Page 55 of Stolen By The Bratva King

Seeing her so cowed, so diminished, makes me want to cry.

She and I have so much in common, but I am not the same woman who was about to marry a vicious, abusive asshole.

I’m married to Leon Vasiliev, a man who is just as dangerous and mercurial in his way yet wouldn’t harm me if his life depended on it.

My new husband is my first, the only man I ever let inside me. But he let me inside him first, exposing his wounds and allowing me to get close to the terrible memories that plague him.

He took my virginity, but it wasn’t merely a physical conquest; it changed us both.

When I kissed his sleeping face goodbye this morning, I felt a warmth in my heart that I hadn’t experienced since I was a little kid.

Maybe I’m crazy. I still know so little about Leon, and perhaps everyone gets this way when they have sex with someone. But I don’t think it’s all in my head.

The girl crying before me is so young. She doesn’t believe she deserves better, and I understand, because I felt the same way.

Not anymore.

I crouch so she can see my face, and take her hand. “Pippa, Dwight hit you. Deliberately. I already know, so it’s not as though you told on him. If you’ll talk to me, I can help.”

Pippa wipes her nose with her sleeve. “I’m only fourteen. He’s nineteen, my friend’s brother. He seemed so nice at first, but then he started trying to make me do…things.”

“It’s okay,” I say gently. “Let me call your parents.”

The look on her face says more than words ever could, and I sigh. “No parents, right? Where do you live?”

“I was at a foster home in Dumbo Heights. I haven’t been back there in months, but I’ll bet they still cash the checks.”

I hand her a tissue. “Here, sweetie. I’ll get the hospital social worker in and Dwight out. It doesn’t have to be this way; we’ll ensure you’re safe. I promise.”

Hours slide by, the time marked less by the clock and more by actions. Attending codes, quick-stop surgery, consoling frightened people, placating drunks and junkies. On and on it goes.

My pager beeps for the millionth time, but when I call down to theater, the lead nurse informs me that the anesthesiologist is still assessing the patient.

I take advantage of the break in proceedings and duck into the doctor’s mess, grabbing my phone from my locker. I smile to see Leon’s name on my lock screen, and swipe to open the message.

Hello, moya zhena. How’s your day? X

I love the little kisses he puts on his texts. It seems at odds with the brash, masculine man he is, like a secret code only I can crack—a hint of softness that exists for me and me alone.

I tap the keyboard.

Okay. Busy. My feet are killing me.

He responds immediately, the phone buzzing in my hand.

Anything else feeling sore?X

I feel my cheeks growing hot.

Yes, as a matter of fact. My pussy is tender, and like any overworked muscle, I can’t help but think it would benefit from another good stretch.

If I think about fucking him, I’ll need to change my scrubs. It won’t be the first time I’ve got bodily fluids all over them, but it’s not usually my own.

I fire off another message.

Sore? I don’t know what you mean.

Yes you do, you dirty slut. Your pussy is far too cock-hungry not to be giving you trouble today. X

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