Page 18 of Forcibly Sold to the Bratva (Zolotov Bratva #14)

Arina’s eyes widen as she turns to see the sedan giving chase. I can sense her panic, recall how petrified she looked before she realized I had come to her rescue.

I place a comforting arm around her shoulder, and she nestles closer, her breaths sound uneven in fear. I lean in closer to the driver. “Try to lose them, then get us to the closest safehouse.”

The driver nods and then takes a sharp right. Arina slides onto the seat, and I keep her close by pulling her back to my side.

“Do you know who they are?” she asks with a trembling voice.

“I swear I’m not lying, but I don’t know.” I grit my teeth.

“Just…how many enemies do you have?” She sounds afraid, small.

“Everyone who isn’t us in the Bratva,” I say, flinching as I do.

She gasps, but nods. I find it strange that I kept the truth from her for so long. Turns out, she takes it stronger than I thought her capable to be.

The car continues to chase us, and the driver takes another turn, one so sharp that our tires screech. But the car keeps on gaining distance on us. The street is congested, busy, and we can’t go any faster without hurting someone.

The driver and I connect eyes in the rear view mirror, and I see his fear. He sees mine, too, I think. If Arina hadn’t been with me, I would have used my gun and shot their bloody tires off.

But if I start the gunfire and they retaliate and she gets hurt, I couldn’t live with it. Shaking them off seems to be the best and only option.

We then approach a busy intersection, and I make a split-second decision. “Let them get closer,” I tell the driver.

“What?” Arina hisses. Even the driver looks incredulous.

“Trust me. When they’re close enough, we’re going to take that sharp right onto that dirt road.” I point to a narrow exit no one seems to have noticed. “They’ll be forced to bypass.”

The driver listens, and when the car is so close, reaching bumper to bumper, I scream, “Now!”

The driver yanks at the wheel, and we go off-road. We see the car speed right ahead.

“Reverse,” I tell the driver. “Get out of here. By the time they turn around to take this street, we’ll be driving the other way.”

Five minutes later, we see that my plan worked. We’ve shaken them off, and the driver is now taking a maze of a route.

“Shouldn’t we just go home?” Arina asks.

“No,” I insist. “The safehouse is closer. If they find us on the streets, we’ll be in trouble.”

She nods as the driver leads us to the closest place we can wait out a couple of hours.

There’s a tense silence in the car for the remainder of our drive. All six eyes in the car dart back and forth, left or right, holding our breaths and praying we don’t find an unwanted surprise.

Arina is still nestled close. I feel her tremble, her hands shaking. She’s petrified.

I hate those fucking men.

At last, we pull up to the back entrance of a high-rise.

“Take the car to the basement,” I tell the driver. “And call the family. Tell them what happened and see if they can find something out.”

I usher Arina out with my arm around her waist, making sure to check all corners to see if the coast is clear, before entering the building. We take the lift right up.

“What is this place?” she asks.

“Agafon’s spare apartment,” I explain.

Once at his penthouse, I put in the security code, and at last, I let go of her trembling form, letting her pass before me.

She stands in the foyer, her eyes taking in the height of the ceilings, the spaciousness of this place.

“This is nice,” she says, but I see she clutches her hands really tight. Her voice is small, and she’s trying so very hard to be brave.

“Come on, Arina,” I say softly, taking her hand and leading her into the kitchen, and showing her to a barstool. “Let me get you some water.”

I pour her a glass, and she sighs, ignoring the water altogether.

“Drink up,” I suggest, but she drops her face into her hands. Her hands…they just won’t stop shaking. Without thinking, I walk up to her and take her hands in mine, gently caressing her wrists until they stop trembling.

She looks up at me with tears pooling in her eyes. “Are you sure your sisters are okay?”

“They’re fine, princess. They’re with Bogdan now,” I say gently and give her hands a little squeeze before I set them down on her lap. “Are you sure they didn’t hurt you?”

She nods and, at last, takes a sip of water. She sets down the glass as she speaks. “They didn’t hurt me.”

I step back and run a hand through my hair, the adrenaline now leaving my body. Arina is alright. She’s safe. But there’s a high chance this could have ended differently. “Katya told me what you did, how you stayed behind.”

“I needed them to get out,” she says, and for some reason, the relief I feel at seeing her safe also flows into a river of anger I can’t keep to myself.

“What the hell were you thinking?” The words burst out of me.

She looks startled when she meets my glare. “What?”

“You told my sisters to run while you stayed behind. Seriously? How could you put yourself in danger like that?” I don’t mean to, but my voice comes out louder.

“I couldn’t let anything happen to them,” she says firmly. “They were in danger!”

“So were you! You could have been killed. And the things they could have done to you before that… tell me, Arina. Tell me you’re not that stupid!”

“Don’t call me stupid!” she fights back, jumping off the stool and jabbing a finger in my chest. “I made a split-second decision, okay? And guess what? It seems to have been the right one because we’re all okay. So back off!”

“You should have all stayed together!” I bellow.

“We were cornered,” she screams back. “So what was I supposed to do? Let your sisters get hurt when I could prevent it? I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to them because of me.”

“And I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you!” I scream as I reach out and cup her cheeks in my hands, forcing her to look at me.

Arina’s pretty oceanic eyes widen, and for a moment, we just stare at each other, the anger retracting into itself until all I feel is my heart pounding against my ribs.

“Ilariy,” she whispers and places a hand over one of mine. She leans into my touch, and that motion is so soft, so sweet that I realize I’m angry at the wrong person.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that,” I whisper. “You did more than I could have asked for. Thank you… for getting my sisters out.”

She shakes her head and bites her lower lip. “I did what anyone else would have.”

“No!” I say forcefully, stepping closer, so close until I feel her breasts curve against my chest. “They wouldn’t have.”

She tilts up her head and gets on her toes, now wrapping her arms around my neck and whispering my name again, in a way that sets my nerves on fire.

I let go of her cheeks and slide my hands around her waist until she’s in my grip, and I don’t know who moves first, but it’s like there’s a space between us and gravity is pulling us closer and closer and closer until I feel the soft brush of her lips against mine.

She pulls back with a gasp, and I lean in, brushing again. She whimpers and digs her hand into the nape of my neck, pulling me closer. I bend, I mold, I shift until there’s no space between us.

Raw need, pure raw need from that day we left unfinished in Cancun, rushes back, and I think she remembers it too, how close we were to feeling each other, to being one, for she parts her lips for me and I slide into her, tasting her, exploring her.

She moans into my mouth, and I’m drunk on the sound, a heat settling low in my abdomen.

My hands slide down her back to her ass, pulling her hips against mine so she can feel exactly what she does to me. She whimpers, rising on her toes to press herself closer.

“Arina,” I growl against her mouth. “Tell me to stop. Tell me now if this isn’t what you want.”

“Don’t stop,” she breathes, her fingers tangling in my hair, tugging in a way that sends sparks down my spine. “Please, don’t stop.”

That’s all I need to hear. I lift her, and her legs wrap around my waist as I carry her to the guest room downstairs, our lips pressed together.

I lay her down and tumble into bed, hovering over her. My thumb strokes her flushed cheeks.

“Are you sure?” I ask one last time. I have given her so much to be angry about, so much to regret, and I don’t wish to give her one other reason.

Her answer to my question is the urgency with which she reaches for her shirt. I watch, transfixed, as she peels it off her skin, my eyes grazing over the expanse of her body, hungry for when I see the first peek of lace, famished by the time I see the sight of her breasts in that bra.

With a growl, I strip off my shirt, and her eyes darken as they visually map the muscles of my chest and the tapering of my waist down to my pants.

And then, we’re a tornado. I rip off my belt, and she unbuttons her trousers.

I unzip mine and reach for her waistband, sliding her pants down as I move further down, until they’re off her ankles and discarded somewhere.

I shed mine off faster than she can come back, and now, we’re in nothing but our underwear, flesh to flesh.

I bounce back on top of her, give her lips a featherlight kiss before cupping her face in my hands. She pants beneath me, breathless and fresh-faced, looking divinely beautiful with her hair spread around her like a halo.

“I meant it,” I whisper, gazing into her eyes. “I can’t live with myself if something happens to you.”

“I know,” she whispers, and her hands slide down my back, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

I press my lips to her neck, taste the salt of her skin, and breathe in her scent.

“You’re so beautiful,” I murmur against her throat, trailing kisses down to her collarbone. “I’ve thought about what this would be like every single day since Cancun.”

Her hands clutch at my shoulders, nails digging in slightly. “You’re telling me?” she hisses.