Page 13 of Claimed Bratva Virgin

Poor imitations ofMen in Black, if you asked me. One by one, they formed a wide circle around my car and aimed their guns high enough to tell me they weren’t playing and meant business.

A set-up and an ambush. Perfectly thought out and crafted, and surprise, surprise: Ivan Yezhov was the mastermind.

He stepped out of his car and strutted with raised broad shoulders into my headlights. Standing at the forefront with one hand on his hip, his men lined up behind him.

Maybe I’d underestimated the weasel. I had to give it to him; this plot was well-played, and I didn’t see it coming.

I stuck my head out through the window. “I told you already, I’m done giving autographs. Go home, loser.”

The irritation on his face formed a deeper scowl. “Get out of the fucking car, Leo. Unless you’re a coward.”

Coward?

Did he just insinuate thatIwas a coward?

I grinded my teeth hard, struggling to keep calm. He had the nerve to stand there and think he could order me around.

I pushed my door open, marching up to him with my hands stretched out, heading directly for his chest. I pushed him. He didn’t stagger.

“Coward? Pfft. If anyone’s the coward here, it’s you. You’re the one chasing girls after midnight.”

Ivan’s eyes hardened. The intensity was new and foreign, like the awakening of a greater, darker force from within.

“What you did back there was not funny, and that’s putting it lightly. You owe me an apology.”

Was he serious right now?

“An apology? For telling you the truth?” I scoffed. “It’s not my fault you live a miserable life under the shadow of everyone else above you, Ivan. Get that through your fucking head. Now, tell your ladies to move their toys out of my way and go home. That’s a warning, Yezhov.”

He raised a brow at my audacity, eyeing my hands that hit his chest, and I should have found it strange that he remained calm.

“Still keeping the sharp tongue, I see.”

I started to say something, but a loud shout of Russian in the air, like an angry war cry, and a sudden blow to the side of my head knocked me off balance.

Where the fuck did that even come from?

Sharp pain rippled from my skull to my neck and…all over. My hand flew to the side of my head, cradling my crown while I fought the stars dotting my vision.

“Fuck—Son of a….” I heard myself cursing despite the high-pitched ringing in my ears.

I was swaying, grasping at thin air to keep myself from falling. But I’d be damned if Ivan thought he was getting me tied up and bundled that easily.

Blindly, without precision, I clenched my fist and swung what should have been a clean hook at a blurry image of Ivan. He ducked, and there came another blow to my head.

This time, I felt myself fall to the ground, scraping my elbows and palms while at it. The surface wounds stung, but not as much as my pride, knowing I was literally on the ground before these filthy Russian weasels.

Ivan wasn’t punching. Apparently, one of his men was more than eager to do the job for him, and I’d been tooengrossed in rubbing shit on his ego to notice them come up from behind me.

Angry tears burned at the back of my eyes; my head pounded crazy like a jackhammer had done a number on my skull.

Hands pressed to the cool asphalt, I summoned inner strength and tried to get up.

That effort earned me a solid kick to the stomach that sent me rolling over to my side while spitting up red.

I couldn’t see him clearly, but the woody scent of his cologne wafted through the air when he crouched closer to me. I felt his warm breath on my neck and his fingers in my hair.

“An apology, Leo.”

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