Page 7 of Brutal Monster (Zhukov Bratva #2)

CHAPTER SIX

INEZ

T he Mexico City lights blur together as Vanya's sleek Bentley glides through the evening traffic. I press my forehead against the cool window glass, the tequila warming my blood and softening the edges of my usual vigilance.

"That's where my father took me for my fifteenth birthday," I say, pointing to a gleaming restaurant perched on a hillside. "Before I understood what our family really did."

Vanya's eyes flick to where I'm pointing, then back to the road. His hands remain perfectly positioned at ten and two on the steering wheel, control personified.

"And you? Did you always know what your family was?" I ask, feeling bold in my tipsy state.

His jaw tightens. "By four, I knew. By eight, I understood, and by twelve, I participated."

"Child soldiers," I murmur. "We both were, in different ways."

The city sprawls beneath us as we climb higher into the hills where the wealthy perch above the chaos. My building rises like a glass needle into the night sky.

"That one," I say, pointing. "Top floor."

His eyebrow arches slightly. "Of course it is."

The valet recognizes me instantly, scrambling to open my door before Vanya can circle the car. I wave him off. "My guest will park in my private space."

Vanya follows my directions to the underground garage, pulling into the spot marked with my name. The elevator requires my fingerprint, and as we ascend forty floors in silence, I find myself studying his reflection in the mirrored walls.

"Your security is adequate," he says, breaking the silence. "But I could suggest improvements."

I laugh. "Always working."

"Always alive," he counters.

The elevator opens directly across the hall from my door. I step out, fumbling slightly with my clutch to find my keys, though I don't strictly need them with the biometric lock.

"Allow me," Vanya says, taking the small purse from my hands. Our fingers brush, and electricity shoots up my arm.

He finds the keys and hands them to me. I turn to unlock the door, aware of his proximity behind me, the heat of him like a furnace in the air-conditioned hallway.

When I turn back, he's closer than I expected. My breath catches. His steel-gray eyes drop to my lips for just a heartbeat.

Then he steps back. "You should get some sleep, Inez."

"That's it?" The words escape before I can stop them.

"You've had several drinks. I don't take advantage of compromised business partners."

Business partners. The words sting more than they should.

"Is that what we are?" I step toward him, erasing the distance he created.

"For now." His voice drops an octave, sending shivers across my skin.

Something snaps inside me. I grab Vanya's lapels, the fine wool of his suit crushed in my fists, and pull him down to my level. When our lips connect, I anticipate resistance. Instead, I’m met with a surprising surrender, quickly turning into a powerful dominance.

His hands encircle my waist, lifting me effortlessly against him. My back collides with the door, a solid impact as his mouth captures mine, the kiss a fierce blend of war and raw desire. A taste of whiskey laced with an intoxicating sense of authority lingers on his tongue.

Astonishingly, he manages to open the door without breaking our connection.

We stumble inside, the room welcoming us as he kicks the door shut with a swift motion.

Then, with sudden grace, he sets me down.

His hands, though gentle, maintain a firm grip as he carefully disentangles himself, leaving a charged silence in the air.

"To be continued," he says, his accent thicker than usual, betraying his affected composure.

"Stay," I say, reaching for him again.

He catches my wrists, brings them to his lips. "When you ask me sober, Inez Bravo, I’ll stay. Not before."

The door closes quietly behind him, leaving me alone with swollen lips and his touch still burning on my skin. The apartment feels too empty now, too quiet after the storm of his presence. My fingers touch my lips, still swollen from his kiss.

"Damn you, Vanya Zhukov," I whisper to the empty room.

I need to clear my head. I stride toward the bathroom, shedding clothing like armor as I go. First, the shoes kicked carelessly aside, then the dress that pools at my feet in a puddle of midnight blue silk. My underwear follows, leaving a trail behind me that I'll deal with tomorrow.

The marble bathroom gleams under soft lighting as I twist the taps of the oversized tub. Steam rises immediately, fogging the mirrors and wrapping around me like an embrace. I pour in bath oil—sandalwood and amber—and sink into the hot water with a sigh that's half pleasure, half frustration.

Closing my eyes, I slide deeper, letting the water cover my shoulders. But instead of relaxation, all I find is Vanya. The memory of Vanya's scent clings to me—expensive cologne with undertones of something distinctly male. Something dangerous. Something I want.

"Well, at least my future husband knows how to kiss," I murmur to myself, a bitter laugh escaping my throat.

My hand rises from the water, tracing the path his lips took across my neck. The ghost of his touch lingers, refusing to be washed away. I remember the controlled strength in his hands, the way they spanned my waist, lifting me as if I weighed nothing.

Heat builds low in my belly that has nothing to do with the bath. I slide my hands over my breasts, imagining his palms there instead of mine. My nipples harden at the contact, sensitive and aching. A soft moan escapes me as I squeeze, knead, pinch—all the things I imagine he would do.

My right hand travels lower, sliding through the water and between my thighs. I'm already slick, ready, as my fingers find my clit and begin to circle. My breath catches as pleasure spirals outward from my core.

"Vanya," I whisper, testing his name on my tongue as my fingers work faster.

The pressure builds quickly, my hips rising to meet my hand. In my mind, it's Vanya touching me, his steel-gray eyes watching my reactions with that intense focus he brings to everything. The thought pushes me closer to the edge.

"Vanya," I say again, louder this time, and not caring who might hear. Water splashes over the edge of the tub as my movements become more frantic.

When the orgasm hits, it crashes through me like a wave breaking against rocks. My back arches, his name a desperate cry on my lips as pleasure pulses through every nerve. For several heartbeats, there's nothing but sensation—powerful, consuming, perfect.

Then, slowly, I sink back into the cooling water, boneless and breathing hard.

Reality returns too quickly. I'm alone in my bathroom, having just pleasured myself while thinking of a man who walked away. A man who is both my salvation and potentially my greatest threat.

I sit up abruptly, water cascading down my body. This was a mistake. Letting Vanya affect me this way is dangerous. Business partners, he said. I need to remember that, to hold onto the cold calculation that has kept me alive and in power.

I step out of the tub, wrapping myself in a plush towel. In the fogged mirror, my reflection is blurred, indistinct. Just like the lines I've started crossing with Vanya Zhukov.

Tomorrow, I'll be sober. Tomorrow, I'll remember who I am and what's at stake.

And if he asks why I kissed him, I'll lie.