24. Yarik
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
YARIK
O n paper, I’d become the perfect mafia darling.
I schemed.
I killed.
I prospered.
No one could ask anything more of me because, at twenty-one, I gave all of myself to the Bratva. To everyone’s surprise, including my father’s, I sat at his side like a prized stallion. Hand over a crown and I could have easily played the part of a god. Bow down to me. Crawl to me. Worship me . No one dared tell me no because I was Yaroslav Volkov, heir to the Volkov empire, favored prince to all.
That was the problem with perfection.
It glittered and glowed, alluring as gold. But far beneath the surface, I was rotten down to my core.
I hated.
I envied.
I wanted .
And I did it all with every fiber of my fucking soul.
“Here.” Ale sloshed over the rim of a pint glass as Beck set it down in front of me. “Don’t know how you drink this shit. Tastes like piss.”
“Maybe I enjoy not being a stereotype.”
When his red-rimmed gaze dropped to the Beluga Noble he’d ordered, humor flirted at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe I like putting hair on my chest.”
“Yeah? Maybe consider abstaining. Yours is already liable to be mistaken for a rug.”
“Women like it, boss. I wouldn’t want to disappoint them.” As if to prove his point, he downed the rest of the expensive, Russian-label vodka in one smooth go. His fifth or sixth shot of the evening. Drunk bastard looked downright joyful when he teased, “A virgin like you wouldn’t understand.”
It took everything in my power to keep my gaze from flinching away.
But the baby hairs on my nape still stood on end, and I was desperate for it—to look over my shoulder toward the long, dimly lit hallway that led from the beating heart of the nightclub to the toilets. Some American song throbbed over the speakers, and everywhere I looked, bodies swayed and gyrated like tangled reeds caught in a wayward breeze. I’d be expected to get out there soon. Find some pretty girl to dance with, maybe even kiss.
My men expected it.
Father expected it.
A mafia darling schemed and killed and prospered, but above all, he fucked .
Beck reached for my pint glass and took a swig. This far into the night, he never really cared whether ale actually tasted like piss. It was all the same going down. Still puckered his lips like a teenager after their first taste of booze, though. “You aren’t saving it, are you?”
The devil on my shoulder demanded my surrender.
Turn. Look. Watch .
“Saving what?” I forced myself to ask, my gaze bouncing from Beck to Eren, who had his tongue down a girl’s throat as blue and purple strobe lights painted neon streaks over their writhing bodies. There was a frenetic energy in the air tonight. I’d felt it the moment we walked in. But I was safe—or safe enough, at any rate—so long as I played the game.
“Your virginity.” Listing sideways, Beck dropped his chin onto an upturned palm. “Always wanted to ask but figured it ain’t any of my business.”
“Then why ask now?”
Beck grinned at me. “Because I give zero fucks, mate, that’s why. Anyway. Tell Daddy Beck the truth, yeah? You savin’ yourself for marriage?”
Despite my father’s continued ambitions for me, I had no plans to marry.
Not now, not ever.
“No. And don’t ever call yourself ‘Daddy Beck’ again. Fucking hell.”
“Hmm.” Beck sipped more of my ale. “Well, are you waiting for the one ?”
Turn. Look. Watch.
It took herculean effort to scoff, “The one ? Jesus, don’t tell me you actually believe in soulmates.”
“Me?” Beck barked out a laugh, too far gone to notice that I didn’t join in. “I believe in them, all right. One for each night of the week.” Leaning across the table, he clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Come on, go out there and get your prick wet. I can play rank for the night.” He hoisted himself up a little, spine snapping straight. “Beck, stop drinking. Eren, put your dick away. Kirill?— ”
“You need a muzzle.”
“It wouldn’t help.” With a sigh, he slumped down onto the table, head bent over his clasped hands as if in prayer. “God, please forgive Yarik for not using what You gave him. What a tragic waste. A dictragedy. Dick-ragedy? Anyway, what I wouldn’t do to be blessed with a cock the size of?—”
“All right. You’re done for the night.”
“But I’m not done praying.”
“Keep it up and the only prayer you’ll be making is when my foot is so far up your arse, you’re speaking in tongues. Come on.” I hauled him up by the back of his shirt, which was no small feat considering he outweighed me by at least two stone and stood almost half a head taller. Over his shoulder, I made eye contact with Eren, who nodded back at me before peeling himself away from the girl with a wink and a dimpled grin. When he got close, I thrust Beck in his direction. “Watch him, would you?”
“Eren the Nanny. Put that on my gravestone when I die.” Grumbling aside, he grasped Beck by the nape, keeping him close since we both knew he’d make a run for it, given the chance. Daddy Beck was a chaotic twat. Sober Beck would never.
Eren’s questioning gaze flicked toward the hallway. “Kirill?”
My stomach turned over. “I’ve got him.”
What little beer I’d had sloshed in my belly as I put one foot in front of the other, my bodyguard, Anton, an ever-present shadow trailing a few steps behind me. I hated these nights out. Hated what they stood for, hated that I couldn’t get out of them. Most of all, I hated that I needed them like a man of the cloth needs his flock. Without them . . .
A shudder whispered down my spine.
This was about survival. Point-blank. It was about the fact that I was watched twenty-four-seven, and if I had any hope of keeping my head attached to my shoulders, then I had to keep up the pretense that I was exactly the sort of mafia prince expected to one day take my father’s throne.
Ruthless. Straight. Perfect.
Sometimes, when I was drowning in a thick, oily vat of envy, I let myself imagine the thrill of the chase. Locking eyes with someone across a darkened room. Desire unfurling in my gut like wisps of smoke; inhibitions crumbling in the face of temptation like a sailor unable to deny the sweet lure of a siren song. Bodies colliding, hot mouths meeting. A possessive hand gripping the back of my neck, hauling me so close that I felt every hard ridge, every shallow breath, desperate for more, begging for the chance to?—
Anton stepped forward to open the door to the toilets. “Petrovich, let me.”
“I’ve got it.” He’d been with me for years but still made a point to use the patronymic form of my name. He said that it was out of respect. I’d told him, more than once, that it wasn’t necessary. The constant reminder that I was my father’s son only made me want to stab something—preferably my father. When Anton didn’t move out of the way, I dragged in a slow inhale. “ Ponyal , Anton.”
His lips thinned. “We’ve been over this. I’m meant to go where you go. Your father?—”
“My father isn’t here,” I said sharply before scrambling to mask my impatience with a friendly grin. “Let me tell you a little secret . . .” Ducking my head, I leaned in. “I don’t need help pissing. Think I’ve got that biological talent covered.”
He pinched his mouth shut in disgust .
Anton Kotov was not my friend. He was loyal to the Volkov name, one of many on my father’s payroll. A few years ago, he accidentally let it slip that he viewed his duties to me as one step above scrubbing shit stains from a toilet. He hadn’t apologized for the insult—not that I’d expected one—and the only reason he didn’t quit was because my father paid him a small fortune to spy on me. Secretly, of course. Thanks to Kirill, I knew all about the little body cameras he wore.
Which was the only reason why these nights out happened at all.
Go back to your king and tell him lies about his only son ? —
Ruthless. Straight. Perfect.
It took everything in me not to scream.
Anton’s dark brown gaze went to the door. “I’ll wait here, then.”
You do that , I almost sneered.
“Cheers, mate,” is what came out of my mouth instead, because Yaroslav Volkov was only ruthless when the situation called for it and never when his actions might be mistaken for disobedience. “Be out in a minute.”
This far down the hall, near the club’s back exit, the concrete floor still throbbed beneath my feet, but the music was less intense, muffled. Quiet enough to hear the tail end of a moan slip out from the lavatory behind me.
Fuck.
Pulse skipping, I turned my back on Anton before he had the chance to change his mind, then cracked the door open with the toe of my Oxford and closed it immediately behind me, cursing myself even as I pressed my back to the solid wood. What did it matter if Anton saw? If the whole bloody world saw?
Kirill was allowed this .
He was—he was , and I had to accept that?—
Another moan, this one low, guttural. His. I kept my head down but allowed my gaze to lift from the polished leather of my shoes to the mirror opposite me. I saw her first. Down on her knees, crushed-velvet skirt hiked up around her waist, black-painted fingernails frantic as they worked between her thighs. She was blonde, like me. Just a coincidence, though. He’d fucked women with hair every shade under the sun. But tonight, she was blonde.
It felt like a dagger to the heart.
There was blood spilling out, had to be. So much of it that even if I had a needle and thread, there’d be no sewing up the wound fast enough to keep from bleeding out. I tried to breathe through the debilitating ache of envy, and pain, and want. Tried so fucking, fucking hard, but I remained short of breath, still plastered to the door like I might actually find the strength to walk away.
I didn’t.
I wasn’t sure that I ever would.
So, I submerged myself in the envy—pain—want, drowning evermore, and forced myself to acknowledge that the blonde was on her knees because the man I loved was fucking her mouth.
Her lips were red.
Maybe from lipstick. Maybe from all the enthusiastic sucking.
You shouldn’t be here.
Common sense said that I should leave. I’d expected to walk in and find him finishing—not metaphorically, either, but literally wrapping things up with a thanks-for-that-see-you-never expression on his face before he strode out the door like he hadn’t come down someone’s throat just minutes beforehand .
It was the way he usually handled things.
Not that he disappeared for sex very often—once or twice a year, if that. To a virgin like me, who once stupidly believed that we’d be each other’s firsts, even that felt like too much. Here was my wretched truth: a best friend would let him carry on. Hell, even a mediocre friend would guard the door, maybe offer a high-five when he finished. Great job, mate. So bloody happy for you .
I wasn’t a good friend.
On the few occasions when he did slip away for a shag, I told myself—fine, I lied to myself—that he wouldn’t care if he saw me lingering nearby, waiting for him to be done, because these hookups were just that, rare, impersonal opportunities for him to relieve stress.
He didn’t take them home.
He didn’t take them out either.
He fucked them in backend alleys or nightclub bathrooms, or wherever else he brought them that got the message across that there wouldn’t be any repeats.
There should have been some comfort in that, knowing that he never saw them again. And maybe there would have been if our already strained friendship hadn’t grown so cold. The boy whom I’d saved from the river had turned to ice, and I had no idea how to thaw him out. Nothing I did worked. Nothing I said softened him. Even when he fucked, like he did now, he seemed to find no joy in it.
The blonde whimpered, her head bobbing faster.
Leave. Right. Now.
Clearly, there wasn’t a shred of morality still left in my bones because I dragged my gaze upward, away from the blonde on her knees, hoping for just a glimpse of him. And when I didn’t get it from where I stood by the door, I tossed all sanity aside and stepped closer to the duo, taking advantage of the partition wall that separated the stalls from a row of sinks.
My heart pounded in my ears.
This was a betrayal of trust. An invasion of privacy. I wasn’t welcome here. And yet, for better or worse, I hated and envied and wanted , and like the pitifully weak bastard that I was, I devoured the sight of him even as it killed me.
He was fully clothed. Trousers unzipped, his dress shirt still unbuttoned, except for the very top two that he always left undone. The soft, black fabric hugged the strong lines of his torso, same as it did the corded muscles of his arms, which he’d lifted above his head to grip the top of the stall. At least he’s not touching her bitterly crossed my mind . Further consolation, if consolation were a prize. Which it wasn’t.
Because this voyeuristic view was all I’d ever have of him.
A rumble of pleasure reverberated in his chest.
The blonde had pulled her fingers away from her clit to wrap around his shaft. Below the waist they were all shadows, thanks to my new vantage point, but I heard the damp grip of her palm stroking him nice and slow; saw the way his heavy lids fluttered closed as a flush crested his cheeks.
My breathing came a little faster.
“Like this?” the blonde asked eagerly. “I want to make you feel good.” The ends of her long hair teased the swell of her arse as she tipped her head back, seeking eye contact, I was sure, which Kirill didn’t return. He only gripped the stall with straining fingers, keeping his distance even while he had this woman down on her knees.
It was a jarring juxtaposition I hadn’t expected.
I’d thought the sex would be hot, and it was, in the sense that it was all about getting off, but it also wasn’t— aside from the obvious stimuli, he seemed completely closed off from reality. Like the blonde kneeling at his feet didn’t exist. Did he even want this? Did he even like it?
It was a shocking revelation, one I wasn’t sure had registered to the blonde who was all but begging for scraps of his affection.
Years ago, I might have pestered him into opening up, but there was an invisible wall between us now, and no matter how hard I worked to scale the jagged rocks, they only seemed to grow ever taller. One of these days, there wouldn’t even be a ladder to climb, and I’d be forced to break the damn wall down, stone by stone, or risk being left behind.
Wrong as it was, I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the mirror.
Couldn’t tear my gaze away from him .
His jaw clenched. Plush, peach lips thinned. There was a flash of something—frustration, maybe, or impatience—bleeding into his expression just before it all blanked out behind a mask of gruff indulgence. He must have realized that he had to give her something because he lowered one hand to ghost over the top of her head. I watched, enthralled, as he wrapped her long, blonde hair around his fingers, then fisted the strands, tight, at the base of her skull.
The dominant gesture jerked her head back so he filled her entire vision.
“Tighten your fist.” The gravel-pitched words were torn from his throat, his midnight-black eyes still squeezed shut. “Good girl. Now spit on the head.”
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck —
“Slick your palm for me,” he ordered huskily, “keep me wet. Like that, love. Just like that.”
It was an illusion.
All of it.
The endearment, the sinful approval on his handsome face, the way he touched her hair, guiding her mouth down over him. None of it was real. Just a sensual, fabricated lie to get him over the finish line.
So, tell me why I was swept up in the fantasy. Tell me why my hand was shaking as I pressed it to the wall beside me because it was either that or press it to the front of my jeans, where my dick had gone rock hard. Tell me why I was standing here watching my best friend get head through a reflection in the mirror, wishing I was the one on my knees for him when he didn’t even want her.
But the twisted lies he wove had already trapped me in their gossamer strands.
In my mind’s eye, I was the one he wanted. The floor was hard and unforgiving beneath my knees, but I welcomed the sting just as I welcomed the sensation of short, crisp hairs teasing my palms as I dragged his trousers down past his thighs to his knees. Because I wasn’t like the blonde, docile and overeager to please.
I wanted Kirill Volkov at my mercy.
I wanted to shatter his control even as he punished me for driving him to the brink of madness.
And he would punish me—with his fingers gripping the short, wavy strands of my hair, shoving my face so close to his prick that the mushroomed head grazed my parted lips. I wanted a taste. I wanted him .
“Now spit on the head,” he’d growl, just as he had to the blonde, and I’d tease him with the promise of what he wanted—the tip of my tongue dipping into his slit, moaning as I licked up a pearl of pre-cum—but I’d give him nothing more until he had no choice but to open his eyes and meet my hungry gaze. Only when we were locked in a battle of the wills, with lust crackling between us, would I finally surrender.
I’d spit on the head of his dick.
I’d swallow him to the back of my throat.
I’d use one hand to stroke him and the other to grip his arse, so even though I was the one kneeling, choking on his length, he’d feel my nails digging into his flesh for days after, a reminder that it was me who made him feel this way, who made him come undone.
The reverie crashed and burned around me as the sounds of sloppy sucking reached my ears.
I had one hand on the wall, the other against my fly. Before I could stop myself, I was rolling my hips into my palm, seeking relief when there was none to be had. Not on this side of the wall. Not when I wasn’t the one he wanted, not even for a quick, meaningless fuck in a public bathroom.
And yet, I was too far gone to stop.
Biting my bottom lip to keep quiet, I fixated on the sound of his ragged breathing as well as the rhythmic creak of wood under his ever-tightening grip on the stall.
He looked fucking beautiful.
The muscles in his exposed forearm flexed as he adjusted his hold on the blonde. She was moaning keenly now, using both hands, it seemed, to stroke him while her head bobbed faster and faster, the brutal pace set by Kirill himself.
His eyes stayed shut.
Meanwhile, praise dripped from his lying, deceitful tongue—things like, “Fuck, yes, that’s it,” or “Goddamn it, love, you feel so good,” and there I was, one second away from unzipping my jeans and jacking off where he could see me, if only he bothered to look.
It was a terrible thing, wishing for a Hell you know that you’d never survive.
Still, like a masochist, I stayed.
How long until he noticed that they weren’t alone? How long until he saw the truth in my gaze, that I wished that he might look at me, really, truly look at me, even just once? Long enough to see that I cared far more than I should, that I would cut out my heart and lay it down at his feet, if only he’d let me.
In the end, Fate had other plans.
The door behind me swung open and I panicked—exactly as I had that long-ago day in the woods when my classmate and his girl caught me watching them together. I spun away before I had the chance to second-guess my decision, roughly shouldering the stranger out of the way without an apology—because I couldn’t risk Kirill hearing me speak.
I couldn’t risk him hating me .
I was wrong for this.
Wrong to crave him the way I did, wrong to hurry up to my room as soon as I got home, slam the door shut behind me, and wrestle with my fly the minute I was alone. I stumbled in the darkness, knocked into my wardrobe, and sent items scattering to the floor.
Glass shattered.
I was too busy shoving my jeans down to mid-thigh to give a fuck.
Desire rode me hard as I planted one hand on top of the now-bare wardrobe, then spat in my other as makeshift lube before wrapping it around my stiff length. I had to squeeze the base, hard, just to keep from coming.
I could hear him, even now.
The low groans, the tapered moans. The way he’d brought himself to the edge, over and over again, never relinquishing enough control to lose himself in the bliss of oblivion. Given the chance, I would have gotten him there. Or maybe not—maybe I would want it to last, so I’d drag his orgasm out until he gritted his teeth, wordlessly demanding that I let him come.
Yeah.
That was exactly it—I would never stop looking at his face, watching his features twist with anguish like it physically hurt him each time I forced him to wait a little longer. Call me a bastard, a sadist, but all I wanted was to see my best friend beg.
“Fuck,” I panted hotly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck .”
My touch was all rough friction, even with spit to ease the way, but I’d be damned if I stopped now. I had to come. I had to. Letting my head hang low, I breathed hard through my nose as I stroked even faster.
The fantasy sucked me right back under.
How his Adam’s apple might bob every time I dodged another one of his commands— suck harder, tongue my slit, cup my balls . How his pupils would swallow his irises, his full, tempting lips parting on a bitten-off grunt when he finally— finally —lost control and used his grip on my hair to make me choke on his dick.
My hips were punching forward now, chasing my fist the way Kirill would ruthlessly chase the release only I could give him. Desperation lined with dread. Like whatever followed after would never be as good as the thrill of the ride. Sweat beaded my nape. I was suddenly grateful for the darkness, for the privacy it provided from the cameras stationed throughout the room. Whenever I jerked off, I hid in the shower. But I couldn’t pull away from Fantasy Kirill?—
His lean hips rolling as he thrusted into my mouth, his gaze glittering down at me with surprise as much as it shone with need.
I want you, that look said, and I almost fucking lost it.
I bit my lip so hard that I was surprised when I didn’t draw blood. The sound of desperate wanking reverberated in the otherwise silent room. Shallow breathing. Long groans and stifled whimpers. I paused long enough to lick a stripe across my palm, and then there was only the thwack-thwack-thwack of my tight fist shuttling over my cock, twisting roughly at the swollen head the way I liked before sinking back down to the root.
“Yarik,” he’d say right there at the end—not a plea at that point but a gritty command. To put him out of his misery and end it all. And because I was merciful, I’d lead him right over the edge, soaking in every undulation of his hips, moaning around his cock as he came in spurts on my tongue. Unable to pull away just yet, I’d stay balanced on my knees while I licked him clean.
Me and him.
Him and me.
Except that I was alone in the dark. Alone with a fantasy, an illusion that wasn’t real and never would be, and when I came, I was just as alone as I’d been in that nightclub, hidden behind a wall. There was no one around to hear me whimper Kirill’s name, no one to clean me up afterward. Just cum spattered across a piece of furniture that I’d ignore until tomorrow because my heart suddenly felt too raw to do anything but twist into a painful knot.
Slowly, I sank to the floor.
Tears pricked at the backs of my eyes as the truth unraveled before me—for the first time that I could remember, he’d actually gone home with someone, nodding his goodbye to me while I stood with Beck and Eren outside the club. An ugly laugh burrowed in my chest before clawing its way free.
I was the perfect mafia darling.
I schemed.
I killed.
I prospered.
And I fucked, all right. I fucked my fist each and every night, wishing my best friend would love me the way that I so desperately still loved him.