Walker?"

His voice rumbles out like gravel under a tank, low, rough, the kind of sound that doesn't ask for an answer so much as demand one.

I nod.

"Aren't you too young to be a chef already? You look like you've just turned sixteen."

The words hit like a slap. My spine snaps straight, heat flaring up my neck. Sixteen? Like I'm some kid playing dress-up in an apron? I lift my chin, meeting those pewter eyes head-on.

"No. I'm nineteen." My teeth grind together, the words sharp as broken glass.

"I've been cooking since I was twelve. Worked my way up from dishwasher to line cook in three years.

Ran the kitchen at Zolotaya Volna for two years before the owner screwed me over.

" My fingers dig into the grocery bag, the plastic creaking.

A beat. The air between us thickens, charged like the moment before a storm. His gaze flicks over me, not just my face, but my body, slow and deliberate, like he's memorizing the shape of me. My skin prickles under the weight of it, too hot, too tight.

His lips curl, not quite a smile. "Prove it."

The challenge hangs between us, sharp as the knives in my bag. My pulse jumps, but I don't look away. "Fine. Where's the kitchen?"

He jerks his chin toward a hallway, the movement so abrupt it's almost violent. I follow, hyperaware of the heat rolling off him, the way his presence presses against my back like a hand between my shoulder blades.

The kitchen is a chef's dream. Stainless steel gleaming, gas burners pristine, a walk-in fridge big enough to live in. My fingers itch to touch everything.

"What do you want?" I ask.

His voice is a growl. "You decide."

I head to the fridge, pulling ingredients: fresh dill, sour cream, beets still caked with dirt. I grab a knife, the weight familiar in my hand. The blade sings as it hits the cutting board, dicing onions into perfect, translucent squares.

The scent rises, sweet, sharp. My shoulders relax, just a little. This, at least, I know how to do.

Behind me, the silence hums. But I feel him watching.

The knife keeps moving, but my hands aren't steady anymore. Not with him standing there, silent, watching. The weight of his gaze presses against my back, heavy as a hand.

My chest tightens, an ache suddenly blooming behind my ribs, but I don't mind it.

The borscht simmers, rich and deep as blood. I stir in the sour cream, watching it swirl into ribbons. The scent fills the kitchen, earthy, warm. I plate it carefully, garnishing with fresh dill.

I turn, holding it out to him. "Here."

His pewter eyes flick to the bowl, then back to me. The air stills. His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath his stubble. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

Then his voice cuts through it, low and dangerous. "Who do you work for?"

"What are you talking about?" The bowl trembles in my grip. My fingers go numb.

"Who sent you?"

The words don't make sense.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

Then his hand slams down on the counter. The sound cracks through the kitchen like a gunshot.

"Why is there a strange white liquid on my food?"

"That's just the sour cream."

He glares at me. "Not that. The white translucent stuff."

Translucent?

My stomach drops. A cold prickle races down my spine. I look down at the bowl, at the pale streaks swirling through the deep red soup.

My throat tightens.

No. No, no, no.

What the hell is that?

His voice is a blade. "You think I don't know what poison looks like?"

Poison?

The word detonates in my skull.

My hands fly up, palms out, like I can ward off the accusation. "I-I didn't?—"

The bowl slips from my fingers. It shatters against the tile, borscht splattering across the floor in a crimson mess. My breath hitches, sharp and shallow, as his pewter eyes burn into me.

I swallow hard, forcing the words out. "I'm not trying to poison you."

His eyes narrow, cold and unyielding. "Then explain what you added."

"I didn't add?—"

The world tilts. A sharp pain lances through my chest, hot and sudden. I gasp, pressing a hand to my sternum, like I can stop the ache. But it's not just pain, it's pressure. A deep, insistent throb, like something inside me is trying to break free.

I look down.

My shirt is wet.

A dark stain spreads across the fabric, right over my breasts. My fingers tremble as I touch it, and when I pull them away, they're slick. Glistening. I bring them to my nose, and the scent hits me, warm, earthy, familiar.

My stomach twists.

I know this smell.

Milk.

My breath comes in short, sharp bursts. My vision blurs at the edges. I shake my head, like I can deny it. Like I can make it stop. But the wetness spreads, soaking through my bra, dripping down my skin in slow, heavy drops.

His voice cuts through the haze, low and dangerous. "Well?"

My fingers curl into fists, nails biting into my palms. The pain grounds me, just for a second. Just long enough to force the words out.

"It's not poison." My voice is a whisper, raw and shaking. "It's… It's me."

I point to my chest, to the wet stain spreading across my shirt. To the milk. My milk.

His eyes follow the movement. The air between us crackles, thick with tension. His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath his stubble. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating.

Then, slowly, his gaze flicks back to my face. His voice is a growl. "Explain."

The words taste like ash. "It's milk. I don't know why it started leaking out." My voice cracks, thin and brittle. "It just… It just happened."

My fingers dig into my arms, nails biting through the skin. The wetness spreads, cool against my skin, and I want to scream. Or cry. Or both.

The chair scrapes against the floor, a sound like nails on glass. My shoulders hitch up to my ears, every muscle locking tight.

His shoes thud against the tile, slow and deliberate. Each step vibrates through me, like the floor itself is warning me to run. But I can't. My legs won't listen.

His shadow swallows me whole as he stands, towering. My breath stutters, trapped in my throat.

He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that I can see the flecks of darker gray in his pewter irises. Close enough that I can smell him, leather, gunpowder, something dark and masculine that makes my stomach clench.

"Do you expect me to believe that?" His voice is a blade wrapped in velvet. His gaze flicks down, lingering on the stain spreading across my chest. A muscle jumps in his jaw. "That you just started lactating?"