Page 6 of Owned By The Bratva King

When the concierge sees us, he darts out from behind his desk. If he notices Roman’s lack of a shirt beneath his winter coat, he doesn’t comment. It’s as though his life depends on satisfying his every whim, and who knows, maybe it does.

“Mr. Kazanov, welcome back!”

“Serge.” Roman acknowledges the man with the slightest of nods. “My suite has been serviced as I requested in my message?”

“Of course. I walked it through myself. If there’s anything else?—”

Roman dismisses the man with a wave. “It’ll be fine. When Leon arrives, receive him in the private lounge. This lady is not to be disturbed.”

“As you say, sir. Good evening.”

The elevator ride is suffocating. The walls feel like they’re closing in, the air thick with tension. Roman’s presence is overpowering; each second feels like an eternity, the silence broken only by the distant hum of the elevator’s mechanics. Beneath the coppery scent of blood, there’s something else. Tobacco flower, amber, clean skin. It makes me want to breathe him deep into me and hold him there.

When the doors open, Roman leads me into a vast suite that redefines my understanding of luxury.

The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking city view, and the elegant furnishings are a mix of modern and classic. The room is bathed in lamplight, illuminating every detail, from the intricate patterns on the rug to the glistening crystal chandeliers hanging from above. Each step is like walking into a dream world where everything is perfectly placed and nothing is out of reach.

My companion watches me, his face unreadable. “We’ll stay here a while,” he says, his voice carrying a note of command I’m beginning to recognize.

What does he think I am? He can’t just do what he wants with me, can he?

Yes. Yes, he can.

“But…with you?” I say, glancing around. “I—I can’t?—”

He shakes his head. “No, rusalka. I should have explained. There are two bedrooms. I’m not going home now; people there’ll want to talk, and I’m tired. My shoulder hurts like fuck. All I need is Tylenol and sleep.”

We stare at one another. This isn’t a trick; he means it. I’m not used to people telling me the truth, and it must show on my face.

“You’ve had a hard life, haven’t you?” he asks. “I see it. Why don’t you have anywhere to live?”

“I was sharing an apartment with an old lady, and when she got sick, she moved into a care home. It was her tenancy, and the landlord wanted to me to sign on for quadruple the previous monthly rate, so I had to leave.”

Roman scowls. “Doesn’t sound like it was worth whatever you were paying in the first place, let alone four times that.”

His sneering judgment of my former living situation catches me off guard, and an angry sob escapes me. “For your information, I liked it a lot,” I say, feeling a pang of loss for my run-down apartment. “It wasn’t much, but it was mine. Now I have nothing—less than nothing, even.” I wipe my eyes with my sleeve. “You could never comprehend that.”

“Maybe not. Let me show you to your room.”

He opens a door to reveal a bedroom straight out of a movie. The bed is massive, dressed in the finest linens, and the amber glow of the lamps bathes the room in warmth.

I’m dazzled and a little bit lost. I’ve never seen anything like this nor dared to dream of it. My eyes land on a pile of women’s clothing strewn across a nearby chair, and I can’t help but feel uneasy.

“Do you have many women staying here with you?” I ask, my curiosity fighting against the knot in my stomach.

“I do not.” He laughs, showing me those attractive dimples again, and runs his hand through his hair. “Serge got you a selection of garment choices for your comfort. Put your work things outside the door for the laundry. You’ll find your ensuite stocked. Now, excuse me, but I need to go to my room and shower, then go back out.”

“Um, yeah. Sure.”

Roman turns to leave, but something stops him, and he steps toward me, closing the space between us. My calves bump into the bed, and a high-pitched gasp of alarm jolts me as he reaches for my throat. I turn to ice, panic tearing through my chest.

A memory flashes through my mind as Roman’s hand touches my neck.

A cruel grip, a sneering face. You’re worthless, he’d say, his breath hot against my skin.

The fear, the helplessness—it all comes rushing back.

“Jesus, Quinn,” Roman whispers. “Someone fucking hurt you, didn’t they? Tell me.”

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