Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
He doesn’t say it out loud, but I know it isn’t animals he’s hunting or tracking. “You wore the red shirt.” His voice is clipped.
I look down. Yeah. I did. Tight. Cropped. Ridiculous. I don’t know why I put it on.
Yes, I do.
His eyes go darker. “Come with me.”
“Bar’s busy,” I snap.
“You’re not the only one here,” he says without looking. “They’ll cover.”
Like he planned this. Like he knew.
My heart starts to hammer. “Vadka—”
But he’s already moving. Not asking.
Taking.
I hesitate for half a breath.
Then I follow.
The back hallway smells like spilled beer and cheap cleanser. The storage closet is open, dim light spilling from above. I barely step inside before the door slams shut behind me—and then his mouth is on mine.
There’s no preamble. No pretense. Just need. I make a sound low in my throat, half moan, half plea, when his hands find my waist. My ribs. My throat. Rough but reverent, like he’s been starving, and I’m the only thing that’ll keep him alive.
I gasp, and he drinks it in. My skin prickles with awareness, and my heart thumps madly in my chest.
“Two fucking weeks,” he growls against my mouth. “Two weeks pretending we’re not circling each other like wolves. Two fucking weeks pretending you don’t want to be with me.”
I dig my fingers into his chest. “I needed some time, some distance. It was too much too soon,” I say, but even as I protest, it sounds like a silly, pathetic protest.
He groans, low and feral, and spins me to the wall. His thigh presses between mine, pinning me. His mouth on my neck now, teeth scraping, followed by tongue soothing.
“You want me to stop?” he whispers against my skin. “Too much, too soon?”
“Are you mocking me?”
His hands tighten on my ass, punishing. “I asked you a question. Stop?”
I shake my head. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
His hand slips under my shirt, palm dragging up my stomach. Slow. Deliberate. Testing.
“You’re fire,” he mutters. “But I’ll take the burn.”
His mouth is everywhere—my collarbone, the line of my jaw, the edge of my bra. He pulls my shirt up with one hand and cups me with the other, thumb dragging over my nipple until I’m gasping. Someone could come in and see us, but the knowledge that it’s possible only drives my need further.
Maybe I’ll get fired. Maybe I won’t.
I grab his belt, yanking him closer. “I’ve wanted this,” I pant. “Since the first time you told me no.”
His laugh is low, wicked. “You love pushing me.”
“Maybe I like feeling the resistance.”
He growls, and it’s a sound that coils heat low in my belly. Then his hand is sliding down, fingers under my waistband. No teasing now. Just claiming.
“You’re so fucking wet,” he breathes out, stunned. “Fuck.”
“Of course I’m wet,” I hiss. “You’re Vadka.”
Oh god, I said that out loud?
That undoes him.
He pushes my panties aside and slips two fingers in, dragging a gasp out of me like it’s oxygen. His other hand braces beside my head, muscles flexed, holding himself back.
“You like this?” he murmurs.
“Yes—”
“Say it.”
“No.”
His palm slaps against my ass so hard I’m up on my toes, hissing in breath and half begging for more. He presses the heel of his hand to my pussy, and I whimper. Circling, he holds his hand right there as pressure and need mount.
“Tell me you like it.”
“I like when you—fuck—control me.”
He slides his fingers into my panties again and curls them low inside me. I nearly scream.
“You trust me,” he says. Not a question. A fact, and a reverent one.
I nod wildly. “Yes. Yes, dammit, I do.”
He kisses me again, hard and filthy, and I come undone in his hand, pulsing around him while he whispers against my skin.
“Mine.”
When I slump, he catches me.
When I breathe, it’s with him.
And when I finally open my eyes, he’s watching me like I just gave him something precious.
His thumb brushes my cheek. Gentle. Terrifying.
“You’re mine, Ruthie.”
I should argue. Should bite. Should fight back.
But instead—I nod.
Because maybe I already was.
Vadka’s phone dings with a text. He shows me the screen.
Matvei
Come to the house. It’s urgent. Bring Ruthie
Chapter 17
VADKA
The thumb drive clicks open.
Matvei doesn’t speak at first. He just leans back in the metal chair and stares, his lips pressed in a solid line, breathing heavily.
I don’t breathe. Ruthie doesn’t move.
Matvei gestures to the screen.
“Not just targets,” he says, voice flat. “It’s a full family map. All Bratva branches. Children. Lovers. Everyone tied to the old bloodlines.”
I feel it before I see it, a cold rush behind my ribs.
And then—there it is. Her name.
Ruth Wexler.
Under a red header that reads:
Purge the Line. Erase the Heirs.
I sit back like I’ve been punched.
“Fuck,” I whisper. “They don’t want a fucking war. They want a genocide.”
I lean forward, eyes locked on the screen like I can kill it with a stare. My hands are fists on my knees. “This isn’t… new. This isn’t in retaliation for what you did, is it?”