Page 90 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

She rips her face away from my hand so she can groan, “Slap me.”

I slap her and a tremor of pleasure snakes through her. “Again.”

I stop. “Who makes the rules here?”

Joy’s face falls as her pussy clamors for my cock. “Gavril, please. I just, I need—”

I take both her hands in mine, pressing them to my chest. “I make the rules.” My forehead tips to hers as I hammer my cock in her. “Understand?”

She’s practically panting now with want as she bobs her head. My hand goes to her neck. Her whole body tremors. I’m at the edge.

“Who owns you?” I hiss, as my cock spills into her. “Who do you belong to?”

“You own me,” she groans, before I press my hand over her mouth to stop her from crying out. “I belong to you.”

I hold her in my arms as her body tremors with the after-pleasure.

20

Joy

New day, new me.

Or … something like that.

After we somehow managed to get out of that closet and leave the gala, I basically passed out. This morning, Gavril and I went through our drill. He sat on the floor beside my bed; I asked my one question.

Although my question was only “Did you sleep well?” (“Yes,” he said), before he told me what the agenda was for today: he had some business to attend to, but I could see my mom if I wanted to.

If I want to.

That’s the million-dollar question: Do I want to?

Now that I’m standing in front of her new apartment building’s elevator, I’m still not sure. I’ve got on a nice peach Ralph Lauren sweater, light blue jeans that are too tight on my belly after my two stress-gobbled raisin bran muffins, and a sleek hairstyle Mario chose that Mom will hardly recognize me in.

It’s been months since I’ve seen my mother. And the last time we saw each other …

I shake the thought out of my head. That wasn’t Mom. She told me herself—that was the sleeping pill. A zombie. That wasn’t my mother.

I stop and run through the story one more time in my head—I met a rich politician and fell in love and got married. Yes, it’s crazy. Yes, I’m happy. Yes, I should’ve told her, should’ve invited her to the wedding. I’m sorry I didn’t.

I sag into a nearby suede armchair. How in the hell am I going to pull this off? My mom’s always been a quick-to-believe sort—you’d have to be, to stay with Damon more than five minutes—but still, this is a far reach, even for her.

I force myself back into a standing position. That’s the thing, though: Mom won’t believe me because my story is believable; she’ll believe me because she has to. Because she has no other option.

My whole body sags with the sadness of it. I’m lying to my own mother just like everyone else has. Forcing her into the same position she’s always been forced into.

But it’s for her own good. And I know Mom; she’d never accept this arrangement otherwise. She would never in a million years accept me doing what I did if she had the slightest inkling that I’d done it for her and her medical bills. She’s always been the one to make the sacrifices. It would be only over her dead body that she’d accept anyone else’s.

My shoulders set with decision. I press the elevator button and, half a second later, the doors fly open.

That’s why I have to do this. Maybe not lie, not fully. But not tell the complete truth either. For now. Until Mom is good and healed, and has enough money saved away to be free to make her own choices—well-informed or not. I can’t force Mom into a better life and decisions, but I can give her the chance neither of us ever had.

It’s the least I can do.

The elevator zips me up to the seventeenth floor in two seconds flat. As soon as I step outside the doors, I sigh. Mom must love it here.

The hallway is completely lined with flowers: orchids of every color and size set into the walls. Tears come to my eyes.

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