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“Later, maybe,” I shrug, grinning at him like we’re having a flirty little convo. Then I glance over to see Yelizaveta walking toward us. “But not until after I destroy whatever plans you have?—”
“Fine. Your family killed mine,” Drazen snaps coldly. “But the order to do so came from higher up.”
Yelizaveta is almost at the arches back into the courtyard.
“That man sits on the fucking Table. From the outside, I can do nothing. From the inside, I can turn them all against him, and watch as they tear him to pieces for me.”
Fucking hell. The way he says it so coolly, with zero emotion in his voice and a murderous glint in his eyes is scary.
…And pretty hot.
“Well,” Yelizaveta comes to a stop near the couch where she was previously sitting. “I’m afraid I have to be somewhere. Unless there’s anything else?”
Drazen turns to me, a smile on his face and malice in his eyes. His hand squeezes my shoulder tightly again.
“Yes, Annika,” he growls quietly. “Is there anything else?”
With a smile, I shake my head. “No, I don’t believe so, hon.” I turn to beam a thousand-watt grin at him.
Yelizaveta chuckles. “You can drop the theatrics. I’m old, not stupid. I know what this is,” she murmurs, eyeing me. “To be honest, I don’t care. I think Drazen is a good addition to the Table, regardless of the status of your marriage. But the other members”…her brow cocks meaningly as she looks at me…“the other men, won’t be so open-minded.”
She levels a gaze at the both of us.
“It’s not me you have to convince, Drazen. It’s them. And if I were you, I’d sell this…thing,” She smirks as she waves a finger between us. “To them a little bit better than you’ve tried selling it to me.”
23
TAYLOR
My ass hurts.
A lot.
After Drazen’s promise that I’d “regret” threatening to blow up his plans with Yelizaveta, I expected the worst. I spent the rest of the day waiting for him to jump out of the shadows to brutalize me, to punish me somehow.
But it never happened. Nor did it the next day, or the day after that. It’s been six days now since Yelizaveta’s visit: five nights of slipping under the covers, wondering if this would be the night I’ll wake up to a black devil mask and a tattooed hand around my throat seeking retribution.
That retribution never came.
Until earlier this afternoon.
I was in my dressing room, slipping into a genuinely stunning Yves St. Laurent cream-colored gown—form fitting and strappy, with a slit up one thigh, a plunging back, and almost equally plunging front—when Drazen wordlessly entered.
“It’s time.”
That’s all he said. That’s all he had to say for me to know.
Ten seconds later, he was pulling me into my bedroom, bending me unceremoniously over the foot of my bed, and yanking the gown up over my ass. Four seconds after that, my panties were firmly stuffed into my mouth and his palm was coming down hard on the bare skin of my ass.
That was just the beginning.
An hour and a half later, my ass was downright bruised. My pussy was sore beyond belief from him fucking the absolute shit out of me three times, my nipples were on fire, my makeup was completely smudged, and I honestly wasn’t sure if I’d ever be able to sit down again.
Several hours later, I’m still not sure. Comfortably, that is. I did just spend a few hours sitting on his plane flying to Moscow: albeit with a goddamn icepack under my ass.
I redid my makeup and hair on the plane, and made sure the dress looked perfect. I’m even sort of getting used to the contacts I’ve slipped in tonight, even though I really hate them. Even so, as we step out of the car in front of the lavish Hotel Bhakut in central Moscow, where the gala is being held, I feel a shiver of…something.
Shit. It’s nerves. And I never get nervous. Not for trials, even against really tough opposing counsel, and certainly not for shit like galas and fundraisers. That said, I’ve never done this before: never had to face an entire firing squad of truly powerful Bratva heads—some of whom know more about my past than I do—and smile through it.
