2. Ilya
ILYA
"YOU ARCH-VILLAIN SON OF A BITCH! PUT ME DOWN! I WILL BITE YOUR FREAKING EAR OFF! DO YOU HEAR ME?"
She’s been screaming since I threw her over my shoulders, a high-pitched sound that’s currently vibrating directly into my kidney.
Most women scream when I take them—a thin, pathetic sound that dies in their throats when they realize no one is coming to save them.
But this girl? She doesn't stop. She even has the audacity to threaten me.
I adjust my grip on her thighs, hoisting her higher over my shoulder.
The white lace of her wedding dress is scratchy against my neck, and the sheer volume of fabric is a goddamn nightmare to navigate through the rubble.
"Dimitri," I grunt, not looking back.
"Path’s clear, Boss," my second-in-command says. I hear the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of his rifle as he picks off the last of Petr’s stragglers near the side exit. "SUV is idling. We need to move. The police are ten minutes out, and they aren't paid enough to ignore a cathedral exploding."
I don't respond. I’m too busy trying to keep the bride from kicking me in the windpipe.
"Let! Me! Go!" she shrieks, punctuating each word with a fist to my lower back. "You’re a dead man! My father is going to have your head on a—"
I’ve had enough. I stop in the middle of the debris-strewn alleyway. I swing my hand back and deliver a stinging, loud crack of a spank right across the center of her lace-covered ass.
Smack.
The sound echoes off the brick walls. Via goes stiff as a board, her breath hitching in a sharp, incredulous gasp.
"Shut the fuck up, Viallentinka," I growl, my voice sounding like it was dragged through a gutter. "Or I will reach into that pretty mouth and pull your tongue out by the root. Do you understand me?"
She doesn't answer. Good. I reach the SUV and Dimitri flings the door open. I drop her onto the leather seat and climb in right after her, slamming the door shut.
The lock engages with a heavy, metallic clunk—the sound of a tomb closing.
She scrambles to the far side of the seat, her hair a wild, golden bird’s nest of tangled curls and pieces of stone dust.
Her veil is hanging off one ear, and her lipstick is smeared. She doesn’t look broken. She looks ready to clear my claw my eyes out.
I take a breath, trying to steady my own pulse.
The adrenaline from the hit is still humming in my veins, but there’s something else there now. Something darker.
I think back to an hour ago.
I’d seen her file. I’d seen the grainy surveillance photos of the "Bratva Princess" sitting in the back of black cars or walking through her father’s gardens.
In the photos, she looked soft. Delicate.
Like a piece of porcelain Petr had spent twenty years polishing.
I hadn't even really looked at her face. I was too busy calculating the interest on Mikhail’s debt.
To me, she was just a line item, a piece of leverage to be traded.
Then I walked through those doors.
The smoke was clearing, and I saw her standing there on that altar. She was trembling so hard, I thought she might actually shatter. She looked like she was on the verge of death from pure terror. In that split second, it amused me.
I like fear. I understand it.
It’s the only honest emotion people have.
But then she looked at me.
She didn't have the eyes of a victim. She had eyes like a cornered lioness—defiant, angry, and so goddamn full of life it made my heart stop for a beat. I’ve killed hundreds of men, and most of them died with a dull, vacant look in their eyes.
But Via? Her eyes were a challenge. They told me to go to hell in three different ways before I’d even said a word.
I wanted her immediately. Not for the debt. Not for the leverage. I wanted to see if I could make that fire in her eyes burn for me instead of against me.
"Where are you taking me?" she demands. She’s trying to tuck her hair back, her fingers shaking, but her voice is steady. "If you think my father is going to just let you walk away with me, you’re delusional."
I lean back against the seat, stretching my legs out. The car lurches forward, the tires screeching as we pull away from the wreckage of the cathedral. Dimitri is in the front, eyes on the mirrors, rifle across his lap.
"Your father is currently busy trying to find enough of his men to form a funeral procession," I say, my voice cold.
"Mikhail—"
"Mikhail is dead," I cut her off. I don't tell her about the ports.
I don't tell her about the skimming. I don't owe her an explanation for why I killed the man she was about to marry.
"He couldn't pay his debts. So I took the next best thing he had. I took you. You’re mine now, Viallentinka. Get used to the idea."
"I am not an object!" she snaps, her eyes flashing. "You can't just 'take' a human being because of a debt that has nothing to do with them!"
"In my world, I can do whatever the fuck I want.
" I check the slide on my Glock, the mechanical click sounding loud in the quiet cabin. "You’re lucky I’m the one who found you.
Mikhail was a thief and a coward. He was using you as a shield.
Do you really want to mourn a man who would let you take a bullet for him? "
She flinches, her gaze dropping to the floor of the car. For a second, I think I’ve broken her. I think the "princess" is finally going to cry.
"I wasn't mourning him," she whispers. Then she looks up, her lip curling. "I was just thinking that even he had better taste in clothes than you. Nice suit, by the way. Did you buy the 'Cliché Villain Starter Pack' or does the 'Obsidian-Eyed Psychopath' look come free with the kidnapping?"
I stare at her. The silence in the car stretches, heavy and thick. Dimitri clears his throat softly, probably waiting for me to break her jaw.
Instead, I feel a slow, dark heat spreading through my gut.
"You have a very sharp tongue for a girl who is currently trapped in a soundproof box with a monster," I say.
"I've spent twenty years with monsters, Ilya. You’re just the one with the biggest ego."
I move.
I’m fast—faster than she expects. Before she can even gasp, I’ve slid across the seat and pinned her against the leather. My hand goes straight for her throat.
I don't just rest it there. I squeeze.
Not enough to crush her windpipe, but enough to make her gasp, her eyes widening as the air supply thins. I want her to feel the monster. I want her to see the lack of restraint in my eyes.
"Listen to me very carefully, little bird," I rasp, leaning in until our noses are almost touching.
"Mikhail is dead. He’s a memory. And your father?
If he sends one man after this car, if he even breathes in the direction of my territory, I will send him back his favorite daughter in a dozen different boxes. Do you understand?"
Her pulse is frantic under my palm. Thump-thump, thump-thump. It’s like a trapped bird. But she doesn't look away. She stares into my eyes, her face starting to flush from the pressure on her neck.
"Go to hell," she wheezes.
I smile, and I know it’s a terrifying sight. "I’m already there, sweetheart. I’m just bringing you along for the ride."
I shift my weight, my body pressing her deeper into the seat. The white lace of her dress is thin—so thin, I can feel the heat of her skin through it. I can feel the curve of her hips, the softness of her belly, and the way her legs are trying to kick me. And then I see it.
Through the silk and lace of her bodice, her nipples have hardened into tight little peaks.
I freeze. My brain short-circuits for a second. She’s terrified. She hates me. She’s currently being choked by a man who just murdered her fiancé and blew up her wedding. But her body... her body is reacting to me.
"Are you aroused, Viallentinka?" I ask, my voice dropping into a low, carnal growl. I ease the pressure on her throat just enough for her to breathe, but I don't let go. I move my thumb, tracing the line of her jaw. "Does the 'cliché villain' make your heart race?"
Her face goes from pale to a brilliant, angry red. "I'm not—it's cold in here! You’re a delusional pig!"
"The heater is on full blast," I murmur. I lean down, my mouth hovering just an inch from the sensitive skin of her neck. "And your heart isn't just racing. It’s screaming for me."
I can smell her now. Really smell her. Under the scent of the cathedral dust and the copper tang of Mikhail’s blood, there’s something else. Lilies. Vanilla. And the sharp, intoxicating scent of female arousal. It’s a drug. It hits my system and turns my blood to molten lead.
I want to bite her. I want to sink my teeth into that pale, perfect neck and mark her so deeply, she’ll never forget who owns her. I want to rip this virginal white dress off her and see what she looks like when she’s not hiding behind lace.
"Don't," she whispers, her voice finally cracking. "Don't touch me. I will kill you. I swear on my mother’s grave, if you touch me, I will wait until you’re sleeping and I will open your throat."
I laugh. It’s a low, dark sound that vibrates in the space between us. I shift again, my thigh sliding between hers, forcing her legs apart. The volume of the dress is the only thing keeping us from being skin-to-skin, and I hate it.
"I’d like to see you try," I whisper against her skin. "But we both know that’s not what’s going to happen. You’re going to spend every night in my bed, wondering how a monster can make you feel things your 'safe' man never could."
I lift my head, looking down at her. She looks wrecked. Her hair is everywhere, her lips are parted, and her eyes... those defiant, beautiful eyes, are wide and glazed with a mixture of fear and heat.
Suddenly, she snaps. Her hand flies up, aiming a sharp, open-palmed slap at my face.
I catch her wrist inches from my skin.
I don't just hold it. I twist it slightly, forcing her hand back, and then I pin both of her wrists above her head with one hand. I use my other hand to grip her chin, forcing her to look at me.
"You want to play rough, Via?" I growl. "I can play rougher than you can imagine."
I lean in, my lips brushing against hers. I don't kiss her. Not yet. I just breathe her in, my lungs burning with the scent of her. I can feel her breath hitting my lips, hot and fast. I want to devour her. I want to taste the fire in her soul and make it mine.
"You’re mine now," I whisper, my mouth so close, I can feel the moisture of her lips. "And I’m going to enjoy every second of breaking you."
She lets out a raw, guttural sound—half sob, half snarl—and tries to shove me off with her body. I just press harder, my weight a heavy, immovable force.
I’m carnal for her. I can feel my own control fraying, the professional Pakhan being swallowed by the hungry beast she’s woken up.
"Drive faster, Dimitri," I command, my voice sounding like it’s coming from the bottom of a grave. "I want her in the house. Now."
I lean down again, my teeth grazing the shell of her ear, and I hear her gasp—a sound that isn't entirely fear.
I'm not letting go. Not today. Not ever.