Obsession (Saranov Bratva #1)

Chapter 1

Arkady

Heat.

Bodies.

The stench of alcohol hits my senses.

A heartbeat before the bass drops, I see her. Blonde hair, a silver dress that shows off her back and barely covers her arse.

Then the flashing lights distort my view from the VIP section of this club that is one of the last bastions of a good time in this city.

She has caught my attention.

Never a good thing.

It won’t end well for either of us.

My gaze catches on her again when the strobes cut, then loses her in the crush of bodies. I find her a heartbeat later anyway, like a compass needle snapping north.

Vik says something beside me. I don’t answer. My fingers tighten around the glass until the rim bites my palm, and I’m irritated—at him, at the lights, at the fact that my attention has decided it belongs to a stranger.

He nudges me, but I ignore him. If it were a security issue, he’d have my attention.

It’s not.

I rise and move towards the velvet rope that cuts this section off from the masses, taking my vodka with me. Sipping it, I focus on where I last saw her. But something else catches my eye instead.

A shark in the water.

Full on predator, skulking around the edges of the dancefloor like he’s looking for something to devour.

Out of interest, I follow his gaze, and it takes me straight to the sexy blonde who is dancing like no one is watching her.

How wrong could she be?

It seems there are two of us with eyes on her. I frown and turn my attention back to the man stalking her. He is moving in closer. Slicing his way between the bodies with ease, unnoticed yet unstoppable. No one pays any attention to him. No one even knows he’s there.

Except me.

It’s my job to spot the danger in the room.

It’s a job I’m very good at.

As the blonde turns, her hair swinging wildly, her expression one of laughter as her friend shouts something to her, my dick stiffens. There is something about her that screams mine.

See. Take. Have. That’s my motto.

Swallowing the last of my drink, I slam the glass down and step over the rope, and the floor swallows me.

Heat slams into my face, sweat and perfume cloying together.

The lights slice the crowd into pieces. I move.

People part for me without realising why.

Keeping my eye on the shark, I aim straight for the woman, reaching her a few moments before he does.

He pauses, evaluating. She steps back onto my toe and spins when she realises.

“Sorry!” she shouts above the music and turns again, moving forward, away from me.

Unacceptable.

Up close, she is even more beautiful.

I also now know who she is.

The tattoo in the middle of her spine tells me.

It’s not just ink. It’s a warning label and a signature, the kind you don’t wear unless you expect the world to bend around it.

My hand shifts on her hip without thinking—higher, firmer, turning her so her back isn’t on display to half the room. Possession is a stupid instinct to have in public. I do it anyway.

Belova.

Alina, if my details are accurate. Daughter of Valery Belov. Enforcer to the Kuznetsov Bratva family. Savage fucker. Beat me up once around two years ago. Nearly took my fucking head off.

That means consequences. It also means she’s not some faceless club girl I can press into a corner and forget.

Reaching out, my hands land on her hips, and she freezes. I keep them there. Low, controlled. Her friend tries to pull her away from me, but I tighten my grip, easing her back against my body.

“Let go,” she says, turning her head to glance at me over her shoulder.

I lean in. “Not a chance. You’re being watched.”

She laughs. “I know. Every guy in this room wants me. None of you will get me.” She struggles to move away, but my arms band around her, an iron vice she can’t get out of. The thump of the music vibrates through the floor as her friends try to pry me off. I’ll give them an A for effort.

One of them throws her drink in my face.

Water. Must be the designated driver.

Shaking my head, I laugh it off as Alina’s head snaps to the side again, and her eyes widen as she stares at me.

She is drunk and starts laughing. Her laugh turns into a hiccup, then a breathy gasp when I angle my mouth to her ear.

“Alina Belova,” I say, quietly so it cuts through the noise.

“You don’t get to wander blind in my city. ”

She goes still. I feel the moment the name lands. Not so drunk she misses that. Drunk enough that any thoughts of taking her vanish. When I take her, I want her to remember every last inch.

“How do you know my name?” she says.

“Move,” I say, grabbing her wrist and releasing her waist so I lead her from the dancefloor.

“Wait!” she cries out, stumbling behind me in her ridiculously high heels.

I don’t waste my breath trying to explain as the predator follows us. He was seconds from jabbing a needle into her neck, regardless of my presence. That means he is stupid enough not to know who I am.

Stupidity usually gets you dead.

But not in the middle of a packed-out nightclub.

I weave through the dancers, heading for the fire exit that leads to the side. I already know Vik has moved. He would’ve been up the second he saw me pull Alina away from the predator. He has a sixth sense about shit like this. He knows me better than I know myself.

“Hey!” Alina bellows, struggling to pull her wrist free.

I tighten my grip and shove the fire exit open. The alarm beeps loudly, but no one pays any attention to it. Yet.

I haul Alina through it and into the alleyway, kicking the door shut behind me.

“What are you doing?” she screeches, blind drunk and nearly breaking her ankle as she stumbles. “Let me go! Help!”

“I am helping you,” I grit out and see the lights flash at the end of the alley.

The door opens again behind me, letting out the loud music. I glance over. Him.

Without waiting another second, I scoop Alina up and fling her over my shoulder, fireman style.

“Hey!” she shouts, beating her tiny fists on my back, causing my mouth to quirk up at the side. “Put me down!”

“Not happening, krasotka,” I state, striding down the alley with her kicking and screaming and the guy after her on our heels.

Some hero tries to intervene, reaching for her and yelling. I punch him in the throat as we pass.

He gurgles and drops to his knees as Alina screams in that dramatic, drunken way that shows me just how much alcohol she has consumed.

“Didn’t your father ever tell you not to get so pissed you can barely think straight?

” I mutter to her as the back door of the black Mercedes is flung open from the inside.

“Help!” she screams, and I roll my eyes as I lower her into the vehicle, seeing Vik settle back in the driver’s seat after leaning over to open the back door.

“How many more times, krasotka? I am helping you. Drive.”

Vik slams down the accelerator before I’ve even closed the door, as the man after Alina does the unthinkably desperate. He pulls out a gun and fires off a shot. It hits the back window, and Alina screams, ducking down.

I pull her down with me, my palm bracketing the back of her head so her skull doesn’t smack the door. Too careful. Too instinctive.

She shakes under my arm, and my attention locks onto stupid details—the glitter at her cheekbone, the pulse in her throat—like if I notice all of this, I can keep her from being taken.

“Don’t panic. It’s bulletproof,” I say to her, pulling out my phone.

“Don’t panic? Don’t panic? You are abducting me!”

“Would you rather take your chances with the gunman trying to inject you with something that will likely knock you unconscious or, at the very least, black you out, so he can do unspeakable things to you?”

“What?” she cries, looking back over her shoulder, but Vik has turned a corner, and we are out of sight. “What is going on?” She clutches her head, the reality of this situation cutting through the alcohol.

Ignoring her, I swipe to Kosta on speed dial. “Side alley off Berwick. Idiot just shot at me. Bag him or bag his hands. Your call.”

“Khorosho,” he says, and I end it.

I catch her chin and tilt her face, not gently, not rough—controlled. Her pupils are wide, but not wrong. No slack jaw, no glassy stare.

My thumb brushes under her ear where a needle would’ve gone. The skin is unbroken. Only then do I let myself breathe and release her.

Alina’s breath comes quick, eyes wide, glitter smeared along her cheekbone. She reeks of vodka and something sweet. She glares at me, then at Vik in the mirror. “Take me back.”

“Net,” Vik says, voice flat.

“Home,” she insists, wobbling upright on the seat. “South Ken. Now.”

I laugh. “You don’t get to give orders, krasotka.”

Her gaze knifes to mine, before taking in my cropped dark hair and blue eyes. I see the heat, and it makes my dick that bit stiffer. “Stop calling me gorgeous, you fucking arse!”

“Okay, Alina. Is that better?”

“You know my name. Which probably means you know my dad, or you’re stalking me. He’ll kill you for both.”

“He might try,” I say, calm, phone already buzzing with Kosta’s update.

I glance down. Photo. The shark face-down with Kosta’s boot on his wrist, the gun kicked away.

Another text. Syringes. Fentanyl, likely.

I file it for later. “Your father won’t be angry that I pulled you out of a predator’s sights. He’ll be angry you put yourself there.”

She scoffs and swallows hard, throat working. “I didn’t—I was with my friends.”

“And then you were prey. You wear your name like a target.”

“It’s my name,” she fires back. Her chin lifts. Brave. Stupid. Hot. Untouchable right now, unfortunately.

“Yeah,” I murmur. “It is.”

She fumbles at the door and finds it locked. “Let me out.”

“We’re not done,” I say.

“Oh, we’re very done.” She jabs a finger at me. “You touch me again, and I’ll scream this whole bloody car down.”

I smile, slow enough to make her inhale sharply. “Scream. Vik loves a soundtrack.”

“Fuck you,” she spits, but colour drains from her face, and she swallows again. “Oh, God.”

I grab the water bottle that Vik thrusts at me, never taking his eyes off the road. He also flicks a paper bag over his shoulder, and I snort.

“Always prepared.”

“Do you know how much it costs to valet the inside of this car?” he grumbles.

I hold them both out to her. “Choose.”

She hesitates, pride wrestling nausea. Pride loses. She breathes through it, uncaps the water and sips, refuses the bag. Determined little thing.

“Your name,” she says after a beat.

“Arkady Saranov.”

The name lands. Her eyes flare with recognition, then calculation. “Saranov. I should’ve known. Fucking savage,” she spits out.

“A savage who just saved you.”

“Why? Why did you save me?”

“No one touches what’s mine.”

“Yours? I am not yours. I don’t even know you!”

“Keep telling yourself that, krasotka. You will learn.”

“Take me home.”

“No. We are already at mine.”

She blinks and looks out of the window at the enormous townhouse in Mayfair. Vik pulls up to the kerb and kills the engine. I get out first. The air is cooler out here, crisp with money and old brick. She stares up at the townhouse like it might sprout legs and eat her.

“Out,” I say.

“Make me,” she mutters, chin up.

I reach in, catch her wrist again, and she comes with me, balance shot in those sexy heels. She sways and holds onto the car to steady herself. I curl my fingers tighter and steer her to the steps.

The door swings open before I reach it. Dima fills the space in a suit that strains across his chest, expression bored. He takes in Alina, the glitter, the mess, my grip on her. His mouth twitches.

“Problem?” he asks.

“Solution,” I reply, pushing past him. “Close it.”

The hall absorbs sound. Marble underfoot, high ceilings, a chandelier that could concuss a man if it fell. Alina halts, then yanks at my hold again.

“Enough,” she snaps. “I’m not a fucking dog.”

“No,” I say, low. “You’re a Belova who nearly got herself into a situation not even Daddy’s training could’ve removed you from without help. You don’t get to argue with me.”

Her eyes flash as I lay it out for her.

“You are drunk, and you are staying here until I know it’s safe to let you go.”

“You can’t keep me here!”

“Watch me.”

“My friends will call my dad.”

“And? Who are they going to say took you?”

She blinks and curls her hand into a fist, mentally cursing herself.

“Let me guess. One of those friends has your phone?”

“And my fucking money. Fucking fuck!”

“Well, I don’t need paying. My services are free.”

“Fuck you and the Merc you ride in on,” she spits out and kicks off her heels, leaving them in the middle of my marble floor to stagger her way to the sofa, where she collapses and, not long after her head hits the leather, passes out.

“Dima,” I order. “Get her a blanket and a bucket. If anyone lays a hand on her, I’ll break it.”

No one touches her tonight. Not even me.