Page 61 of Broken Sins (Volkov Bratva 3)

I will relish the process.

Milaya, though … she will suffer immensely.

What she also doesn’t understand is that it will hurt me too, in its own roundabout way. Yes, I intend to savor the lashings she is about to receive. Yes, I have dreamed of this moment since we first brought her into our home.

But part of me is beginning to feel things for her that I have never felt for another woman, not as long as I have lived.

How many have there been? Hundreds? Thousands? And yet not one of those nameless, faceless whores has stood in this room and looked at me with the same mixture of fear, trust, and unbridled arousal that is burning in Milaya Volkov’s face right now. She is as fragile as a china doll, as strong as a willow, an impossible combination that is doing to me what no one else has ever done: pushing me to the edge.

I pride myself on control. On living my life far removed from the petty ebbs and flows of this misbegotten little world. Nothing can affect me, nothing can disturb my peace.

Until now.

She has come in like a bull in a china shop and trampled my resolve into dust. My face does not betray it, but inside, I am desperate to touch her, to hear her cry out and moan. I want to do that to her so badly that I fear it might kill me if I go another second without it.

This is all so fucking wrong.

There are rules that govern this room. Inside these walls, my word is law. I am king, I am God, I am undeniable. Any woman lucky enough to join me in here must accept that as unquestionable truth. Not even she is exempt.

But as I open my mouth to explain that to her, I falter for the briefest of moments.

I take that second to look at her. So much blood has been spilled to bring her and me here together in this moment. The blood of my father and my youngest brother stains a godforsaken concrete wasteland. Even now, Russian boots stomp over their remains.

I am not prone to overwhelming emotions the way Dante and Vito are, but even I cannot deny that I have felt grief knocking at the door of my heart, demanding to be let in. I will not answer, of course, but the beast is insistent.

The only salve is standing in front of me. She is flawless porcelain. She wants badly to be conquered. I have seen the look in too many women’s eyes to mistake it for anything else.

So why can’t I bring myself to do it? I have done it before.Just do it again, you fucking coward. Give her what she wants. Break her, hurt her, make her beg for mercy.

No.

That is all I hear, like my own voice shouting to me from the bottom of a well. It feels painfully wrong to reach for the cuffs and whip hanging just a few yards away. If I take down my tools, then we will have begun a ritual, and there can be no turning back from that point. I will be required to mark her skin. I will be required to demand her obedience. I want that in so many ways—except for in the most crucial way of all.

What is she doing to me?

My invitation to Milaya still hangs in the air between us:would you like to find out?It has been just a second or two since I spoke it, and yet I feel like I have lived for an eternity in that time. My cock is a steel rod in my tuxedo pants. It is requiring the full extent of my willpower to keep my hands clasped behind my back patiently.

Say no,I beg silently.Tell me you want to go, and I will set you free.

She has all the power now. If she denies me, then I will open the door and be grateful that she has chosen not to indulge my wickedest impulses.

But if she says yes, I will do what I have to do. I have no other choice.

I try to tell her all that with my eyes. The truth is that I cannot decide for her. She is the one at the crossroads. All I can do is tell her which road leads in which direction. She must walk the path herself.

Say no,I urge in my head.Say no and run, before I do these things to you.

But I know before she answers what she has selected.

Milaya’s gaze falls to her feet. Her voice is trembling as she asks, “What if I say yes?”

I sigh. It feels like a sigh that originates in my soul and passes through every cell of me before escaping through my lips into the cool air of my workshop.

“If you say yes, then we can begin.”

She glances around nervously, gnawing at her lip. Such an innocent affectation of hers. I do not think she even realizes that she is doing it. Her eyes take in the breadth of the room and the depth of the things it contains before settling back on me.

“Okay,” she answers finally. “Yes.”

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