Page 83 of Emperor of Wrath

“You want me to make this slutty little pussy come, my good girl?”

My whole face scrunches up, and my mouth falls open as I prepare to fall over the edge.

Abruptly, Kenzo’s finger slips out of me. He yanks his hand out of my sweats as my eyes fly open in confusion and protest.

What—!

Kenzo is smiling coldly at me, his eyes full of gloating smugness as he leans close to my ear again.

“Hard. Pass.”

I choke and sputter.

“Enjoy the blue balls, princess.”

Without another word, he turns and walks out of the kitchen, leaving me shaking and clinging to the counter, with a mortifying and now uncomfortable wetness dripping down my thighs.

Asshole.

16

ANNIKA

Even though I’ve been here about a zillion times, I’m always struck by the sheer opulence of Kir’s mansion whenever I step inside. Or even drive through the grand front gates, past the guards that watch as you make your way up the curved white-stone driveway to the massive front door beneath the portico.

I mean, the place is gorgeous.

Kir keeps an apartment in Manhattan, but he’s had this house up in the Bronx for years. It’s an older home that was once owned by the Vanderbilts—yeah, those Vanderbilts—during the Gilded Age, complete with gold inlay everything, white and rose marble, soaring vaulted ceilings, and priceless impressionist and modern art on the walls. The grounds are gorgeous, with roses, fountains and perfectly manicured hedges, and it even boasts an underground garage large enough for Kir’s—and Damian’s—vast collection of classic cars.

I remember almost being put off by the display of wealth at first. I mean, I grew up with money—Taylor and I lived extremely well in Serbia, in a mansion bigger than this one, with sprawling, fairytale grounds—but there’s an added…something to Kir’s estate that gives it an edge.

Maybe it’s the fact that this is only one of seven homes he owns, all equally breathtaking.

For a long time, when I was out on my own, money like that didn’t make you powerful to me; it made you a mark. I also equated wealth with lousy character. The people I’d encountered who had that sort of money were almost always insufferable, arrogant shitheads.

But Kir changed my thoughts on that as he moved from someone I did business with to essentially family. Because he really is different. He came from nothing, bled, fought, and almost died on the streets, and then built an empire from scratch. Now, he’s a literal billionaire who runs one of the most powerful Bratva families on the planet, and even sits at the Iron Table.

There’s no arrogance or shitty character. Just steely resolve and unwavering strength.

And, okay, a little dash of violence. That’s the Bratva for you.

I find him in his office, pacing the room with a scowl on his face and his phone glued to his ear. He catches sight of me but doesn’t smile, just shoots me a look and holds up a finger up before whirling to bark into the phone in Russian.

I used to think it was odd that Kir never married, or even dated. For a while, Freya and I nurtured a pet theory that he was gay but closeted because he had decided that having a boyfriend wasn’t a good look for him as head of a major Bratva family. Which is a stupid idea, but who knows.

As time went on, though, we ditched that theory. It’s not that Kir prefers the company of men. He’s just married to his empire.

A little over forty, the man has the physique of a professional athlete half his age, outrageous good looks, a full head of hair, and piercing blue eyes.

And, for real. The guy needs some female company in his life besides Frey and me. Like, that kind of female company.

I wait until he’s done tearing someone a new one in Russian. When he’s done with the call, he rolls his neck and cracks his knuckles before turning back to me.

“You,” he grunts, as in “Your turn to get chewed out.”

I frown. “What? I wanted to talk to you about this insane idea that I’m moving to fucking Japan?—”

“Sit.”

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