The Bratva Enforcer’s Virgin Debt (Rusnak Bratva #9)

Chapter 1 – Raelyn

“Be careful,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “It’s just research. Why’s he acting like I’m a spy for a criminal organization?”

A student passing by gives me a look for talking to myself. I flash him a mind-your-business grin and keep walking, clutching my assignment printouts to my chest while sliding my bag higher up my arm.

It’s noon. I’m exhausted. And more than a little irritated.

Professor Kieran’s reaction still needles me.

I expected him to be proud of my work, but his expression was too cautious, too stiff, like I’d wandered into a minefield instead of submitting a criminology paper.

He praised my analysis, my sources, and my attention to patterns.

Then he went quiet before telling me I’m “digging too deep.” He suggested I redirect my focus.

Redirect.

As if curiosity is something you can switch off.

All I want now is to get home, eat Ellie’s pie, and drown the day in milk tea and silence.

The criminology building is packed at this hour. The hallway buzzes with noise—voices overlapping, shoes scuffing against tile, laughter bouncing off the walls. I weave through the crowd with practiced ease, nudging past backpacks and elbows, my boots striking a steady rhythm against the floor.

Noise doesn’t bother me. Never has.

My paper—”Digital Crime Networks and Adaptive Syndicate Structures”—is something I actually care about.

Not just academically. Personally. It’s a tribute, whether Professor Kieran sees it or not.

A nod to the instincts I inherit from my father, the man who taught me to question patterns and follow what doesn’t want to be seen.

Professor Kieran says I’m digging too deep.

I shrug it off.

It is academic.

Everything in that paper comes from open sources, historical cases, and my own analysis. No classified material. No lines crossed. No laws broken.

If Professor Kieran is too soft to understand that, that’s on him.

Not my problem.

I tighten my grip on the papers and keep moving.

I turn the corner—and walk straight into someone. Solid. Unmoving. Like I’ve slammed into a wall that breathes.

My papers fly from my hands, scattering across the floor. My heart lurches in embarrassment, heat rushing to my face as I drop to my knees to gather them.

“I’m so sorry—” I start, already bracing for irritation.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, there’s a presence beside me. Close. Quiet. Heavy in a way that makes the air feel different.

I look up.

The man kneeling across from me is watching me with storm-gray eyes, unnervingly calm and sharply observant. He’s not startled or annoyed. As if this exact moment was anticipated. As if I’m an interruption he expected.

Something tightens low in my stomach.

He’s dressed in charcoal and black, elegant but understated—no logos, no excess.

Every line of him is deliberate. Controlled.

His gaze strips through me with unsettling precision, and I have the strange, irrational sense that he’s seeing things I haven’t said aloud. Things I don’t even know how to name.

I don’t like it.

I also can’t look away.

My fingers fumble with the papers, suddenly clumsy. I’m too aware of how close he is. Of the quiet confidence rolling off him. Of the fact that my pulse has kicked up for no reason I can explain.

He rises smoothly to his feet, and the afternoon sun slices through the corridor windows, catching in his ash-blond hair and lighting it like fire. The effect is jarring—beautiful in a way that feels dangerous rather than inviting.

My breath stutters.

This makes no sense. I don’t react to strangers like this. I don’t freeze. I don’t feel pulled, drawn toward someone I’ve never seen before.

Yet something in me recognizes that I’m standing too close to the edge of something sharp and knowing—without evidence—that it could cut me if I lean in.

And God help me…a part of me wants to lean.

What? What is wrong with me? Maybe the school stress is frying my brain. There’s no other explanation for this.

I scoop up the last of my papers and rise to my feet, unable to hold his storm-gray gaze—and just as unable to look away from it. The hallway noise fades, like someone has turned the world down a notch.

“Th-thank you,” I say awkwardly, clutching the stack to my chest.

Why am I stuttering like a fool? I never stutter.

His response is immediate. Low. Controlled.

“You’re welcome.”

Two words. That’s all.

They steal the breath right out of my lungs.

His voice carries a quiet authority that settles under my skin, and I have the strange, disorienting sensation that he’s listening to more than my words. Like he’s cataloging something about me—my posture, my expression, the way my fingers tighten around the papers.

As he hands me the last page, his gaze flicks down.

Stops.

I feel it the second he sees the title.

“Digital Crime Networks and Adaptive Syndicate Structures.”

Something in his expression shifts—so subtle I almost miss it. His eyes lift back to mine, searching now. Curious and assessing.

“Did you write this?” he asks.

I nod, suddenly flustered. “Y-yeah. It’s part of my semester project. Just research,” I add quickly. “Nothing important.”

The words tumble out too fast.

His gaze lingers on me for one long, unreadable beat

“Brilliant,” he says.

I blink. “What?”

“May I see it?”

Brilliant?

Exactly. Exactly! This is the reaction I expect from Professor Kieran. Not the warnings. Not the caution tape. Recognition. Appreciation.

Without thinking too hard about it, I hand him the entire report.

The moment the papers leave my hands, something tightens in my chest. A strange awareness settles over me—like I’ve just offered up more than ink and stapled pages. Like I want him to see it. Want his approval in a way that makes no sense.

He flips through the report with clinical precision, eyes moving quickly, efficiently. No skimming. No performative nodding. He studies my work on encrypted syndicates, shell networks, fragmentation models—absorbing it with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

I’ve never been looked at like this.

Not really.

My cheeks warm under the weight of his attention, heat crawling up my neck as if I’m the thing being examined instead of the paper. I shift my weight, suddenly aware of my posture, my breathing, the way my fingers curl at my sides.

He stops.

Looks at me.

“It’s rare,” he says quietly.

That’s all.

My stomach flips.

Embarrassment rushes in first. Then curiosity. Then something unsteady and unfamiliar, like my footing has shifted without warning.

Take that, Professor Kieran, I think smugly. Ah.

But even as the small victory sparks, my focus keeps snapping back to the man in front of me—to the way his calm feels both soothing and dangerous in equal measure.

I don’t understand why I’m drawn to him.

I just know that I am.

And that scares me more than anything in my life.

“Um,” I say, my voice softer now, uncertain. “What’s your name?”

For a moment, I think he isn’t going to answer at all.

Then he looks at me—and speaks.

“Raelyn.”

My breath catches.

I laugh, short and nervous, because surely I misheard him. My brows knit together as I frown. “How do you—”

The question dies in my throat.

Because he doesn’t look amused. Or surprised. Or apologetic.

He looks certain.

Something cold slides down my spine. I freeze in place, confusion turning sharp, alarm buzzing just beneath my skin. I open my mouth to ask again—how he knows my name, who he is, why this suddenly feels like a mistake—but he’s already handing my report back to me.

His fingers brush the edge of the paper. Not my skin. Somehow, that feels intentional.

“Be careful what you study,” he says quietly.

I look up, my heart hammering.

“Some networks look back.”

Then he steps past me.

Just like that.

The space where he stood feels suddenly empty, the air thinner, the noise of the hallway rushing back in too loud, too fast. Students move around me, laughing, talking, living their lives.

I turn, searching for him.

He’s gone.

And I’m left standing there with my papers clutched to my chest, pulse racing, instincts screaming, one terrifying thought echoing in my head: He knew my name.

I tell myself he’s nothing. Just another academic. A consultant, maybe. Someone visiting campus. He looks scholarly enough, and the way he reacts to my research—calling it brilliant—means he clearly knows a thing or two.

That has to be it.

Still.

My God.

What an attractive man.

I step out of the criminology building and realize I’m still thinking about him. I’ve never seen him before. And the thought hits me suddenly, sharply.

What if I never see him again?

The idea shouldn’t bother me.

It does.

Before I know it, I’m unlocking the door to my apartment, which is just off campus. I usually take a cab home because the walk feels long, especially after a full day. But somehow I’ve trekked the distance without noticing a single step.

I don’t remember the walk at all.

All because I’m thinking about a stranger I’ll likely never meet again.

The apartment smells like strawberry sugar and cinnamon the moment I step inside. I breathe it in deeply, grounding myself, then drop my bag and report onto the couch before heading toward the kitchen.

It’s a two-bedroom apartment I share with Ellie Carver—my best friend.

Ellie is the sweetest girl alive. Sometimes I worry the world will take advantage of that.

We’re polar opposites, which is probably why we work so well together.

She’s warm, sunlit, and gentle, with long honey-blonde hair and kind brown eyes.

She wears soft sweaters and floral sundresses and keeps her notebooks color-coded.

I don’t care for any of that.

But I love her. So much.

I wouldn’t have survived this program without her. While I’m obsessed with finding my father and keeping his legacy alive, Ellie is my quiet strength—the one who brings me soup, reminds me to sleep, and writes me two-page reminders before exams.

I find her in the kitchen, decorating cookies, completely absorbed.

Before she notices me, I walk over and lean into her with a groan.

“Elliiie,” I groan, resting my forehead against her shoulder.

She laughs softly and glances sideways at me. “What? Professor Kieran bothering you again?”

I straighten and step away, rolling my eyes. “He’s too soft. As usual.” I pause, frowning. “But that’s not it.”

Ellie sets the cookie down and turns fully toward me now. “Okay,” she says gently. “Then what is it?”

I hesitate, suddenly self-conscious. That alone should tell me something’s wrong.

“I ran into this man today,” I say finally.

Her brows lift immediately. “Ran into how?”

“Literally,” I admit. “In the hallway.”

“And?” she prompts, clearly entertained.

“And he was….” I trail off, searching for the right word. Annoyingly aware of how warm my face feels. “Handsome. Like—ridiculously handsome. Calm. Intense. He looked at my research and called it brilliant.”

Ellie gasps.

An actual gasp.

I shoot her a look. “Don’t.”

She presses a hand to her chest dramatically. “I have never heard you talk about a man like this. Ever. You don’t even compliment celebrities.”

I roll my eyes. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Mm-hmm,” she hums, unconvinced. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

I grab a cookie off the tray and bite into it just to give my mouth something to do. “He was just…different,” I say, quieter now. “That’s all.”

Ellie studies me for a moment, her teasing expression softening into curiosity.

“Well,” she says lightly, “whoever he is, he clearly made an impression.”

I shake my head. “Yes. But not because he’s handsome. Because he knew my name.”

Her eyes widen, and I see worry creeping in. “Wait…how did he know your name?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

She puts her hands on her hips and frowns. “You’re not taking this seriously? A literal stranger knows your name, and you just shrug?”

“I think he’s an academic or something,” I say, trying to sound casual.

“That doesn’t explain anything,” she mutters, still scowling.

Her worry makes me nervous. I set the rest of the cookies down and admit, “Well…I don’t know how he knows.”

She goes quiet for a moment, then her face brightens slightly. “Did your report have your name on it? Maybe that’s how. You did hand it to him, right? I don’t know why you’d even do that.”

I freeze. Wait. Why didn’t I think of that?

Yes. Of course. My name is on the report. That’s the only way.

I run back to the living room to check. Sure enough—my name is scribbled across the top, a little heart drawn above it. Tiny, innocuous, but he saw it. That’s it. That’s how he knew.

I laugh, relief washing over me.

I return to the kitchen, grinning. “Ellie, you’re so smart.” I plant a quick kiss on her cheek.

“For someone who studies criminology, it takes a while for your brain to catch up sometimes.”

“Hey!” I call, laughing.

She laughs too.

Ellie is studying forensic linguistics and has a talent for analyzing speech patterns, written threats, anonymous messages, and ransom notes. She’s brilliant, but we have a running joke where we undermine each other’s programs, claiming ours is the best.

She plates my cookies and hands them over. “Here. Eat this. I’ll bring you tea. Go. Go.”

“Thanks, Ellie. You’re the best. For real.”

“Go!” she laughs again.

I wander back into the living room, letting Ellie, her delicious cookies, and the peace of our apartment pull my mind away from the handsome stranger.