Page 48 of Savage Bratva King

I’m going to have a long wait because my body is reliving last night’s orgasms, and my pussy is already wet. For him. For Leonid Ivanov. The man who had me kidnapped because he’s in the middle of a stupid war with my brother-in-law.

Why couldn’t it have been someone else?

Why didn’t my friends let me have one night of glorious, mind-blowing sex with the adonis in the nightclub, or with the guy from the grocery store (although my pussy never clenched for him), or with Cartier’s brother (who is unabashedly gay).

I could blame it all on Leonid, but that wouldn’t be fair either. I could’ve gone back to my room last night; he gave me the option, and what did I do? I opened my legs wide and begged him to lick me. Multiple times. So, I can’t even pretend that it was a moment of madness from which I came to my senses, grabbed my stuff, and ran like the house was on fire.

I wanted this and now I must deal with the consequences.

But first … food. I’m ravenous.

I sit up again, throw the comforter off my tingling body and stand up woozily. I feel like I either drank a bottle of Tequila on my own or lasted three rounds in the ring with Mike Tyson. My body issore… I peer down at my swollen nipples, the marks around my belly button, the raised pink flesh from Leonid’s stubble that seems to cover every inch of my body. And I can’t even think about my sex.

But if the door opened right now and he walked back into the room, I would turn around, bend over, spread my legs wide, and beg him to fuck me all over again.

Because, it seems, I have a whole lot of catching up to do.

I cross to Leonid’s dressing room and gape at the racks of designer suits and coordinating shirts and accessories. The guy couldn’t look like a tramp if he bathed in mud and wrapped himself in black sacks. Pulling out a white shirt, I ignore the label stitched inside the collar, shrug it on and button it up to cover my nakedness.

Then, I follow the aroma of bacon, eggs, and coffee back to the bedroom.

He had breakfast sent to his room for me. The thought adds an extra layer of warmth to my already flushed body as I carry the tray to the bed, sit cross-legged on the crumpled sheets, and eat every morsel, washed down with three cups of creamy sweetened coffee. I try not to think while I eat.

Once my hunger is satisfied, I feel armed and ready to face the day.

Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.

Because even with my stomach full, the impact of what happened last night settles on my shoulders like a coat made of thorns.

Not only have I destroyed my planned marriage to Seamus, but I’ve obliterated any potential alliance with the Irish mob and signed Leonid Ivanov’s death warrant at the hands of Xander Amory and my family. He knew the consequences though, didn’t he? He knew and he still wanted me, and I don’t know how to feel about this.

This—whatever this is—will inevitably reach its natural conclusion when Leonid allows me to return to my family. And then what…? I told him that I would forget he even existed, but we both know that’s a lie. What makes my pulse race and leaves me feeling slightly nauseous after the mountain of pancakes I just ate is: will Leonid forget that I exist?

Was last night a pleasant interlude for him?

Maybe he makes a habit of sleeping with his prisoners, especially the ones who are still virgins.

If I stay here, I know I’m going to chase my thoughts round in circles and get myself rattled, and I can’t leave the room wearing Leonid’s shirt. So, I quickly change into the clothes I wore yesterday, toss the shirt into the laundry hamper in the ensuite bathroom, and try the door.

I can’t believe my luck when it opens.

A guard in a black suit with bulges in his pockets, stares as I step outside carrying the breakfast tray. It’s obvious why I’m leaving the pakhan’s room and not the guest room assigned to me, but I’ll give him credit where it’s due, his expression is completely neutral. Leonid’s men are well-trained.

“Can you take me to the kitchen?” I suck on my bottom lip. This feels weird; I’m still the prisoner here, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with the freedom to roam the house, even if I do have a guard one step behind me.

The guy doesn’t speak. He gestures for me to walk with him, and I carry the tray feeling suddenly self-conscious, down another staircase that I haven’t used before and into the kitchen where the gray-haired woman who looks after Marvel is scrubbing an already spotless marble counter that I can see her reflection in from the doorway.

She eyes up the tray when we enter, stuffs the cloth into a pocket in her apron, and hurries around the breakfast island like I left a trail of muddy footprints on her gleaming floor. “You shouldn’t have carried the tray.” She takes it from me and shoots a look at the guard like this is all his fault.

“It was no bother.” I mean, jeez, if her boss wasn’t holding me hostage, I’d be quite capable of preparing my own meals.

A whine reaches me from the far side of the room, and I look around to find Marvel trying to chew his way out of a gigantic crate. “Marvel!” His ears prick up at his name. “Can I?” I ask the housekeeper.

“It isn’t time for his walk.” The woman is bent over the dishwasher, loading my used plates and cutlery into the tray.

“I only want to stroke him.”

I feel sorry for Marvel if he’s only allowed out of the crate to be walked. It isn’t fair for him to be confined behind metal bars like this; he might be safe, but this is no life. For an animal or human. I should know.

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