Page 8 of Love to Defy You (The Dark Love #2)

Alek

Willow’s footsteps echo against the wooden floor of our apartment. I set my finance textbook down when she appears in the entryway of the home office, fastening an earring.

“I seem to recall that those shoes are for my eyes only.” I nod my chin at her strappy heels.

She shrugs. “But Josie and I are going dancing tonight, and I want to look cute.”

“Look cute for who?” I quirk an eyebrow at her.

“For myself.” She enters the office and sits on the edge of my desk, and I track the hem of her short-as-sin skirt as it rises up her creamy thighs. “You sure you don’t want to come?”

“I won’t intrude on a girls’ night out.” I place my hand on her leg and slide it under her dress. “But I think you should reschedule and let me fuck you all night long instead.” I lean over and place a kiss on her inner thigh, relishing the way she quivers at my touch.

“But this is the last Saturday before classes start. We should be going crazy before we’re bogged down with homework.” She pauses. “Is that a textbook you’re reading?”

“It is,” I murmur against her skin.

“Classes haven’t even started yet and you’re already studying? What’s wrong with you?”

“Many things.” I flatten my tongue against her and drag it up toward the junction of her thighs, stopping just short. “Are those panties you’re wearing, malishka ?”

“I promise to remove them the moment I get home.” She runs her fingers through my hair. “I’ll be so drunk and loose that you can have your way with me. Use me like your fuck doll.” Her voice grows breathless.

“An intriguing proposition.” I lean back in my chair and follow the trail of her deep, plunging neckline to the pendant necklace hanging between her breasts. “Perhaps you should change?”

She glances down at her outfit. “What’s wrong with it? This is my favorite club dress.”

Of course it is. It shows off way too much skin, which is exactly what my attention-seeking, exhibitionist girlfriend likes about it.

My phone starts to vibrate, and my mother’s name flashes across the screen.

Willow hops off the desk. “You better take that. I’m going now.”

I grit my teeth. “We’re not done discussing your outfit. Take it off. Now.”

With her back toward me, she heads toward the doorway, taking extra care to sway her hips in her short minidress. She pauses on the threshold and throws a suggestive glance over her shoulder. “I’ll accept my punishment later.”

And with that, she disappears down the hall.

The vein in my temple throbs, and I clench my fist on the desk. Willow Baker gets off on driving men to madness like a siren seduces sailors on the open sea, and I am just one of her many victims.

The moment I laid eyes on her, my death sentence was sealed, and I’ve never looked back.

With my unclenched hand, I pick up the phone and bark, “What do you want?”

“Why are you selling the villa in Saint-Tropez?” my mother demands.

I hold the phone away from my ear to avoid the shrillness of her voice. “Because we don’t need it anymore, Mat’ .”

She scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. What if I wanted to spend a spa weekend there?”

“Then stay at a hotel.”

“Don’t give me that attitude, Aleksandr. That American sarcasm is rubbing off on you, and I don’t like it.”

The leather groans as I lean back in my executive chair. “I’m selling the villa, and that’s final. Your apartment in Paris will remain untouched.”

“Your father and I bought that villa together before you were even born. You can’t just sell it.”

I bite back a growl. “Yes, I can. That’s why Otets left me in charge of the estate and not you.”

The line goes quiet.

It’s a low blow, but I am sick of these calls. All she does is yell and vent her frustration at me, and it doesn’t change a thing. The estate needs cash flow from somewhere, and the idea of my mother getting a job is laughable.

“What else are you putting on the market?” she asks coldly. “The country home in the Cotswolds? The townhome in Prague?”

My fist clenches tighter. “Both of them.”

She lets out a dramatic gasp, and I imagine my dear mat’ clutching her pearl necklace on a chaise lounge in her luxurious French parlor. “The chalet in St. Moritz? We spent every Christmas there when your father was still alive.”

“The chalet is safe,” I explain.

“Well, it’s good to know you haven’t turned completely heartless.”

I let out a cool laugh. “Will that be all?”

“Did you speak to the Vasilievs about increasing my allowance?” she asks. “I just took Ana shopping for school last week, and we need more money.”

“It’s not happening. All you do is blow through your allowance, which is more than enough to support you both, and now I have to sell off assets to support your ridiculous lifestyle.”

“That’s your job, Aleksandr. Your father expected you to provide for me and your sister, but instead you’re gallivanting through Europe with that American whore and no plan—“

I disconnect the call and slam the phone on the desk. My mother may speak to me however she wants, but I will not tolerate her vitriol against Willow.

Rubbing my temples doesn’t alleviate the headache caused by Olga Kurochkina’s screeching. My mother is a succubus who takes and takes until there’s nothing left. Not even my sanity.

I stare at the open finance textbook lying on my desk. Now that I won’t be ascending to the Andarusian presidency, I must forge a new path, whatever that is. Women in my life depend on me to step up and provide, whether or not I like it.

Weltner College has an excellent finance program, but the true value lies in its elite alumni network. The university has produced many of Europe’s wealthiest people, and I intend to remain among them by forging contacts with powerful men.

It’s how my grandfather became the president of Andarusia, by leveraging his connections. He wrote the playbook on rising to power, and my father wrote the chapter on how to destroy it.

Whatever I choose to do—or whomever I choose to be—I refuse to follow Grigor Kurochkin’s footsteps.

***

The door to the bedroom creaks open, rousing me from sleep. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dark room. With a groan, I roll over to face the door, but the corner of my hardcover finance textbook digs into my ribs.

“Ah, khuy! “ I hiss. “ Malishka? Is that you?”

Silence.

Rubbing my side, I glance at the door, which is open just a crack, and a small sliver of dim light from the hallway shines through. I must not have shut it all the way when I came to bed.

No matter. I roll back into my prior position, and once I adjust the pillow the way I like it, my body relaxes into the mattress. It welcomes sleep again, and my eyelids grow heavy.

Just as I start to slip out of consciousness, someone roughly grabs me and pulls me upright. My eyes shoot open, but a heavy cloth bag is shoved over my head, rendering me blind. I kick at my attacker, but more hands grasp my legs to hold me down.

I have no idea how many people I’m up against as they roll me onto my stomach and bind my wrists behind my back. All I can do is struggle against them, but I may as well be a worm wriggling in the dirt.

“Who are you?” My words are muffled against the bag. “If it’s money you want—“

They flip me over again and lift me into the air before carrying me across the room. My efforts to escape don’t slow them down.

Flashbacks to the day of the school shooting in Andarusia come flooding back in a tidal wave, and the onslaught of memories is so strong I can’t breathe. The bag over my head, the car ride to the remote location in the forest, the way my wounded arm ached against my bindings as I bled.

It’s an incident I never thought I’d repeat.

Did the revolutionaries come to finish what they started? To end the Kurochkin line once and for all?

The elevator pings, and they carry me inside before coming to a stop. I’m suspended in the air as my captors keep a firm hold on me. Surely someone in the lobby will see me being dragged into the street? Perhaps a passerby on the sidewalk outside can call for help?

When the elevator pings again, we begin to move, and heavy footsteps echo off the marble tile.

“Release me!” I call out at the top of my lungs. “I swear to God, you bastards will pay for—“

“Shut up,” a male voice hisses.

It’s the last thing I hear before a hard blow lands on the side of my head, and everything fades into a dark abyss.

***

Ammonia hits my nose with an intense burn, making me awaken with a sharp gasp.

I break into a coughing fit as the back of my throat stings and constricts, and my heart pounds an erratic rhythm against my chest. The eerie chanting of masculine voices echoes around me, like the Gregorian chants of the Benedictine monks of old.

Before I can find my bearings, someone hauls me upright until I’m on my knees. The floor beneath me is damp and uneven, and when my vision comes into focus, I realize it’s cobblestone. Orange firelight flickers in a puddle of stagnant water.

Someone gasps. On my right side, a lanky guy in nothing but his boxers is curled up on the floor. A hooded figure crouches over him, holding smelling salts to the victim’s nose, but his face is concealed behind a black mask.

We’re not the only ones in here. A row of guys—who all appear college-aged—are on their knees in various states of undress with their wrists bound behind them.

Most of them are wearing sweatpants and T-shirts, although a couple of them are in nothing but their boxers.

One guy with disheveled red hair is naked and shivering, unable to hide his shriveled manhood without the use of his arms.

At least I had the foresight not to fall asleep naked tonight. I’m in a pair of sweatpants, but without a shirt on, my nipples harden in the chilly temperature.