Page 18 of Kings of Violence

Sierra looksgood wearing one of my shirts.

It is, of course, far too large on her, which means it hangs off her shoulder and goes down to mid-thigh.

It’s a compromise. Nikolai and I would appreciate keeping her nude, but New Bristol Februaries aren’t warm, and we really can’t risk our new captive’s nipples freezing off.

Or for the other men to get too many ideas. It’s one thing to show her off while we’re supervising; it’s another entirely to trust everybody here to be smart enough to keep their hands to themselves.

They’d regret it if they laid a hand on her, which is a fact they’re more than aware of, but people are occasionally stupid.

She tugs at the bottom hem of the shirt, as though trying to pull it down even more, but all that does is make it drop down lower across her chest. It displays the bandage over her brand, and I smile grimly when I see it.

I cannot wait until it’s ready to be displayed to the world.

I cannot wait for her beloved brothers to see pictures of her marked up this way, for them to know there is no rescuing her now. This is what they get for betraying us.

Nikolai enters the small entertaining room. “So, Adrian says he can get something for her to use in a few days. He’s busy right now, with the… you know, the thing.” He glances at Sierra.

The thing. Nikolai is probably referring to some of the online scams or gambling websites we run. Not my preferred type of criminal activity, but all of that was in place before I became the de facto leader here.

That train of thought threatens to anger me. I can’t worry about everything thatwas, or whatshould have been. I’m in charge now. My predecessor, Matvey Petrov, is in a federal prison, thanks to Sierra Winters’ family.

I bury the anger and nod toward the coffee table, where a tray of finger foods has been set out. Breads, crackers, salmon, cheeses, caviar, olives… a decent spread for a light lunch. “Sierra was telling me how she loves to serve the men in her life,” I say.

She bristles, and I smile indulgently at her. I’m discovering that baiting her is almost as enjoyable as running my hands down her lovely body.

Almost.

“What, do you expect me to feed you, too?” she retorts.

“That would be nice,” Nikolai says, flopping onto the couch across from me and spreading out like he’s in charge. When I raise a brow at him, he sheepishly sits up.

“Too damn bad,” she says, but she casts a wary look at me.

“Be grateful I don’t make you cook,” I say to her. There’s an appeal to a woman who cooks naked for her men, but I am quite certain she would never manage to cook the Russian foods I enjoy. I give her a pointed look. “You said you would do anything. But you are above serving food to us?”

“I’m above a lot of things you want me to do,” she says, her voice scathing, but she pads over on bare feet to the spread of food. “What can I get you,Master?”

“Watch your tone,” Nikolai says, and while he sounds mild, I recognize the threat in it.

I wonder if she notices it too.

“Crackers with caviar on them,” I say to her, smiling widely. “Maybe if I’m full, I’ll be too tired for other activities.”

Nikolai snickers. “And I want some of those olives. You can feed them to me, zaya. Maybe Kotya’s right and we won’t care about other things.”

She doesn’t look convinced.

Still, she crosses over, getting two small tiny plates and getting our snacks. She brings mine to me first, then awkwardly goes to Nikolai. He opens his mouth, and she pops an olive into it. Before she can pull away, he grabs her wrist and holds her in place, licking her fingers obscenely.

“You taste good,” he says in approval.

The look of disgust she gives him is priceless, and I laugh. “We’ll train you to enjoy us.”

Sierra seems like she’s about to make a retort, but she keeps her mouth shut instead.

Nikolai grabs her by the back of the neck and pulls her close, kissing her, and she lets out a muffled sound of indignation. “Go kiss Kotya. He’s the boss.”

I open my arms for her, making space on my lap. The armchair is sturdy enough to hold both of us easily.

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