Page 9 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

I haven’t dreamed of her in months. And now, out of nowhere, comes that old fucking nightmare.

Marisha in her white dress.

The silent, black O of her mouth as her screams fade to silence.

And the blood.

So much blood.

Red and thick, staining the white of her dress…

I swing my legs off the bed and drop my head into my hands, trying to shake away the black whirlpool that threatens to pull me apart from the inside.

When that doesn’t work, I do what I always do—reach for the whiskey.

I keep a bottle by my bedside for moments like this. I take a swig straight from the bottle and relish the welcome burn that surges down my throat.

“Sukin syn,” I mutter gratefully under my breath in Russian. “I fucking needed that.”

The images fade at once.

I’m good again.

Until I feel a hand graze my bare back.

I whip around, seizing the arm and twisting it back, ready to snap the elbow if need be. It’s an automatic reflex from years of training—break first, ask questions later.

I hear the girl’s panicked cry before I see her face. Her blue eyes stare back at me, wide with terror and confusion.

She is lying naked and tangled in my sheets. Her short blonde hair no longer holds the glossy sheen that caught my attention last night.

“You’re hurting me,” she whimpers shakily.

I look down and realize that I’m still pinning her arm.

Sighing, I release her. She lets out a pained little gasp before scurrying away to the opposite corner of the king-sized bed in terror.

I turn from her and rise to my feet. “Get dressed and get out.”

I try to remember what we did last night, but I can recall only a few vague grey flashes. I do remember that she screamed so loudly that she had given me a headache. I’d finally shut her up by putting my cock in her mouth.

But even that left me feeling unsatisfied.

Then again, it’s been a long time since any woman has come close to making me feel satisfaction.

I expect her to high tail it out of here. But when I hear no movement, I pivot again and catch her staring at me.

“Do I need to pay you or something?”

“Pay me?” she sounds confused. “For what?”

“For last night.”

Her blue eyes go wide as she realizes what I’m asking. The fear gets flushed out by indignation.

“I’m not a fucking hooker, asshole!” she spits.

I shrug. “Then what are you waiting for?”

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