Chapter 1
My New Toy
—Kira—
Ishouldn’t have been this wet over a stranger.
The second the bedroom door clicked shut behind me, I kicked away my slippers and collapsed backward onto the silk-draped bed like a spoiled, overstimulated brat—because that’s exactly what I was. Spoiled. Restless. And tonight, so unbearably turned on I could barely breathe.
My hand hovered at the waistband of my pajama shorts before I even had the lights off.
Thin, slippery silk clung to me like a whisper, and I arched my hips into the air, imagining him—his hands gripping my thighs, his tongue flicking wicked and slow between my legs, the heat of his breath against my skin.
I let out a low, shivery breath as my fingers teased through the fabric. God, I was soaked. My body was already betraying me, practically begging for more. I tugged the shorts to the side, not bothering to take them off.
I slipped two fingers between my thighs, tracing slow, lazy circles over my clit before letting them slide lower.
My breath hitched as I pushed inside myself, then out again, slick and slow.
My other hand slipped under my top, toying with one of my nipples until it peaked against my palm.
I moaned—loud, unashamed—then rubbed harder, faster, grinding against my hand while picturing his mouth there instead, sucking, biting, teasing me to the edge.
I curled my fingers, gasping. Imagined him pinning me down. Holding me open. Making me take every bit of it—his mouth, his fingers, his cock—until I forgot my own name.
I’d never had anyone between my legs before.
Not like that. But God—he—he was the first man I actually wanted down there.
Desperately. Shamelessly. I wanted to ride his face until I broke apart, sobbing his name.
I wanted to taste his cock, feel it splitting me open while I cried from the stretch and the sweetness of it.
When I came, I screamed.
Not into the pillow. Not into my palm. I screamed, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, every muscle in my body shaking as I pulsed around my own hand. I didn’t have to be quiet—not here. Not in this house.
No one would hear me. Not that I gave a damn if they did.
I had the entire east wing to myself. My own suite, my own marble bathroom, my own private balcony. This house was a fortress and it didn’t give a damn that I was spread wide open, coming to the thought of a stranger.
Afterward, I just lay there, dazed, legs trembling, shorts askew, chest heaving with aftershocks.
“Fuck,” I whispered to the ceiling, still half drunk on the high. “What is this?”
Because it wasn’t just the orgasm.
It was him. Just the thought of him. The way his eyes locked onto mine like he could peel me open without trying. That lazy, dangerous grin that felt like a dare. The way he barely moved, just watched—patient, lethal, waiting.
For the first time in forever, I wasn’t bored out of my mind.
The privilege, the rules, the performance of perfection I was born into—it was all so exhausting. But this? He? He was something else.
A spark. A game. A new obsession.
And I had every intention of driving him mad.
Poor thing didn’t stand a chance.
I kept rewinding it in my head—our first encounter playing on an endless loop, like my brain refused to let go of a single frame.
Tonight, I was heading from one wing of the house to another—on my way to my mother’s suite.
I wanted to kiss her goodnight, the way I always did, a small ritual she barely noticed anymore but I refused to skip.
I think part of me still hoped she’d notice.
That maybe one night, she’d kiss me back and mean it.
But mostly, I just wanted to see her breathing. And yes—I also wanted one of her pills.
She had drawers full of them. Benzos, sleeping meds, antidepressants. She’d been knocking herself out for years, floating through the days like some perfumed ghost.
Lately, I understood the appeal.
My life was so quiet, so sterile, so mind-numbingly empty that sometimes I couldn’t stand the silence in my own head.
I was expected to be perfect—top of my class, fluent in three languages, graceful at the piano, and obedient to the last polished detail.
No boyfriends. No nights out. Just tutors, daily workouts and curated wardrobes, preparing me to be someone’s trophy.
The pressure to smile, to be lovely, to sit up straight and sparkle on command—it scraped something raw inside me.
So every now and then, I’d steal one of her pills and let myself drift into that same numb fog. A drugged hush. Just for a night.
And I wouldn’t even feel guilty.
Not with a father like mine.
Businessman, they called him—like it was some kind of inside joke.
Ha. Businessmen don’t leave blood on their boots.
Businessmen don’t need guards who follow their families around like trained dogs.
Businessmen don’t have enemies who try to kill their teenage daughters just to make a point.
And businessmen don’t break their wives so badly they forget how to live.
I’d seen enough blood to know: my father was no businessman. He was a predator in a suit.
He never told me what exactly he did. He didn’t need to. I grew up watching armed men drift in and out of our house like shadows—guns tucked under coats, blood on their suits. I heard enough behind closed doors to understand.
People talked about the war like it was everywhere. In this house, it barely existed.
If anything, it made things easier for men like my father.
Ukraine didn’t change. The rules stayed the same—you were either powerful or invisible.
Criminal or starving. There was no clean money.
No honest men. And if you thought the police or the enforcement system were any better, you were naive.
Most of them had sold themselves to the same rot, trading badges for envelopes and silence for survival.
Criminals did whatever they wanted in broad daylight because they knew the strongest always walked free.
Maybe there were a few decent ones, the kind who still believed they could change something.
But around here, men like that didn’t last. They either bent… or they ended up buried.
So no, it didn’t bother me that my father was feared. That people crossed the street when they saw his car. That his business partners always smiled too wide and left looking paler than they came.
What bothered me was that he didn’t care.
Not about me. Not about my mother. Not about anyone who wasn’t a useful piece on his board.
He was a control freak to the bone. Every step I took, every meal I ate, every word I spoke in public had been rehearsed or corrected.
I was raised like an asset—groomed for obedience, polished to impress.
And when the time came, I knew he’d marry me off to whoever extended his reach.
Some son of an oligarch. A politician’s heir. Whoever brought the highest return.
That’s what I was to him. A future transaction. He never even considered me his heir—not someone to teach, to shape, to lead. Just a daughter. Just a girl. And in his world, that meant I was currency, not legacy.
So no, I wasn’t surprised my mother checked out years ago. Especially not after that night. Whatever was left of her—whatever made her a person—broke then. And what was left was just... drift. I was just surprised I’d lasted this long without doing the same.
Anyway, I was on my way to her suite. And that’s when I saw him.
Standing by my father’s office.
Still as stone. Not leaning. Not fidgeting. Just... there. Like a guard dog. Or a soldier waiting on orders.
My father always said I should stay upstairs when new blood arrived. His men were dangerous, he’d say. Rough. Uncivilized. And maybe that was true.
But I was too curious not to check him out.
Even though my father controlled everything—I still had my instincts. And right then, my instincts told me to go down the stairs.
Not because I was brave. Because I was bored.
Because boredom made me reckless, and recklessness made things interesting. Even if it got me burned.
So I went. Slippers padding softly against the floor, silk robe slipping over my thighs, no real plan except to look. To study. To poke the bear and see what it did.
He looked like a mistake I’d enjoy making.
Tall and solid, built like a wall. Blonde hair, messy and just long enough to run your fingers through—if he ever let you close.
And God—those arms. Thick and tense under his jacket, like he could rip the seams just by flexing. His hands were covered in tattoos—even his fingers inked with sharp, dark lines that hinted at violence and precision. Heavy. Veined. Calloused in all the right places.
I slowed my stride, letting the silk fall how it wanted—careless, calculated. He didn’t have to look. I just had to know he could.
He didn’t so much as blink.
He looked at me like I was a chair. Or a wall. Or maybe a problem.
Which irritated me more than it should have.
I was Kira Sokolova. People noticed me.
I crossed my arms under my chest. “You’re new.”
Nothing. Not even a nod.
His attention flicked over me once, sharp and clean. That’s when I saw his eyes—piercing blue beneath thick, messy brows that looked like they’d never been tamed. And then he went back to standing like a statue—except statues didn’t breathe like that. They didn’t have thighs like that either.
“You’re supposed to bow,” I said coolly. “Or at least pretend I’m interesting.”
“I don’t bow. And I don’t fake interest either.”
His voice was smooth. Deep. The kind that settles low in your stomach and tightens everything under your robe.
God, his neck was thick, ink wrapped all the way around it—dark lines and symbols climbing from his collar to his jaw. The tattoos traced every inch of him, and all I could think about was dragging my tongue along them, tasting the heat beneath.
Does he have tattoos under that shirt?
Under all of it?
I tried not to picture it. I failed.
“No manners, then,” I said. “Father won’t like that.”
“He’ll survive. I’m not here to charm his... Whoever you are.”
That made me blink.
The nerve of him—cold, unreadable, smug. I should’ve been insulted. Instead, I was turned on.
I stepped closer. “You’re ambitious.”
His eyes finally landed on mine. Focused. He still didn’t move. But I swear the air between us shifted.
And then he said it—
“Careful, Malaya.”
I went still.
Little one.
The word slid over my skin like a private claim. My pulse jumped hard enough to hurt, heat rushing straight between my thighs before I could stop it. It wasn’t the nickname. It was the ownership in it—the quiet certainty that he could get under my skin and stay there.
He had no right. And yet… it hit.
I clenched my jaw. “Call me that again and see what happens.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, smirk cutting across his face like a knife. The kind of smile that says: try me.
My father’s voice cracked through the door—
“Maksym. In here.”
Maksym. It didn’t sound like a guard’s name. It sounded like trouble. I could already hear myself screaming it.
He passed so close I caught a breath of him—clean, lethal, addictive. I even forgot how to breathe until the door clicked shut.