Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 62543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
The cargo ship doesn’t leave for two more days, which means I’ll have to keep her in my rented cottage until we leave. It’s not ideal. Not at all.
Maxim, our bratva’s fixer, taught me to think through a situation for all possible angles. Anywhere you could get caught or leave a trail. The ship offers a great deal of safety. I arranged passage through the local bratva. No questions will be asked about the girl.
But keeping her prisoner here in the city?
A lot of things can go wrong.
“Okay, big man. You are very heroic. You can put me down now.” I like her accent. Ukrainian plus English. It’s very cute.
I ignore her, trying to think. How will I even get her on a bus against her will? Why in the fuck didn’t I rent a car?
But then, how would I have followed her? No, I just have to slow down.
She’s just been roofied or whatever they gave her. I might not have to take her against her will.
The idea of tricking her turns my stomach, but it seems like the best option. It’s not like tricking her is any worse than putting a bag over her head and strong-arming her out of here.
She squeezes my butt. “Where are we going, big man?”
Big man. Very cute. I’m not that big. Not like Oleg, our bratva enforcer.
I drop her to her feet, and we stare at each other. I should think of something slick and suave to say, but I already fucked it up by throwing her over my shoulder. Besides, slick and suave aren’t my things. I have to work hard just to make my English come out right.
She’s pretty–heartbreakingly pretty. She reminds me a bit of Oleg’s girlfriend Story. Classic beauty underneath the counter-culture getup.
“What in the fuck did you think you were doing?” I demand.
Nope, not slick or suave. That was the opposite of charming. Blyad’. I probably will have to throw her back over my shoulder and walk all the way back.
But she seems to like my outburst. She smiles and leans into me, her hands molding to my chest. “Sorry, Daddy,” she says.
Excuse me?
My frown grows deeper. “What is fucking wrong with you?”
She laughs. “Take it easy, big man. I didn’t need your rescue, as gallant as it was. I can handle myself with men.”
White hot rage runs through me. Not toward her, but toward all the men on Earth because I know with total certainty, she can’t handle them. Bad things happen to girls like her.
Horrible things. I live with the aftermath of what can happen every day.
“You have no idea!” I snap. “Do you even know what they gave you? Did you swallow it?”
“It was molly. It’s fine. I’ve taken it before. Nothing bad will happen other than me feeling like crap tomorrow for my history test. You know, I might as well go enjoy it.” She pushes back from me abruptly. “Don’t worry, you don’t need to take care of me. I’m going back.”
I catch her arm, and she rubberbands back to me, bumping against my chest. She’s almost a foot shorter than I am and soft in all the right places. I resist the urge to settle my hands on her waist like a lover. “No, you’re not.”
She grins like she loves me getting bossy. That’s when it dawns on me. I admit I was slow, but it’s coming together: the outfit. Calling me Daddy.
Kateryna is kinky as fuck. As kinky as my bratva brother Pavel and his slave girlfriend Kayla. She’s into role play and cosplay and all that shit. I pivot with this new knowledge and think fast.
“You’re going home,” I tell her imperiously.
Yep. I was right. She loves it. She leans into me. “Are you taking me?” she purrs.
“Da. I’m fucking taking you.” I shrug out of my leather jacket and drape it over her slender shoulders. Crazy girl coming out with no jacket in January. Although I can see why–it would’ve been hard to dance with it on, and there wasn’t exactly a coat check at the door.
“Let’s go before drugs kick in.” I left out the article again. In my head, I hear Ravil, my Chicago Bratva boss, correcting me. Before the drugs kick in. I pull her along, heading for the bus stop.
She falls into step beside me, stealing a sidelong glance and hiding a smile. “Are you always this grumpy when you play hero?”
“I’m not the hero. I’m the villain, dietka.”
“What is dietka? I understand some Russian, but I don’t know that word.”
“It’s like…kid or babe.”
“In a sweet way or a mean way?”
“What do you think?”
She looks over at me again. “Mean, probably,” she grumbles. I think she’s pouting.
It’s obnoxious and annoying, and the fact that she’s beautiful makes it damn cute. I’ll bet it works with all the guys.