Page 3 of His Order

“Get in,” I order, shoving her inside. She lands hard on the leather, bound hands making her clumsy, and glares up at me. I take a second to drink it in—her flushed cheeks, her trembling thighs.

I slide into the driver’s seat.

“Listen, I don’t have anything to give you. I am not rich. I am a nobody. You cannot gain anything from me. I need to know, where are you taking me, asshole?” she snaps, voice cutting despite the tremor, her eyes darting to the dashboard. I must admit, she is beautiful when she is angry. Something about her fiery green eyes and luscious lips makes me want to go wild.

“It does not matter where we are going. What matters is what you will do. You can either stay quiet and enjoy the ride,” I say. “Or not. I like you better when you fight. But then you will learn what happens to naughty girls.”

She kicks out, slamming her foot into the dashboard with a dull thud, the glove box rattling. “You’re going to regret this,” she growls.

I laugh, leaning over, my lips brushing her ear as I whisper, “Oh, zayka, I’m counting on it.”

She’s silent now, stewing in her fury, her fear, her fucking need, her eyes still scanning—dashboard, door, me—like she’s already plotting her next move. I’ve got her where I want her. Tied up and helpless. The genius little hacker that she is. I still found her. She is mine now. I wish it were more than a business transaction, though. I did not expect her to be so incredibly captivating. Women do not hold my attention usually, but there is something about this one. I cannot let her distract me from my mission, though. It is our mission, but she does not yet know that our goals are mutual.

Chapter 3

Anya

My mind is numb, and I cannot help but look at him. His dark eyes are framed perfectly by those impossibly long lashes. Devil. He was my captor, and yet, here I am, observing him and admiring his features. What is wrong with me? I can’t help it, though; his sharp, strong jawline and his lips make me want to sit on them. To be honest, I haven’t had good sex in a long time, and in the everyday world, I would love to ride someone like him. On one hand, this is not the time or the place to think about it, but on the other hand, I have no choice. He is taking me wherever it is, and I must submit. If it were not for this situation, I would be submitting to him in a completely different manner.

He breaks the silence first. “You’re quiet now, zayka. Saving up all that fire for when you fuck yourself again? Or should I help you next time?” This asshole smirked.

His hand drifts to my knee, a lazy brush that sends a jolt through me, and I clench my thighs shut, fighting the shiver crawling up my spine.

“Don’t worry—I wouldn’t do something you don’t want. I only take those who beg for me.”

Heat floods my core, unwanted and sharp, and I glare at him, voice rough as I snap.

“I don’t even know your name, asshole. And you are talking about me begging for you? Who are you? Maybe I should just call you “asshole”? I think it fits you well. You look like one, act like one, so you must be one.”

He turns his head just enough to pin me with those dark brown eyes and his devilish squint.

“Pavel,” he says, slow and deliberate, like he’s branding it into me. “Remember it, sweetheart. Asshole is also good, zayka, but Pavel is better.”

“Fuck you,” I growl.

“Oh, I wish you would, to be honest. I think you would like it. I know I would.” He smirks.

My wrists ache, the zip-ties biting deeper with every twist, a dull throb that matches the pulse between my legs—hot, insistent, humiliating. He is not wrong. I would love to do that, but not like this. Something is definitely wrong with me.

Pavel drives like he owns the fucking world. His smile is gone, but that malicious glint in his eyes hasn’t—it’s there, watching me every so often, stripping me bare and barely even turning his head.

“So, since we are on a personal subject, Pavel. Let’s start over. I am Anna, but I guess you know this already. The question is, how do you know me, asshole? Oh, excuse me. Pavel. The least you can do is tell me what to expect. You watched me masturbate, didn’t you? You dirty fucker. Now, you owe me an answer for the little peepshow you saw. Don’t you think so?” I snap.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just smiles widely.

“Somewhere you’ll learn your place but don’t worry, zayka, I won’t let anything happen to you,” he says finally.

“Excuse me? My place? What is this? The kindergarten?” I laugh, sharp and bitter, leaning forward as far as the ties let me. “My place is anywhere you’re not, you sick fuck.”

His eyes flick to mine, aggressive and dangerous, and that smirk creeps back.

“Keep telling yourself that, zayka,” he murmurs.

Heat floods my face, rage and shame twisting into something molten, and I kick out—hard—slamming my heel into the dash.The car jolts, but he doesn’t blink, just chuckles, low and filthy, like my fight’s a game he’s already won.

“Fuck you,” I growl, lunging at him, teeth bared, ready to bite, to tear, to do anything to wipe that smug look off his face.

Suddenly, his hand snaps to my throat, pinning me back against the seat, thumb pressing just hard enough to feel my pulse race.

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