Page 1 of His Order

Chapter 1

Anya

The monitors hum, their blue flicker slicing through the gloom of my shitty apartment like a dying pulse. Code streams across the screens, an endless taunt I can’t unravel. Dmitri’s system is a fortress of smug defiance, mocking me with every line I fail to breach. My fingers tremble over the keys, and my brain is fried from hours—days—of trying to break into one of the most challenging systems there are.

It’s not just a job for me. This is personal. It’s all about Leo, and I need to find out what happened to him. My brother’s gone. I spent months leaking crumbs to the feds also, and I’m still here, choking on caffeine and vodka, no closer to tearing Dmitri’s empire apart.

A soft beep cuts through—ping from the motion sensor I rigged in the hall. My head snaps up, my heart kicking hard.

Paranoia’s my oldest friend now, ever since Maksim’s promises turned to ash. Maksim is the Head of the Bratva, who promised me that I could have Dmitri’s head in a heartbeat. So far, I am stuck in this place, which is a bunker: tripwires strung at the windows, a hacked camera feeding grainy shadows to my laptop, and a cheap alarm patched into the door.

It’s crude, but it’s mine. I tap a key, squinting at the footage, and there is nothing but a swaying bulb and the flicker of dust mites.

“Fuck off,” I mutter to the monitor, voice slurring, my vodka-soaked brain dismissing it. Too many late nights, too much booze.

I shove the laptop shut; my desk looks like a war zone—coffee cups with brown stains bleeding into the wood, a vodka bottle tipped over, and cigarette buds all over.

I grab the vodka, gulping the last fiery swallow, but it doesn’t touch the inferno in my chest. My head spins, a throbbing pulse of frustration that’s dogged me since I cut loose that cheating prick I wasted months on.

I need release. I stagger to the bed, boots tangling in the rug as I kick them free, a faint creak from the floorboards lost under my drunken stumble.

My jacket hits the ground with a dull thud, my tank top peels off my sweat-soaked skin, and my jeans a clumsy fight I barely win. My bra’s the last thing I’m able to remove before I collapse on my bed in black lace panties, the sheets cool against my fevered thighs, blonde hair plastered to my neck like a noose.

I grope for the drawer, fingers clumsy as I snatch the vibrator. A shadow flickers in the corner—barely there—but my blurred eyes skip over it. I flick it on, buzzing a jagged hum in the silence, and drag it down my stomach, teasing the soaked lace of my panties.

“Fuck, yes.”

My other hand grabs the sheets as I shove the fabric aside, parting my thighs. I’m dripping, the toy slipping against me, and I curse under my breath.

I close my eyes, willing the dark to swallow me, but it doesn’t. It drags me somewhere worse. A memory I’ve got no business keeping.

My last fuck was a liar—soft hands and softer lies, whispering promises while he screwed someone else behind my back. I am not very experienced when it comes to sex, and that last cheating liar was also not good. He fucked like a rabbit: fast, quick and release. I’m done with that. I want someone who takes what he wants and doesn’t apologize for it. Someone who’d shove medown and make me feel it. Someone who awakens the animal in me.

My thighs press together, the ache sharp and insistent.

“Fuck, come on.” I’m pressing the vibrator harder against my clit, circling fast, chasing something I can’t grab.

It’s not enough. I crank it higher, the vibration buzzing through my bones as I part my slick lips and try to focus on my clit. My hips jerk, but the edge taunts me, maddeningly out of reach.

“Work, damn it,” I slur, sweat beading on my chest as I push harder. My clit is getting bigger, and I can feel myself dripping, but I am still far away from my release. I keep imagining rough hands on me, a voice barking orders, owning me.

I’m already wet. I press the toy against myself, slow again first, circling around, teasing myself. My hips lift, I spread my legs wider, letting the vibrator suck on my clitoris. It feels so good, the pulsation that runs through the body.

I crank the setting higher and shove my panties aside. The other tip of the vibrator slips inside me, slick and complex, and I bite my lip bloody to keep from moaning.

It’s close—so fucking close—but still far away. My hand shakes, sweat beading on my chest as I fuck myself harder, faster, imagining hands that aren’t mine, a voice telling me what to do, and I don’t get to stop. Then I drift off.

I picture someone watching me right now. He’s heavy, with a wall of muscles, rough hands, a sharp jaw, and beautiful eyes.

His free hand slides down, rough fingers ripping off my panties and leaving me open and dripping, and he doesn’t hesitate. Two fingers thrust inside me, deep and hard, curling just right.

I imagine his fingers slamming into me, relentless, the wet sound obscene in the quiet, and I can’t stop the whimper thatslips out. His hand shifts, three fingers now, stretching me wide, and his thumb grinds down, sending a jolt through me.

Shit, I’m so close. It’s been months. I imagine his deep voice saying: “That’s it,” he says, smug and filthy. “Come for me, sweetheart. Show me what a good girl you can be when you’re forced to cum.”

I picture his fingers working hard, hitting thatG-spot, and I break. I’m screaming, shaking, my whole body seizing as I come apart, gushing over his hand. He doesn’t stop, fucking me through it, drawing it out until I’m a sobbing, trembling mess, thighs slick and chest heaving.

Then, he pulls back slowly, leaving me empty and wrecked, and I can’t move, can’t think as he brings his wet fingers to his mouth and sucks on them with a rough groan. He pushes his fingers back into me, ignoring the way my body jolts and pulling out more of my cream.

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