บททั้งหมดของ A Taste of the Bratva King: บทที่ 1 - บทที่ 10

TamaraThe low hum of my ringtone pulls my attention from the book I'm reading. My boyfriend's name is on the screen, causing me to sigh. I pick up the call and put the phone up to my left ear. "Hi-""Where are you?" he asks briskly.I close my eyes and suppress a sigh. "I'm home, Viktor.""You told me we'd see tonight."I did? "When?""Don't play with me, Tamara. We spoke yesterday, and you promised you'd be spending the weekend at my place."I search my brain for the exact moment I made such a promise, but nothing comes forth. And not wanting to aggravate him further, I say finally. "I'll pack a bag. Expect me there in twenty minutes.""Good girl."-----------------------------I get to his place an hour later.He sits next to me on the leather couch, his hands already moving up my thighs with that familiar possessive confidence. Like he knows he owns me. He owns my body. But my body is on fire. I shift on the couch, trying to find a position that doesn't make me want to curl into a

SergeiQuarterly figures.Rows and rows of streaming numbers. Columns of figures that are beginning to blur after three solid hours.Fuck my life.I'm reviewing the company financials when Viktor crashes through my door like a man who's forgotten how doors work. No knock. He never knocks anymore. The mahogany slams against the wall, disturbing the careful silence I maintain in this office.Viktor Kozlov stands there like shit on my expensive carpet. His usually perfect hair is fucked, his thousand-dollar suit wrinkled like he slept in it, and his eyes carry that wild look I've been seeing more often lately. Two years as partners, and I've watched him deteriorate from calculated businessman to unpredictable liability."We need to talk." He shuts the door behind him with deliberate force.I don't look up from the spreadsheet. Numbers don't lie, unlike the man standing in my office. "Talk.""Where's my cut from the Henderson delivery?"My pen stops moving across the paper. The Henderson d

TamaraThe second whiskey goes down easier, spreading warmth through my limbs and blurring the sharp edges of tonight's confrontation. Jack continues polishing glasses, occasionally making small talk with other patrons, but his attention keeps returning to me with a kindness I desperately need."You know," he says after I've finished my second drink, "we've got a private event in the back tonight. Might be exactly what you need to lift your mood a little."I raise an eyebrow, the alcohol making me braver than usual. "What kind of event?"Jack's smile is mysterious, almost conspiratorial. "Nothing too special. Just... something different. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. But it might help you remember that you're in control of your own choices."The words resonate more than they should. Control. When was the last time I felt truly in control of anything? Viktor controls where we go, what we do, how we spend our time together. My body is controlling me with pain I can

SergeiFatal Seduction sits between a boutique and an art gallery, the exterior discreet, classy. I've passed this place dozens of times without it standing out, which tells me they know how to keep secrets.The vibe inside hits me immediately— warm wood, burgundy fabric, jazz at exactly the right volume. The kind of place where people come to disappear instead of to be seen. It's good. I like it.The bartender spots me before I reach the bar. Tall, dark hair, confident without being cocky. He gives me a smooth smile as he reaches me."Evening, sir. What's your pleasure?" He leans forward, elbows resting on the polished counter."Vodka. Neat." I haul a barstool over and angle a hip onto it.Without a word, he pours Beluga— top shelf without asking. Either good instincts or expensive taste. He reaches for a towel and begins buffing wine glasses he takes from the washer nearby."Rough night?" he asks as I kill half the glass."Business." More than just business. My brain is bursting with

SergeiI wake with my cock harder than steel and her voice echoing in my skull.The digital clock glows 5:47 a.m. in the darkness. Too early for business, too late to pretend I'll fall back asleep.Masha sleeps beside me, one hand resting on her swollen belly. So far along and she still looks like porcelain— untouchable, perfect, breakable. Her breathing is deep and even, the kind of sleep that comes from a clear conscience.I slip from the Egyptian cotton sheets without disturbing the mattress, bare feet silent as I stalk across the bedroom. The bathroom door closes with a whisper as I shut it carefully, shoulders tight with tension I can't shake. I feel like a man who's been fighting wars in his sleep.The shower runs scalding, steam filling the marble-tiled space. I step under the spray and let it beat against muscles knotted with stress and unwanted arousal. The water should wash away the memory of Room Five. Of candlelight flickering across lace masks. Of tears I had no right to w