Page 15 of Owned By The Bratva King

I have a dossier on her already, courtesy of Leon. People who are accustomed to mob machinations would expect this kind of bullshit, but she is innocent. She’s clueless about the implications of attracting the attention of a bastard like me. I have boundless patience and unlimited means, as she’s finding out.

I will own every sweet inch of her, and no force on Earth or beyond will stop me; I’m in hock way too deep with the Almighty to worry about pissing him off further. The Devil loves this kind of shit—he has eternity and a stiff drink waiting for me.

My car is parked in the shade of a hanging willow at the far side of the lot. She can’t see me, but my binoculars give me the advantage, and I study her face, the sadness in her soul coloring her beautiful eyes. Her landlord just gave her the good news, so why is she so sad?

God fucking dammit. There’s nothing I can do to make this stunning woman happy. Sure, I can make her mine—nothing she can do about that. She has no power to evade my obsession, not if her life depended on it.

But no amount of money will make up for whatever corrodes Quinn inside. She’s been brutalized and hurt when she was too young to protect herself, and it boils my blood. Someone will pay dearly for wounding my rusalka’s delicate heart.

Rusalka. That’s what she is; a siren, a mythical beauty who’s caught me in her spell. I might crash on the rocks and die, but what a way to go.

For once in my life, I’m uncertain what to do next. If I walk in there, she’ll know for sure I’m behind all this, and I’d rather delay the point where she screams at me to fuck off and leave her alone. It’s too much fun to stalk her, and the taste of her sugary skin is still sweet on my tongue.

A cab pulls up, and Quinn gets in. I watch it drive away, wondering why I’m not following. She has her bakery job and her apartment. She doesn’t need anything else from me. I should move on.

I reach into my pocket and retrieve the silk camisole she slept in last night. I was surprised she left all the clothes, but the cami was still warm when I sneaked into her room this morning.

Quinn was in the shower. I put her clean uniform on the bed, installed a covert location tracking app on her phone, and stashed the money in her purse.

When I was finished, I didn’t leave. I stayed, my eyes fixed on the en-suite bathroom door. Behind it, she was naked and wet. Waiting for me. My cock swells at the memory, chafing in my suit pants.

I shouldn’t have done it, but I don’t regret it. I nudged the door open and saw the steamy shower cubicle. It was fogged but not enough to hide her from view.

She had her back to me, washing her hair. Suds flowed down her back and into the crack of her round ass, making me bite my lip to suppress a moan of longing. I wanted to see my come running over her just like that.

Her body was a fucking knockout, curvaceous and shiny as a double bass, and I was desperate to get in there and stretch out her tight pussy.

Then she turned around.

It’s too much. I free my cock, passing the soft material of the camisole over the sensitive tip.

How she didn’t see me, I’ll never know. She must shower with her eyes closed. But God knows I saw her. Sweet belly rolls, curvy hips. Glistening tits, pert and natural. Thick thighs framing chubby pink pussy lips, crowned with a neat tuft of blondish curls.

I pump my hand faster. Am I really coming here, in a nursing home parking lot, at the mere thought of Quinn in the shower? Dead right. My pulse pounds in the vein of my shaft, and I arch my back as I climax, imagining pumping my come into Quinn’s clutching cunt.

I catch my breath and clean up before pondering my next move. This morning, it was no problem. I backed out so she wouldn’t see me watching, then let her go. Easy.

The part of me that likes to call me on my bullshit pipes up. It’s not exactly hard to let a woman walk away when you’ve got her tagged like a pet, buddy. And you’ve been unable to resist jerking off to her twice since you met, what, nine hours ago? Way to go, Mr. Self Control.

I decide to head home. She’ll no doubt go to her apartment, and I can’t wait to see what she thinks of the improvements, but I don’t have to be there to find out.

Quinn is my pet; I am her owner. I have my ways. Watching is good, but I need more.

12

Quinn

Krelborn wasn’t lying. He meets me at his office and escorts me to the door of my erstwhile home.

“Your tenancy is right here,” he says, handing me a folder. “According to the paperwork, no rent payments are due for the foreseeable future.”

There’s obviously been a mistake, but I’m not about to point it out to him. The guy has had a bad day—no need to rub it in.

He holds out the keys, but when I reach for them, he snatches them out of my grasp and unlocks the door. “You don’t deserve this, you know,” he hisses as I push past.

I never saw the place look this good. The laminate floor has been replaced with sturdy walnut boards, and the formerly beige kitchen glistens in bright white. There’s a new cooker, too.

I notice a red letter on the counter and freeze, thinking it’s a final demand. I’ve seen many bills and bailiff threats in my lifetime. At a second glance, the envelope is expensive-looking, and on the front, my name is written in a refined, slanting hand.

---