5. Emilia
EMILIA
The kitchen hums with the scent of garlic and seared meat, the sizzle of the pan a steady rhythm beneath my thoughts. I move with quiet precision, my fingers deft as I plate the food, beef stroganoff, rich and golden, the sauce glistening like dark honey.
Egor leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me with that unnerving intensity of his.
I can feel the weight of his gaze, the way it lingers on my chest, my neck, my lips.
Heat crawls up my skin, memories of last night flashing through my mind.
His hands, his mouth, the way he'd looked at me like I was something to be devoured. My thighs press together involuntarily.
The plate clinks against the table as I set it down.
"Sit." His voice is rough, demanding.
I glance at him, my pulse already picking up. "Not again. Why?"
"Eat with me, karamelka." He pulls out the chair beside his, the scrape of wood against tile making me flinch.
I hesitate, then sit, perching on the edge like I might bolt at any second. He pushes the plate toward me, and I pick up the fork, my fingers trembling just enough to annoy me.
The first bite is slow, deliberate. The flavors explode on my tongue, savory, rich, perfect. I swallow, my throat tight, and catch a drop of sauce at the corner of my mouth with my tongue before I can stop myself.
His gaze darkens.
"Good?" he asks, though I know he doesn't care about the food.
I nod, staring at my plate. "Yes."
He takes a bite, his eyes never leaving me. "It's delicious. We should add…"
I'm barely listening, my mind racing. The way he'd touched me last night, the way he'd looked at me.
"Emilia?" His voice cuts through my thoughts.
I look up. "What?"
"Why are you so distracted?"
My shoulders tense. "I'm just… thinking."
"About last night?"
The fork clatters against the plate. I don't answer, but the heat creeping up my neck betrays me.
He leans back, stretching his legs out beneath the table, all lazy confidence. "Do you want to do it again?"
I meet his eyes, my cheeks burning. "Yes. I mean, no. Not right now."
A smirk tugs at his lips. "What is it?"
I clench my jaw. "I'm just wondering..."
His fingers brush my wrist, and I flinch, but don't pull away. "About?"
I swallow hard. "You won't get mad?"
"Just tell me, karamelka." His thumb traces slow circles over my pulse point, and I hate how my body responds to him.
I take a breath. "Why are you suddenly nicer to me?"
His thumb stills against my wrist, the weight of his gaze heavy enough to crush me. "Your file came back clean."
"You checked up on me?"
"Da." No hesitation. No apology. Just that single, infuriating syllable.
My nails dig into my palms. "Why?"
"Because I don't trust easily." His voice is low, rough, like gravel under boots. "And you… you make me curious."
"You could have just asked me." I force my hands to unclench, my voice steady.
"Would you have told me?" His fingers tighten, just enough to feel the pressure.
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
I swallow hard, my throat tight. "What do you want to know?"
"Tell me about you."
I stare at the plate, the food suddenly unappetizing. "What do you want to know?"
"Your life before you met me."
A bitter laugh escapes me. "That's a long story."
"Then tell me about your family."
I take a breath, my fingers twisting in my lap.
"I was twelve when my parents died. Car accident.
No other family." My voice cracks, just a little, but I push through.
"I bounced around foster homes. Some were okay.
Most weren't. Still, I started working. Left the foster homes before I was eighteen, before I aged out. "
Egor's thumb resumes its slow circles, grounding me.
"Then I lost my job." My chest aches, the memory sharp as broken glass. "And I ended up here."
Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. I don't look at him. I can't.
"And now?" His voice is softer. Dangerously soft.
"Now?" I lift my chin, meeting his gaze. "Now I'm just trying to survive. In your world."
His hand slides up my arm, his fingers curling around my shoulder. "You don't need to worry about that, karamelka. Get ready."
"For what?" I ask.
"I'll introduce you to the Bratva."
The black car glides to a stop outside the dimly lit warehouse, its tinted windows swallowing the late afternoon sun. A hand reaches across the console to grip my thigh, fingers pressing just hard enough to leave a mark.
"Nervous, karamelka?" The voice is low, rough, a growl that vibrates through the leather seats and straight into my bones.
My breath catches. The scent of leather and his cologne fills the space between us. I swallow, my throat suddenly too dry. "No."
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He doesn't believe me. Of course he doesn't. The man reads lies like other people read street signs. His thumb traces slow, deliberate circles over the denim covering my thigh, each pass sending a jolt of heat straight to my core. "Liar."
The door opens before I can protest, and the cool evening air rushes in, carrying the scent of saltwater and diesel.
Egor steps out first, his broad frame blocking the light as he turns to offer me his hand.
I take it, his fingers closing around mine with possessive force, and let him pull me from the car.
The warehouse looms ahead, its corrugated metal walls rusted in places, the flickering neon sign above the door casting jagged shadows. It's not the kind of place you'd expect a king to hold court. But then, Egor Vetrov isn't the kind of king who needs gilded thrones.
His grip tightens as we approach the entrance, his body shifting subtly between me and the world, like he's already anticipating a threat. The door groans open before we reach it, revealing a cavernous space lit by hanging bulbs and the glow of a long, scarred wooden table.
Men—hard-faced, broad-shouldered, some with tattoos snaking up their necks—turn as one toward the entrance. Their eyes lock onto us, onto me, and the weight of their stares presses down like a physical force.
Egor's hand slides to the small of my back, his touch searing even through the thin fabric of my blouse. "Gentlemen," he rumbles, his voice carrying effortlessly across the room. "This is Emilia. My private chef."
A murmur ripples through the crowd. Some nod. Others eye me with open curiosity. My fingers tighten around the handles of the two insulated bags I brought, the weight of the containers inside a small comfort. I made enough food for everyone.
A man with an easy grin steps forward first, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Finally, someone who can cook." A few chuckles follow, but Egor's expression doesn't change.
He steps closer to me, offering his hand. "I'm Pavel."
Egor's gaze flicks to Pavel, sharp as a blade, and the other man sobers instantly.
"Emilia," Pavel says, dipping his head in a gesture that's almost respectful. "Pleasure."
"Now, that's better," a voice from behind him says. He's taller, with a scar running from his temple to his jawline. He doesn't smile, but his nod is firm. "Name's Dmitry. Welcome."
I nod, and then Pavel grabs a man from beside him.
"And this is Sergei, Egor's right-hand man."
He nods and shakes Pavel off before walking away.
A beat of silence. Then Egor's voice drops, low and dangerous. "Sergei, where are you going? Take the bags and tell everyone to try what she made."
Sergei's gaze flicks to me, then back to Egor. Something unspoken passes between them. Then, with deliberate slowness, Sergei unfolds his arms and steps forward. "Of course."
I force a smile, my cheeks aching with the effort. "I hope you like it."
Pavel claps his hands together. "Let me get seconds."
The tension fractures, just a little. Men shuffle forward, their earlier wariness giving way to something closer to hunger, not just for the food, but for the warmth of it. The normalcy.
Sergei sets the bags down on the table and starts unpacking.
Egor stands behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body, the weight of his presence.
The smell of the food hits the air, rich, savory, the scent of garlic and herbs curling through the warehouse. They start eating, and a few seconds later, a low groan rumbles from the table, followed by another, then another, until the room hums with approval.
"Fuck, this is good."
"Where the hell did you find her?"
"Pakhan, you've been holding out on us."
My chest swells, warmth blooming under my ribs. I duck my head, but I can't hide the smile tugging at my lips. The weight of their praise settles over me, heavy and sweet.
Then Egor's hand is on my shoulder, his fingers digging in just enough to ground me. "This will be the first and last time," he says, voice rough.
The men protest, but his glare silences them.
He then turns to me. "Let's go home."
The foyer's chandelier throws fractured light across the marble as the front door clicks shut behind us.
My pulse thrums in my throat, too loud, too fast, like the wings of something trapped.
The scent of salt and cypress clings to Egor's coat, mingling with the faint musk of his skin, and I swallow hard, my fingers twisting the hem of my shirt.
"Well, good night, Egor."
His pewter eyes flick to me, sharp as a blade. "Night's not over, karamelka." A slow drag of his gaze down my body, deliberate, possessive. "Not even close."
My breath stutters. The air between us thickens, charged with something darker than want, something that coils low in my belly, hot and heavy.
His hand cups my jaw, thumb pressing into my bottom lip. "You want this." Not a question. A statement, rough with satisfaction. "Right?"
I shake my head, but the lie sticks in my throat.
I do, but I am afraid. Not of him, but of the way my body betrays me, the way my nipples tighten beneath my bra, the way my thighs press together as if that could contain the ache between them.
A low chuckle vibrates against my skin as he leans in, his breath hot against my ear. "Liar."
Then his mouth is on mine, hungry, demanding. His hands tangle in my hair, yanking just enough to make my scalp prickle, and I gasp into the kiss, my fingers clutching at his shoulders. The shirt is gone before I can process it, peeled off and tossed aside, followed by my bra.
Cool air hits my skin, and I shiver, not from the cold, but from the way his gaze burns as it rakes over my exposed breasts.
"Fuck." The word is a growl, his hands already cupping me, thumbs circling my nipples.
They're already swollen, aching, and when he pinches, a sharp jolt of pleasure-pain shoots straight to my core.
I whimper, my back arching, and he makes a sound deep in his throat, something between a groan and a snarl.
"Look at you," he murmurs, voice rough. "So fucking perfect.
Dripping for me already." His head dips, and then his mouth is on me, hot and wet, sucking one nipple deep.
The pull is almost too much, the scrape of his teeth sending sparks skittering across my skin.
My fingers tangle in his hair, holding him to me, and he groans, the vibration making my knees weak.
He switches to the other side, his free hand sliding down my stomach, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my jeans. A single digit presses against my clit through the thin fabric of my panties, and I jerk, a broken sound tearing from my throat.
"Egor…"
His teeth graze my nipple, then soothe it with his tongue. "You're going to take what I give you. Aren't you, karamelka?"
My pussy clenched, making my breath come in short, sharp gasps. I nod, my cheeks burning, and he smirks against my skin.
"Good."
Then he's on his knees in front of me, his hands rough as he yanks my jeans and panties down in one swift motion. I step out of them, my heart hammering, and his hands grip my thighs, spreading me open. His breath is hot against my pussy, and I whimper, my fingers tightening in his hair.
"Please…"
"Please what?" His tongue flicks out, teasing my clit, and I shudder. "You want me to lick this pretty cunt? Make you come on my face?"
I nod frantically, my hips rolling toward him, and he chuckles, the sound dark and filthy. "Beg."
"Please, Egor. Please."
His mouth crashes onto me, his tongue spearing inside, and I cry out, my back arching. He licks and sucks, his fingers joining the assault, two of them sliding inside me, curling just right. My legs shake, my thighs trembling as pleasure coils tighter and tighter, and then…
"Oh god!" I come with a broken scream, my body shuddering, my fingers clawing at his shoulders as he laps at me, drinking down every drop.
Before I can catch my breath, he's on his feet, lifting me effortlessly.
My back hits the couch, the leather cool against my skin, and he's between my thighs in an instant, his cock already out, thick and hard and leaking.
He doesn't give me time to adjust, doesn't ask if I'm ready.
He just takes, his hips slamming forward, filling me in one brutal thrust.
I gasp, my nails digging into his back, my body stretching to accommodate him. He's not gentle. Not this time. His hands grip my hips, holding me in place as he pounds into me, each snap of his hips driving the breath from my lungs.
"Egor…" His name is a whimper, a plea, but I don't even know what I'm asking for.
"Take it," he growls, his voice rough. "Take my cock."
And I do. I take every inch, every brutal thrust, my body singing with pleasure. His thumb finds my clit, circling, pressing, and I come again, my walls clenching around him as I scream his name.
He follows me over the edge with a guttural groan, his cock pulsing inside me as he spills, his forehead pressed to mine. For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of our ragged breathing, the scent of sex and sweat and him.
Then his mouth is on mine again, slow and deep, and I melt into it, my body boneless, my heart still racing.
He pulls back just enough to murmur against my lips, "Another round."