Page 61 of Owned By The Bratva King

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.” He grins wickedly. “Oh, Quinn. I’ve been such a bad boy.” He reaches behind me and cups my bare ass, squeezing. “Let me see; I came into your apartment and read your dirty little story. And when you were here before, I sneaked into your room and watched you while you were showering. Although, in my defense, I was bringing you your clean laundry.”

“Defense?” I poke his chest, and he laughs. “You’re straight-up crazy. I thought jerking off in my room was the limit. Anything else?”

“I left out part of that.” He bites his lip. “I may have put some of my come on your mouth while you slept, and you licked it away.”

“You filthy son of a bitch.”

“I’d be lying if I said I was sorry, rusalka.” He pulls me closer, grinding his burgeoning erection against me. “It was hot as fuck.”

“You’re depraved, Roman,” His lips brush mine, and I snake my arms around his neck, “but I love it. I never imagined any man would be so feral for me, let alone a man like you.”

“Good job you like it,” he replies. He turns my shoulders so I’m facing the other way. “God knows what I’d have done otherwise, apart from go insane, obviously.”

Roman’s hand reaches in front of me, his strong fingers wrapping my throat. He straightens his thumb below my chin and tilts my head back, directing the water flow over the back of my head.

He presses the dispenser on the wall and deposits a puddle of shampoo into his palm, then releases my neck and works both hands through my hair, building up an herbal-scented lather.

I sigh and lean against him, his fingertips massaging my scalp, and I feel a rush of emotion. I haven’t been cared for so tenderly for longer than I can remember, and it’s so validating. I feel authentic, adored, and valued in a way I believed would always be denied to me.

Roman’s cock is hard between my thighs, but he senses the shift in me and tips my head again, rinsing the suds away.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice warm and reassuring. “Let me take care of you, Quinn. You owe me nothing. It’s my job to treasure my beautiful wife. Anything you need or want, ever; say the word, and I’ll drop everything to make it so.”

I turn to face him, placing my palms on his chest. “Thank you. I wanted to ask—what does rusalka mean?”

“It’s the word for a sea-nymph in Russian folklore,” he replies. “You drew me to you just as the sirens coaxed foolish sailors to their deaths on the rocks. They said the rusalka was a wounded woman whose heart had known pain, and ever after, she was afraid of love.”

“I guess the nickname suits me.”

I soap Roman’s torso, my hands sliding over his skin. “So many scars,” I say. “Are they all near misses? How many times have you almost died?”

“Too often to count,” he says. “But these are the hardest to think about.” He points to a constellation of gouges along his left flank, puckered and silvery now that they’ve healed.

“My sister Bianca was only nine years old. I was twelve and getting into trouble, but nothing ever came of it. My father was a mafia enforcer; I didn’t know that at the time, but that was probably why shit never stuck to me.

A gang of small-timers asked me to join, and I wanted in. We agreed to meet one evening, and the leader said I had to bring my sister along and make her join, too. Bianca didn’t want to, but I talked her into it, and we sneaked out of the house.”

Roman closes his eyes and drops his head, taking a moment to compose himself. Then he takes my hands in his.

“It was bullshit. They didn’t want Bianca; it was part of their hazing ritual. I was meant to stand by as each of the members punched her in the face, to prove my allegiance to the gang over anyone else, including family.”

“So I’m guessing you got these for refusing,” I say, touching the scars.

He nods. “I told them I’d fuck them up if they touched her. Bianca was crying her heart out. It was all my fault she was there at all. The rest of them backed off, but the leader was a real psycho. He pulled a knife and went for us both, but I got in front of Bianca and took the brunt of it.”

As I learn about Roman, he tells me more about the man he is. In some ways, life is worth little to him, yet people—loved and hated—are the axis on which his world turns. He would have died for his sister, but she is no longer alive, and he has to go on.

“Bianca knew you loved her,” I say.

“I couldn’t save her, Quinn.” Roman’s voice is choked with regret. “All I wanted was for her to be safe and untouched by this filth of this city, even if that meant I had to immerse myself in it. But I failed, and she killed herself rather than live in the hell I put her in.”

“I’m sorry, Roman.” I shut off the water. “It’s not all on you, not anymore. Whatever is happening, we’ll face it together. Now, tell me; who is Silvio Vercotti?”

As we dry off and dress, Roman tells me it all—the history, Silvio’s obsessive love for Bianca, and the untimely death of Bianca’s beloved husband, Antonio.

“The attack on Two Pines is a seriously fucked-up thing to do, even for the bratva,” he explains. “The komissiya will require evidence that Silvio was behind it, and even then, they may disagree that it was a targeted attack on you. I’ll need my snitch to corroborate it. Then I might be able to kill Vercotti with their blessing.”

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