“You are my master.”
Somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind, I like her response. I hate that I do. I can’t take advantage of her when she’s broken. It would be heartless and cruel. But I can’t deny who I am.
The memory of what I wanted from her and what she gave me plagues me. Her obedience to me is like a drug: the more I taste, the more I want. Every breath she takes satisfies a need I can’t deny, every act of submission a hit that feeds my addiction.
But she doesn’t state my name. She doesn’t know who I am.
I’ve changed my appearance, enough to throw off anyone who might recognize me. I hoped it wasn’t enough to shield my true identity from her. But even as I think this, I realize it isn’t my physical appearance that is unfamiliar to her. Intense trauma can affect one’s mental capacity, even rendering temporary amnesia.
Gently, I run my thumb along the cheek where the bruise lies hidden beneath a covering of makeup. “Who did this to you?” I ask softly, while plotting his painful, tortured demise.
But before she can answer, a sharp knock sounds on the door.
“Who is it?” I demand.
“Erik. Open up.”
I will hurt this bastard.
“What the fuck do you need?” She flinches at the tone of my voice. Khristos, I have to watch my temper so I don’t frighten her.
Marissa stands in silence, her eyes cast to the floor. I still gently hold her hand.
“Tomas is on the phone. Wants live video footage of the girls we’ve found to give us approval. Says he tried to call you but you didn’t answer.” Tomas is the pakhan of the Boston Bratva.
Khristos.
I move Marissa aside with great reluctance, walk to the door, and open it. Erik and Yakov both stand in the doorway, holding chains in their hand. A quick glance shows the chains go to the necks of their slaves. Both women still wear simple sheaths. Erik glances over my shoulder with scorn, and even Yakov’s face is hardened, his eyes sharp as flint.
This is the first time we prove our worth to our new brotherhood.
“Come in,” I tell them. I have to assume the position as ruthless Bratva, the leader of our small group. I point to the floor. “Kneel by the bed,” I tell the women.
The girls obediently kneel, their heads bowed and hands in their laps, backsides against the soles of their feet. “All three of you,” I clarify, pointing to the floor for Marissa to follow suit.
She blinks and doesn’t move to obey.
“He’s calling again,” Erik says. He holds up his phone, flashing with a message from Tomas.
“On your knees,” I repeat, pointing to the floor. She looks from one to the other, then quickly steps toward the girls, falling to her knees just as Erik answers the call.
This is going to fucking kill me. I’m going to have to train her, to force her to obey me when she falters. If I don’t, someone else will, and I can’t allow that.
I walk to her and take her chin between my thumb and forefinger. “Do not hesitate again when I give you an instruction,” I order. “Do you understand me?”
Her wide eyes betray her fear. “Yes, sir,” she whispers. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Her response breathes life back into my heart and I can’t help but smile in approval. “Good girl.”
I release her, before I betray the intimate moment we shared.
“We’ve got them,” Erik says behind me. “They’re kneeling before us.” He lifts his shoulders with pride, puffing himself up. I want to break his nose.
I can see the profile of Tomas. My future pakhan. I don’t know him at all. I’ve worked under two pakhans: my father, and Demyan. Demyan still resides in Moscow, and my father in Atlanta. Demyan is stern but fair and loyal, my father well-respected and brilliant. I don’t know what to expect from Tomas, but he’s demanded the entry fee of a virgin woman, and that’s telling.
“Show me,” he orders. He’s sitting at a chair at a desk, facing us with one ankle resting on his ankle. He sips from a beer bottle, places it down, and crosses his arms on his chest. He’s a large, burly man with longish brown hair that curls around his ears, and sober, dark brown eyes. He wears a sleeveless shirt, revealing the signature Bratva tattoos that line his entire upper body.
Erik holds the phone up, giving him a full visual of the women kneeling before us.
“Excellent,” Tomas says. “They look lovely, but I didn’t expect anything less. You underestimate my request, though, Erik.” Tomas takes another pull from his beer bottle and he smiles. “I don’t want to see them clothed.”
I have to will my hands not to clench, so I don’t hurt one of them. Erik grins at the camera, and walks toward the women. I almost level him right then and there. If he touches her, I’ll murder him.