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Katya

They say if you stare into the abyss long enough, the abyss stares back. They never warn you how the darkness cradles you, and how emptiness becomes home. How do you start craving the void, not out of fear but need?

Because darkness isn’t just an absence of light, it’s a lawless place, where mercy is a myth and morality is a crutch for the weak. It makes you shed your softness like rotting skin until all that’s left is something vicious, a hunger without conscience.

In the dark, cruelty isn’t a sin. It’s a skill.

And that’s what frightens me the most. Not this suicide mission I’ve set on for months. Not the Bratva. It’s me. It’s how much I’ve changed.

Once, I was this soft, idealistic woman who believed blood couldn’t betray blood. But loss cracks you open, hollows you out, fills you with things you never wanted to hold.

Bitterness. Fury. Obsession.

I’ve been hunting him for weeks, chasing whispers from cowards too afraid to speak his name but desperate enough to trade secrets for cash or painkillers.

The Bratva’s most ruthless enforcer. He’s my key. The one who’ll know what happened to Irina.

Five years ago, my sister disappeared. Apparently, she’d been doing some odd jobs for some shady men. And according to her emails, I went through, she had messages from different men, all asking her to meet up at certain locations. The latest one mentioned her meeting here.

After keeping tabs on this place for months, I narrowed down the patrons to the man I was looking for. He is here today. I was even more certain after his name matched the one I saw one year ago, when I found Irina’s last journal hidden beneath her mattress, scribbled hastily in terrified handwriting.

That was what started this mission in the first place.

'Nikolai. R. knows. He’s coming.'

Those letters haunted me for days until I began my search, which pulled me deeper into Bratva’s world. My sister’s disappearance is linked to one man.

I wasn’t absolutely sure he was responsible, but I had a feeling he played a large part. And I always trusted my feelings.

Finally, after months, my latest intel has directed me to this strip club. Since this whole thing started, I’ve tracked his kind to places like this before.

I always know what to expect, whether it’s research for my writing or simply as a follow-up.

But stepping into Danger Drop tonight, I realize darkness has many faces. Some hide in plain sight while others flaunt themselves openly beneath neon lights. So unapologetic and filthy is the debauchery, that it takes me off guard like I’ve walked into the heart of something corrupt.

My eyes catch movement in the corner as a couple is tangled in primal abandon on one of the chaise lounges. The chains around their bodies clinking rhythmically, lost completely in a feral tangle of lust.

While there are some people who seem rather fascinated enough to watch with eyes glazed with sick hunger, the others just continue about their lives, unfazed by the raw, animalistic fucking unfolding like it’s nothing.

A girl in a red wig struts in with nothing but panties and a strap-on, her smile wicked and inviting. She strokes the toy with slow, practiced hands, glistening under the lights, daring me to imagine the feel of her skin against mine.

Even as she rubs her cock, she uses a free hand to massage the hard roundness of her tits, squeezing them like she’s daring me to imagine how they’d feel crushed against my face. Her breasts are obviously fake, but they’re beautiful in the kind of way overly expensive things are, perfect and wrong all at once.

It’s a good thing I decided to wear this strapless dress. I bought it on a whim because I wanted to use it to express myself on days that I went out like this, which has been almost never.

I’d taken time with my hair today, curling it instead of leaving it dry and straight. It clings to my forehead and the sides of my face, framing it in a delicate whirl of damp, wild strands.

I feel powerful like this today. I feel beautiful. The men flocking around me are proof of this, their eyes raking over me like they’re starving, like they’d kill to bury themselves in me.

I’m used to this amount of attention. And usually I hate it. But I feed off it, and tonight, I couldn’t care less.

There is only one person I care about, and it’s him: Nikolai Ramensky. Nikolai’s reputation precedes him. He is violent, ruthless, and for months, I’ve had to scrape in the dark for something tangible. But tonight, he's finally within reach.

And once I gather enough evidence to prove he’s the reason my sister vanished, I’ll make him pay.

I just need to get his attention. It’s the first step of the plan. I have it all mapped out.

First, I have to be able to recognize him. That wouldn’t be too hard. I’ve seen his pictures online. And men like Nikolai elude power and are always surrounded, a pack of wolves bowing to their alpha.

Surely it won’t be too difficult to pick him out from the crowd. Next, I have to somehow grab his attention, hence the dress and the hair and the extra time on makeup, all of it a weapon to lure him into my trap. Then…

I don’t know what's next, but I’m prepared to fight to the end, to sink my teeth into him until we’re both bleeding.

Finally, I see him—tall, surrounded by shifty, muscular men in suits. The sight sends a jolt of terror and want through me so strong I nearly stagger. It has to be Nikolai.

When he slips out from the crowd and jostles upstairs, I wait, with my watered-down drink I didn’t touch, keeping my eyes on the stairs.

I count the minutes. Five. Ten. Then I move.

Now, on the landing, I pause to take a look around. The second floor is smaller and less crowded, and here I’m taken in by the décor. There’s a small chandelier, springing lights around the space, casting shadows that writhe like lovers. There’s a raised platform in the shape of a cock where I see two ladies eating each other out in a 69 position, their tongues plunging deep and desperately, while men offer up money and loud oh fuck, that pussy must taste so good. She’s dripping. I could fuck her all day. Or both of them.

The music is sensual, of course, and carries a weight across the room. In my complete amazement, I realize I’ve lost sight of Nikolai.

I’m at once rounded up by fear. It’s the first time I’ll be coming this close to him. Losing his tail so early into the night is never quite a good sign, and I know it firsthand.

“Where the hell did you go?” I whisper as I push past the poles, edging toward the door at the far end. It yawns open into a hallway stinking of expensive cologne and stale lust, that clings to me like sweat.

I feel goose bumps rise up my arms the farther I walk. Here, the doors seem to be made of glass with the upper half of it left transparent, offering glimpses of depravity I can’t unsee. I don’t know if this is the new normal for elite strip house, but this feels nearly sinful.

I see him now. A red haired lady kneels before him and takes his cock in her mouth, her lips stretching wide around his thick, pulsing length. I glance away quickly, my cheeks burning crimson at the sight of her kneeling, but it’s too late. The image sears into me.

Don’t get me wrong, I have watched porn and masturbated to it. In fact, lately, it seems to be the only way for me to calm myself down, chasing that edge of release. But this isn’t porn, at least not like I’m used to. This is real life. Here, in front of me, a man is being sucked into a whirlpool of pure ecstasy while I watch.

I shouldn’t, but I do.

As much as I hate to admit it, I’m oddly turned on by this.

He gathers her hair in a fistful, presses himself to her mouth and thrusts, his hips driving forward with brutal intent. His thrusts are powerful. Solid. Delicious, each one a filthy promise of what he could do to me. It’s the kind of thrust I’d expect from a professional, a man who knows how to fuck until you’re broken and begging.

The jacket he was wearing downstairs is gone, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, and his forearms flex with each vicious thrust. I press closer, breathing heavily, afraid I’ll be caught but wanting to watch anyway, my nipples hardening against the fabric of my dress.

Watching is wrong—filthy, addictive. But I can’t look away.

She makes a sound of choking when he takes his cock too far down her throat, her gag a wet, desperate noise that sends a shiver through me. He slips it out and she coughs but her mouth is still open to him, her tongue sticking out, drooling and eager to take his fullness down her throat again like a willing slave to his cock.

“Keep that mouth open for me,” he growls. He has a slight accent. Russian. His voice is so addictive, like warm honey and rainstorm, and I groan, biting my lip to stifle it. Thankfully, he doesn’t hear me over her sloppy, needy slurps. “Your body is mine tonight to do as I please.”

“Yes, please use me,” she says, nodding emphatically, her eyes wide and glazed with submission as spit drips down her chin.

I want to laugh at this, but I don’t because watching them, watching him thrust and pound her mouth like that, claiming her with every ruthless inch, I realize I’d let him do whatever he wanted, too. I’d let him shove that cock down my throat until I couldn’t breathe.

I’m so hot right now, damn it, my thighs clenching as I imagine him turning that feral stare on me, forcing me to my knees, making me his.

He pulls his cock out of her mouth, slaps it against her lips and tongue, smearing her spit and his precum in a wet, glistening mess before pulling her up on her feet with a grip that brooks no defiance.

He sits down on the only chair in the room, leans back against the headrest with a lazy, predatory sprawl, and motions for her to come to him.

“Get on top of me and don’t get off until I come.”

I pinch my thighs together, disgusted at myself even as heat pulses deep between my legs. I shouldn’t feel this. Not here, not now, especially not for a man who probably took Irina from me.

The things I’ve learnt about him are awful. He's a murderer, a thief, a manipulator, everything I despise, yet my body doesn’t care about morality or revenge. It only recognizes hunger, a primal need clawing its way through reason.

My hand moves on its own, slipping beneath the edge of my dress, seeking release from the tension vibrating through my body. Even as pleasure spikes sharply when my fingers graze my hardened nipples, shame swirls through me fiercely. I twist harder, punishing myself for the traitorous desire flooding me, wishing pain could drown out the lust.

Because it’s easier to hate him when I’m numb, when I’m empty. Not when I’m quivering with need and imagining myself in her place, straddling him.

She rolls her hips against his cock, sliding her head back until her breasts are reaching up to his chin, begging for his mouth. She rolls her hips again and again, moaning every time it hits, each sound a rough plea that sinks into me, and I pinch my dress up higher, slipping a finger between my thighs.

Fuck. I’m wet. Dripping.

I drag the finger out, wet and slick with my juices, glistening under the dim light, and put the finger in my mouth, sucking it clean with a shudder. I let the moan escape from my lips, low and obscene, before pushing the finger back, fucking myself slowly while I watch them spiral.

God. I’m sex-starved, yes, but this isn’t just hunger; it’s betrayal. My body is a traitor, drawn to the very monster I’ve sworn to destroy. It’s irrational, disgusting even, but I can't seem to stop the heat from pooling low in my belly or the ache that pulses deep inside me.

I hate myself for it. How can desire bleed into hate like this? How can my body rebel against reason? But emotions don’t care about reason, and mine are twisted, corrupted by loss, violence, and obsession. I want him dead as much as I want his touch, and it scares me more than anything.

I watch his face contort to that of pain and pleasure. “Yeah…ooh, fuck, tease me like that. Ride this cock like your life depends on it.”

“Oh my God,” she moans, bouncing against his cock, her ass jiggling with every frantic thrust. “Your cock is so big and deep inside me. It’s splitting me open.”

“Take it,” he demands with breaths coming in short, unkempt bursts and eyes murky with control.

“Mmmm.” He slaps her ass cheeks once, twice, on the same spot, the crack of flesh-on-flesh echoing, not minding her cry of, first, pain, and then pleasure.

I’ve never been a fan of such deep, aggressive sex. No, really, when I watch porn, I artfully scroll past scenes with such because they have never once appealed to me. But beyond this door, caught in this visceral longing, I imagine that I’m the one being fucked by Nikolai Ramensky, his hands bruising me, his cock stretching me, and I go crazy, my mind splintering into a haze of hate and want.

I want to be fucked by him. Ravaged. Owned.

No. No. I hate him.

I watch him slip his hands between the woman’s legs to finger her pussy. She screams, but doesn’t stop searching and reaching out for the high his cock and fingers promise.

“I want to come…oh…oh…I want to come for you, please, let me fucking come,” she begs, her words slurring into a desperate chant.

“Yeah, go on…come on my cock, soak me with that tight little cunt.” He holds her hips firmly, gripping them until she’s pink right where his hands are, her skin blooming under his touch, and drags her up and down his length, forcing her to take every cruel inch until her cries become louder, rougher, animalistic.

She comes, shaking so much, on his throbbing cock, her lips slightly parted and her eyes rolled back. A shuddering, wrecked thing unraveling for him.

“Get on your knees!”

She rolls off him, gets down on all fours while he stands, hovering above her, his cock still hard and wet. “Take it all in your mouth and suck me off, baby. Fucking take it in your mouth, choke on it.”

She obeys him, her lips parting wide as he spreads his hand around the back of her head and thrusts. He groans deeply as she takes him in the hollow of her throat, gagging wetly around his girth. His moans are piercing when he starts to come.

He spills his entire load in her mouth, and tells her to swallow it all down, “Every fucking drop, do you hear me?”—which she does without question, gulping it down like it’s her lifeline, her eyes locked on his in abject worship.

She stands then, and I notice she still has her dress on, crumpled and clinging to her sweat-slicked body. She arranges it back on her gorgeous frame before running her fingers up his hands.

“Out now,” he pants. She flinches, startled. “Did you hear what I said? Get the fuck out right now.”

It’s so sudden, I don’t know what I was expecting, but she quickly dashes towards the door. I pull back into the shadows because there’s nowhere to run to without looking like I’d been spying on them. Best bet, I reckon, is to pretend that this is all normal and I am just decidedly…lost.

She scampers out of the room, and the door swings shut. Which is my cue to leave, but I don’t make it too far before I feel coarse, hard hands grip my wrist and tug me back. I screech, throwing my hands in every direction, praying that at least one swing hits his face. He pushes me back, pinning me against the wall, before pointing a finger in my direction, his breath hot against my skin.

“You’d better have a good explanation for spying on me.” I feel the hair at the back of my head stand on end.

He’s better than I’d hoped. Not in his personality, God, no, that’s a festering pit, but in his appearance, a brutal kind of perfection. His hair is jet black but softer, tied up in a man bun that I want to set free just to see it spill.

His eyes are a wonderful shade between blue and green, giving him some added edge that cuts right through me. His eyelashes are the longest I’ve ever seen on a man. They frame those perfect eyes, and I get roped into their hardness, drowning in the cold fire there. His jaw is sharp with a pointed nose, a face carved for sin and violence.

Then I look down. His shoulders are strong and flow endlessly, stretched into the grey fabric of his shirt. To be fair, this man is the epitome of handsomeness, and I’ve met my fair share of handsome men, but this man right here takes it all without even trying.

And then it hits me: why do all the gorgeous men turn out to be killers? Why does he have to be the one I crave and loathe in equal measure?

“Last I checked, this place was open to the public.” I keep my voice stable. “I don’t even know who you are. Hate to break it to you, but the world doesn’t revolve around you.”

He blanks for a beat, but then he squints, and I see a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, aren’t you a bold little thing?” he says. “I see what this is about. You’re waiting your turn to be fucked, aren’t you? Watching me pound her got you all wet and desperate, didn’t it?”

Heat rushes to my cheeks, my anger clashing with embarrassment. “You wish.”

“Maybe I do. Or maybe you’re just another idiot who thinks following me is a smart idea.”

“I’m not following you.”

“Right.” His tone drips with sarcasm. “So what? You stumbled into the back room of a strip club by accident?”

“Not that it is any of your concern, but I had business.”

“With me?”

“With the girl you just sent packing.”

“Liar.”

I meet his eyes, refusing to flinch. “Believe what you want.”

He studies me, his expression impassive. But there’s a glint there. Something almost amused. “You’ve got guts. I’ll give you that.”

"You love the sound of your own voice, don’t you?"

He chuckles as his eyes sweep over me. "Almost as much as you'll love begging me to stop."

“What?” I stammer. Not able to come up with a quick comeback.

He steps closer. “How would you like it? Rough and fast or slow? Either way, I can make you grovel on your knees in a matter of a few minutes.”

“That’s so…” I choke on the words, disgust and desire tangling in my throat.

He’s laughing as he walks away, a rolling sound that mocks me. And I’m still trembling when he’s gone. Because he’s right. I’m unraveling for a man I should only want dead.