Page 10 of Forcibly Sold to the Bratva (Zolotov Bratva #14)

Arina and I run through the narrow streets of Cancun. I guide her with a hand to the small of her back and choose to run behind her, looking over my shoulder constantly to make sure we aren’t being followed. I notice the three men appear just as we round a corner.

“Quick,” I tell Arina, “that's right.” I swerve her into a dark, adjoining alley, running further into it until we exit onto a high street filled with boutique stores.

“Where are they?” she asks fearfully, trying to look behind our backs.

I take her hand, and we break into a sprint as we run across streets.

I turn my head back and see the three men with their backs to us, looking around for us, and before I let them risk seeing us, I push open the first store I see and pull Irina into it.

More than two dozen heads turn to look at us.

“Are you here for the class?” a pleasant-looking store assistant asks us with a smile.

“Oh, uh.” I look around and notice a dozen couples, all of whom face her. We can’t risk going out. Whatever class this is, we’re going to fucking take it.

“Yes,” says Arina beside me, as though she can read my mind.

“Come, come.” The store assistant motions us into the crowd. “Please. You’re late, but you’ll catch up.”

Arina and I share nervous looks. We have no idea what’s going on, what we’re even doing here, but we let another assistant guide us to stand behind a table filled with numerous small bottles. I pick some up while Arina leans forward.

“I think it’s one of those experiential things,” she whispers, her eyes nervously darting out of the window. I follow her gaze, and the street outside looks clear. For now, we’re safe here.

We turn our focus back to the instructor and pray we go undetected.

Arina looks through a pamphlet and hands it to me. I read about the class, Aromatherapy for couples.

Right. Just a few minutes ago, the woman by my side tried to run from me. I feel that same petrified energy rumble through me that I felt when I discovered Arina was missing. She has no idea what trouble she could have gotten into.

“I got a call,” I whisper to her, and her eyes meet mine. “From my men at the hotel. The hotel has been compromised.”

“Compromised?” Her eyes go wide, and a few people shush us from ahead. She lowers her voice. “What do you mean, compromised?”

“It means it’s not safe to go back to the villa. Tonight, we’ll have to stay somewhere else. Our men will grab our things and shift us to a new one. I’m awaiting details.”

“Okay…” she says, in a way that sounds like a question.

“You shouldn’t have run from me,” I hiss. “Do you know how dangerous it can be out here?”

“Why?” she asks, more urgently now.

I don’t answer. I look out of the window behind her, and she watches me. “Are they following us?”

“They’re not out there. But it doesn’t mean they aren’t around,” I say, and turn my focus back to the class.

“Who are they?” she asks.

“People who don’t like me,” I answer.

“They were…looking for you?” she asks, her voice quivering.

“They were looking to get to me, Arina. Next time, don’t leave my side.”

“But—” she tries asking, before the instructor levels a glare in our direction. We both immediately shut up. We can’t go out there, can’t risk being kicked out, so we remain silent and listen, act like a couple.

The woman in front speaks softly and asks us all to sink into the cushions. Arina whirls behind her to look, and the tension in the air grows heavy. The entire situation has suddenly become even more intimate.

Around us, the other couples find their seats and face one another. I’m about to ask Arina if she’d rather leave, for she looks pale in the face, but just then I see the three men passing outside. Without thinking, I grab her hand and pull her down until she’s plonked on the soft seat.

“They’re behind you,” I whisper. “Don’t turn.”

She nods fearfully, but listens.

“We should just finish this class,” I murmur, and she agrees, her eyes darting around nervously.

Just then, the instructor says, “Now that we’re all seated, that’s wonderful. We can begin our journey of sensual awareness through aromatherapy.”

Arina shoots me a panicked look, and I shrug helplessly. Looking around, I notice that every other couple is sitting close, holding hands. Arina notices too and takes a deep gulp.

“Let us start with the oil of connection,” the instructor says. “This blend of sandalwood and jasmine opens the heart chakra and enhances your bond with your partner.”

Assistants move around the circle, handing each couple a small vial of oil. When one reaches us, she smiles knowingly. “You two are beautiful together. The energy between you is electric.”

I force a smile while Arina looks like she wants to sink into the floor.

“Now,” the instructor continues, “take a small amount of oil and massage it gently into your partner’s inner wrist. This is where the pulse is strongest, where their life force can be felt beneath your fingertips.”

I look at Arina, who is staring at the vial like it might bite her. Through the window, I can see the men still hovering outside, peering in once before walking away. But they could be back at any time.

“We have to do this,” I whisper. “They’re still out there.”

Her eyes meet mine with a nervous resignation. She holds out her wrist, and I take it gently, pouring the pleasantly fragrant oil onto her skin.

I begin to massage her wrists, as we’re being instructed, and the heat from her skin burns into me.

Right now, we’re in such trouble, so much danger, but all I can feel is the racing of my heart.

Not from the men outside, but from the feel of her skin.

Around us, there are people moaning with delight, and Arina blushes, coloring her cheeks a pretty pink that makes her look even more beautiful.

I begin to massage the oil in slow circles, and her eyes flutter closed for a moment. In this moment, I think back to my days as a young man in the city, all the women I seduced, took to bed. Yet none of it felt as intimate as this moment does.

It’s strange, and the thought takes root in my mind. I haven’t even seen her naked, but if touching her wrist makes me feel this way, what the hell would taking her to bed feel like?

I instantly stop massaging from the fear of that damning thought and her eyes blast open with surprise, those gorgeous blue-green eyes pinned on me.

“Your turn,” I say hoarsely, trying not to drown in her sight.

Arina nods and, with shaking hands, her oil-lathered fingers touch my wrist, and on the first contact itself, I try hard to keep still, to not shudder in delight. Her touch is light, but it leaves trails of fire across my skin.

“Now, look into each other’s eyes,” the instructor’s soft voice washes over us, and I hear Arina take a sharp breath.

Our eyes connect and moments pass by. Slowly, I feel my heart beat quiet, find myself going into a trance, but the whole time, the current between us swings stronger, pulling us into each other’s orbit.

I forget the world. Forget where we are. Forget everything but her.

“Feel the connection building between you,” the instructor’s voice breaks through my trance. “Now, we move to the oil of desire. This blend contains lavender and bergamot to awaken the senses and ignite passion.”

Another vial is passed around, and while Arina opens it, I look out of the window. The men are still there, sitting at the café across the street, talking and sipping water.

Shit.

The only saving grace is that they’re not looking in here. Which means, they don’t know we’re here. Which means we have to stay here. We have to participate.

“For this oil,” the instructor continues, “we will focus on the nape of the neck, a place of such beautiful, earth-shattering sensitivity. Partners will apply the oil to each other, allowing your fingers to caress the skin where the hairline meets the neck.”

Arina’s eyes widen. “Ilariy,” she whispers, “we can’t—”

“We have to,” I cut her off, gesturing subtly toward the window. “They’re on the street opposite. We need to stay until they leave.”

She swallows hard, then turns so her back is to me. She parts her hair to one side, revealing the pale skin at her nape, the slender column of her neck.

My mouth goes dry.

I take some oil in my fingertips and gently begin to massage it into the nape of her neck.

She gasps softly, her shoulders tensing before relaxing under my touch.

The oil smells like citrus and flowers, reminding me of a beautiful hotel room.

It sends thoughts skittering down my mind of beautiful things that happen in beautiful hotel rooms with beautiful women.

With women like Arina.

Not that I’ve met one like her before.

I bite my lower lip, hoping the pain can distract me from these intrusive images I’m conjuring in my mind. What the hell is wrong with me? Since when did I start lusting over Arina Sokolov?

I don’t have an answer to that question, but there is no other way to describe the way the blood gushes through my entire body, sets every point of contact with her skin on fire.

My fingers drift up into her hairline, and I hear her breath catch. A strange, possessive feeling surges through me, and I have to restrain myself from pulling her closer.

“Now, partners, trade places,” the instructor says.

Arina turns to face me, her cheeks flushed and eyes darkened. I turn my back to her, offering my neck. For a moment, nothing happens, and then I feel her tentative touch.

Her fingers are cool against my heated skin, and I close my eyes at the softness of it. Her touch grows firmer as she works the oil into my skin. When her fingers brush the short hairs at my nape, a shudder runs through me.

This is torture. Sweet, exquisite torture.

“The final step in our journey tonight,” the instructor says, “is the sharing of breath and essence. Partners, face each other now.”