Page 14 of Bratva Daddies for the Single Mom

“Touch her, or anyone else, against their will again, and it will be more than a broken wrist you’ll tend. I’ll cut your dick off and feed it to you until you choke.” He stayed in front of me, his entire body a shield of comforting warmth.

My hand lifted of its own accord, a sudden need to touch him manifesting in my heart. But that snap of bone breaking shocked me backward a step, out of reach and away from the danger radiating from the man who’d rescued me. I had no doubt he could do more, could break the man in half if he wanted to. He’d stopped with the hand that touched me. A warning? Why? I meant nothing to him. Our one night together was a distant memory, or so I told myself.

He’d protected me. A half-sob caught in my throat. No one had ever protected me like that before.

“What the hell is going on?” Miles Kent, the man who’d hired me, stormed into the room. His white teeth and white hair reminded me of Santa Claus in some weird way. His eyes widened, then narrowed, a baffled look twisting his mouth. “Why did you break my cousin’s wrist?”

“It was nothing.” The man on the bed waved his good hand toward Mr. Kent.

Fury overtook me. I stomped around my human shield and pointed at the man. “It was notnothing.You tried to take advantage of me. You felt me up, against my will, and refused tostop, even when I told you to.” A growl emanated from behind me.

Butterflies erupted in my stomach at the sound of death waiting on angel wings. “I am a masseuse, not a prostitute.”

A jolt ran through Mr. Kent. He straightened, his face going from confused, to concerned, to understanding. “Ah. I see now. You were at the auction. It is an easy mistake to make.” He shot a look over my shoulder. “A simple misunderstanding, Mr. Svenkov.”

A name. I had a name to go with the brooding hulk of a man watching my back with enough intensity to lift the hairs on my neck and cause my scalp to tingle with memories of the pleasure he’d given me.

“There is nothing simple about a misunderstanding of this magnitude. Even if I were a prostitute, stop still means stop.” I met the man’s snarling look and crossed my arms. “No means no in any situation. Wouldn’t you agree?” I dared him to fight back, to say that a woman’s wants were irrelevant in these types of situations.

“Yes, well.” Mr. Kent cleared his throat. “Obviously, nothing like this will happen again.”

“She will not be staying.” Mr. Svenkov moved to stand beside me. He dwarfed me in height and bulk, but there was a tenderness in the look he gave me before his attention snapped back to Mr. Kent and his cousin. “I suggest you heed her words. It does not matter what you have paid for or what your expectations of a woman are. If she says no, or stop, or any of the words that are not yes, youwillstop. Immediately.”

An unasked ‘what if we don’t’ lingered in the air.

Mr. Svenkov lifted one shoulder, raising his hand to the center of his chest and patting his sternum. “I will know. I have eyes and ears everywhere. I hear everything. I will offer you one warning.” One finger lifted. “If I find out you have not neededthe warning, that you have harmed a woman in any way, you will regret it. Oh, how you will regret it.” He patted his chest again, a terrifying smile pulling his lips back from his teeth.

The man on the table whimpered, his broken wrist bent at an unnatural angle. He reached for his shirt. “I need to go to the hospital.”

Mr. Kent made a shooing motion. “My apologies, Ilya.”

“You do not get to call me that. And Viktor will know you have been taking liberties with his name as well.” Ilya grabbed Mr. Kent’s arm in a bruising grip, or so I assumed from the way the man hissed and grappled with Ilya’s hand. “I will return to finish our conversation at another time.” He released Mr. Kent and shoved at the man on the table. “Move.”

He toppled over sideways, catching himself on his good hand with a cry of pain. “You bastard.”

“Yes, yes. I am mean and cruel. Cry to someone who cares. Perhaps there is someone out there who meets such a requirement.” Ilya folded up my massage table, handed me my bag, and cupped my elbow in a tender hold. “After you.”

“I can’t leave.” I gripped the bag with both hands, then dropped one to the table’s handle. “This is my job. Leaving now could ruin my entire reputation as a massage therapist. I accepted this job. You’ve taken care of the problem. I’m sure no one else will bother me.”

He harrumphed, a deep, throaty sound that reminded me once more of a bull. “My boss will compensate you for your time and loss of income. I will deal with Mr. Kent.” He shot a look at the man. “But I can promise that he will not dare ruin your reputation.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” A small part of me knew the answer, but I wondered if he would say it. I stood my ground despite the curling fear freezing my insides and making it hard to breathe. Why did seeing Ilya’s possessive and protective instincts causeheat to blast the ice from my veins? I was not weak or incapable. I could have handled the situation. But damn if I wasn’t glad to see him when he threw open the door and rushed to my defense.

Ilya huffed a laugh that sounded old and little used. “Because then he would be on my bad side.” Another cold look at Mr. Kent. “And he will not like what happens then.”

A shudder rippled down my spine. If he broke a wrist because a man touched me against my will, what other things was he capable of? Did I even want to know? Was I safe with him? “What if I make you mad?”

“Not possible.” The touch on my elbow returned, his thumb making lazy circles on the soft part of my inner arm. “I would like to take you away from here.”

He couldn’t force me, not after all that about my rights. He hefted the table and walked from the room. “Viktor would like to see you. As would Fyodor.”

Names. Holy shit, I had their names. All three of them. My head rang with the information he’d tossed out so casually. They wanted to see me? Why? I licked my dry lips and inched past Mr. Kent. He watched me go, a cold calculation in his eyes. “Take care, Miss McIntosh. You travel with the sordid sort.”

“Better than your sort.” I jerked my chin toward the man still struggling to pull his shirt over his bad arm. “At least he respects me.”

“So you believe.” His voice trickled around me.

I brushed off the spike of fear and ran after Ilya. “Where are you taking my table?”

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