Page 32 of The Way You Hurt Me

"Because your name means wolf, right." Then Willow holds the puppy up to me for some reason. I take it automatically. "And she’s ashe. Just look at her, though! She's a miniature wolf, isn't she?"

Sadly, from up close, I see what she means, with the shaggy gray fur and the floppy ears. Those silvery eyes seem somewhat intelligent. She doesn't quite know what to make of me, I think. Then, her paws softly pad up to my face, the tail wagging again, though far less than when she was on the plump tits.

"This is sorcery," I announce, because somehow, I feel myself softening toward the creature. She certainly looks cuter than the rest—and she hasn't peed on me. Yet.

"Why can't you keep her?"

She sighs. "My roommates wouldn't mind, and their grandma owns the apartment, but the building itself has some regulations about pets. No dogs. I asked Anne to check when I first got here."

Ah. I don't tend to think of issues like those, given the fact that I've never rented anything in my life—unless hotel rooms count, and even in that case, more often than not, the hotel belonged to me.

"Do you mind if I use your washer?"

"Of course not. I already said make yourself at home. Down the hall to the left. There are ensuites in most bedrooms on the first floor; feel free to use any, but I recommend the white room. The tub has lovely jets. I'll find you something to wear in the meantime."

"Oh, thanks!"

I'm six foot three, and Willow barely tops five-six; there's nothing I own that wouldn't drown her like elephant skin, so as she heads to the utility room, I walk to the elevator and punch in the fortieth floor.

I knock at the first door, not sure whose it is, exactly. No answer, so I move on to the next.

"Just a minute!" someone calls.

A petite dark-haired woman gasps when she sees me. "Mr. Volkov. I didn't...I wouldn't..."

"Calm down. I'm only here to ask if I can borrow loungewear." She's shorter than Willow, and a little plumper in many places, but it should work.

The girl runs back inside, squeaking an invitation to come in that I ignore, and rushes to her bedroom. She's back minutes later, with a far too large bundle of clothing.

"That's all the yoga pants and tops I have, sir—my nicest ones. You can have them all. Help yourself, please."

I only take the ones on top. "Thank you. I'll wave the next month’s rent."

"Oh, please, sir, there's no need. I... We'reallso grateful for what you're doing for us." She's slipped back into her native Russian by the end of the sentence.

My jaw's tight. She's making me out to be some sort of saint. Irina also teases me about what I do with girls like her. They don't get it. It's not even about them. I quite simply don't want myself, or my name, associated with the kind of crap the brotherhood pulls.

"Thank you for these." I shut the door and return to my penthouse, jaw tight.

Floors fifteen up to forty-five, with ten apartments per floor. They're almost all full. And every single one of them is rented to one of the girls and boys I pulled out of the skin trade; the businesses that used to belong to my family, the ones Mishka and Irina have since stopped in our territory.

It's not that these people still aren't working on their back. Many do. They're hired at the Heritage, at the Tower, and several other places like them, where the employees must be able to watch—and participate in—a wide range of scenes without blinking, or opening their mouth about it later. Some dance, serve drinks, massage for a living. Others fuck for a living. And a few work in secretarial offices, or airplanes, happy to bend over on demand, too.

But they do so of their own free will, for bonus pay. They all have their passports, their own bank accounts, their lives, their freedom. They can resign, walk out and leave if they want to. Most know better, especially if they've come to us from other institutions. This building is protected better than the White House, but out there, they'd be on their own, and it's entirely possible some lowlife might want to either reclaim them or exact revenge for losing their businesses.

I'm no saint. I just don't want to be a pimp either—or profit from that particular trade. In truth, by now, even if some white knight managed to make a dossier with all the information about me, I'd appear to have squeaky clean hands.Stopping the sex trade was logical, not emotional.

Yeah, right. And it has nothing to do with the fact that your own mother was once one of them.

I blink away all thoughts related to that woman. I'm not myself when I let myself dwell on it. The anger, I learned to control a long time ago, but I can never stop myself from becoming cold and cruel and…

"Fuck!" Willow swears, leaping to the next open door as fast as her feet can carry her.

Feet as bare as the rest of her.

She's not completely naked, wearing black, lacy panties and a matching bra. They're simple enough, not entirely meant for seduction; but she could wear the most boring grandma cotton panties, and it wouldn't do anything to conceal those curves.

Holy shit.

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