Page 51 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)

SAFE HAVEN

MILA

T he hospital discharge papers crackle in my grip, freedom distilled into bureaucratic forms. Three days of antiseptic hell, machines screaming warnings, nurses hovering with false cheer.

I’m done. But ‘home’ feels like a foreign concept now.

My apartment belongs to some other woman, some other life.

Before Pablo’s blade kissed my throat. Before Yakov turned human bones to powder saving me.

Before I discovered how completely this lethal man owns my soul.

“Ready?” Yakov materializes in the doorway, his large frame devouring the space. Simple clothes—jeans, dark sweater—but power radiates from him in waves. The bruises have faded to sickly yellow, but his eyes burn hotter when they lock on mine.

“Past ready,” I say, gathering the pathetic collection of belongings Katarina brought. The movement tears at healing flesh, Pablo’s parting gift screaming through my body.

He’s there before my next breath, hands steadying me with devastating gentleness. “I’ve got it,” he murmurs, taking my bag.

His fingers linger on my wrist, thumb finding my pulse with casual precision that ignites fire in my veins. Three days without his touch, without his weight crushing me into the mattress, and I’m already starving.

“Doctor says I need rest,” I manage, voice rough. They kept me longer than necessary—paranoid observation after Pablo’s handiwork. “No exertion.”

His mouth curves. “Define exertion.” The teasing promise in those words liquefies my bones.

The mandatory wheelchair arrives, hospital protocol for a patient leaving. I start protesting, but his hand on my shoulder cuts me short.

“Play along,” he says playfully. “Save energy for what matters.”

I sigh and sink into the chair, letting the nurse wheel me past sterile walls while Yakov prowls alongside, predator on a leash. His presence overwhelms everything—cologne mixed with something dangerous, coiled violence barely contained, eyes scanning for threats even here.

The black SUV at the curb isn’t his usual ride. Newer. Sleeker. Windows dark enough to hide bodies.

“Nikolai’s?” I ask as he lifts me into the passenger seat, hands burning through fabric.

“Mine now.” He shuts my door, circling to the driver’s side.

When he settles behind the wheel, I catch how he favors his right side—his own knife wound still knitting together. The thought of losing him sends ice through my chest.

“Cold?” He reaches for controls without waiting.

“No.” I trap his hand, weaving our fingers together. “Just grateful. Alive. With you.”

His eyes go black, familiar hunger surfacing. He draws our joined hands to his mouth, pressing kisses to my knuckles that feel more intimate than nakedness.

“Where to?” I ask as he navigates traffic. “My place?”

Something shifts, jaw hardening, mouth flattening into a harsh line. “No. Never again.”

The finality should anger me. This choice made without consultation, control seized over my existence. But after Pablo, after the lodge, after witnessing the monsters stalking Yakov’s world, I lack strength for this fight.

“Then where?”

“You’ll see.”

We drive in charged silence, his thumb burning circles on my skin that send electricity straight to my core. The city blurs past, but I’m drowning in him—the coiled tension radiating from his frame, control in every movement, the scorching glances he steals when he thinks I’m not watching.

When we hit the Upper East Side’s tree-lined perfection, I straighten. An apartment in this neighborhood costs more than I make in five years, even with Bratva blood money padding my accounts.

Yakov slides into an underground garage beneath gleaming steel and glass, nodding to security who wave us through without question. He parks near a private elevator, then stalks around to extract me from the leather seat.

“What is this?” I demand as the elevator rockets skyward, his arm branding my waist with possessive heat.

“Home,” he says, voice rough. “If you’ll have it.”

The doors part on polished hardwood and cream walls that scream money. Yakov steers me inside, his hand on my spine igniting nerve endings I’d forgotten existed.

The space steals my breath—floor-to-ceiling windows devouring the city, soaring ceilings, furniture that whispers luxury. But what stops my heart are the details: security panels, cameras tucked into corners, locks that could stop armies.

All protecting me.

“This is yours?” I move toward the windows, city lights bleeding through glass.

“Ours.” He prowls up behind me, hands claiming my hips through thin fabric. “Part of my deal with Nikolai and Igor.”

I spin in his grip, searching his face. “What deal?”

“I’m back in,” he says, watching for my reaction. “Security consultant for Volkov Enterprises. With benefits, including this place.” His grip tightens. “And freedom to build something real. With you.”

The words detonate through my chest. This isn’t temporary shelter. This is forever.

“You’re asking me to move in.” I need it spelled out, no room for misunderstanding.

His blue eyes burn with vulnerability and steel. “Yes. I want you here, Mila. With me. Where I can keep you safe. Where we can create something that belongs to us.”

“Something like what?”

His palm cups my face, thumb tracing healing wounds with devastating tenderness. “Something permanent. Something nobody can touch.”

The raw honesty in his voice shatters my defenses. This lethal man is offering everything—home, future, his scarred soul.

Instead of words, I surge up and claim his mouth. The kiss starts careful, mindful of healing flesh, but ignites into desperate hunger. His arms crush me against him as his tongue conquers mine in movements we’ve perfected through stolen nights.

I gasp when he lifts me, powerful hands cupping my thighs as he carries me deeper into our sanctuary. My legs lock around his waist, bringing his hardness against exactly where I’m already aching.

“We need to go slow,” I remind him weakly as he lays me on silk sheets that feel like sin.

“I’ll start gentle,” he promises, voice thickening with need as he covers me completely. “Until you beg me to break you.”

His mouth devours mine, and I surrender to the fire that’s consumed me since he walked into that hospital room. My hands tear at his sweater, mapping granite muscle while avoiding fresh bandages.

“I need you,” I whisper against his lips, already destroying his clothes. “Right now.”

Primal possession flashes in his eyes as his hands find the zipper of my dress, slowly sliding it down as his lips trail fire along my neck.

His fingers explore, edging my dress off my shoulders, capturing my breasts in his palms, thumbs rubbing across my nipples that could cut glass.

He kneads my flesh possessively, teeth grazing my throat before latching onto my breast through the fabric of my bra.

When I arch my back into his touch, he chuckles darkly, trailing hot kisses down my stomach. “Eager, little doctor?”

“You’re edging me,” I accuse. “That’s not very nice.”

“You don’t want nice,” he reminds me. His fingers find the sensitive spot at the edge of my panties, stroking teasingly. “How did you put it before? Oh, right, I’m merciless.”

“Please,” I whisper, rolling my hips into his touch. “Don’t make me wait.”

I cry out when his fingers finally slip beneath my panties and begin rubbing slow, torturous circles against the most sensitive part of me.

“Mila,” he breathes, pushing one finger inside me, then two, carefully spreading me open, preparing me. “So wet for me. So ready.”

His thumb resumes those slow, rhythmic circles, coaxing waves of pleasure through my core that leave me clutching at the sheets with helpless need.

“Oh God,” I gasp as his fingers curl against that deep place inside me that only he can find. “Don’t stop.”

“I want to taste you,” he says, voice husky, lower lip slightly fuller from the pressure of his teeth. “Will that be slow enough?”

My breath hitches, already anticipating what his mouth can do. “Yes. Yes, absolutely yes.”

“Mila,” he warns, slowing the pace of his fingers, making me whimper with need. “Say it.”

“Make me come,” I moan. “Yakov, please.”

Without warning, he moves between my legs, his mouth sucking on my lower lips.

His tongue slides against me, claiming me, possessing me with unbearable expertise.

His fingers resume that slow, steady pumping while his mouth sets a fevered pace, and within seconds, I’m close to the edge, teetering on the brink, everything narrowed to the aching heat low in my body, the tingling electricity shooting through my limbs.

My thighs begin trembling, dangerously close, and he seems to sense it because he pulls away at the last second, raising his head to meet my gaze as his hand takes over the task.

“Yakov!” I scream, my voice a fever pitch of need.

The bastard smiles, and the rare glimpse of unchecked joy, vulnerability, and need on his face sends me over the edge. His mouth descends once again, and the orgasm rips through me with brutal force, my back arching clear off the mattress as waves of pleasure wash over me.

I’m still reeling, still processing, as I feel him moving over me, his mouth coming to rest at my ear as his hands tangle in my hair. His clothes are gone, but I can’t remember when he got rid of the rest of them.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, and I obey, locking eyes with his. “It’s your turn to taste me.”

I nod, clumsily, only understanding his meaning when he gets up and brings his cock to my face.

My lips part instantly, hands coming up to caress his hips, his thighs, drawing him deeper into my mouth.

When he hisses with pleasure, I take him even deeper, swirling my tongue around his shaft with enough pressure to make him groan.

Yakov’s hands bury themselves in my hair as he guides his length deeper into my mouth. I relax my throat, welcoming every inch of him until my lips brush his groin. “That’s my girl,” he growls, his voice thicker than ever as he fucks my mouth with measured, deliberate movements.

“I can’t wait much longer,” he rasps, pulling out after only a few thrusts. But it’s long enough to coat my tongue with salty sweetness that leaves me dizzy.

Without a word, he lifts me onto all fours. He kicks my knees wider apart, and then his hands are on my hips, pulling my ass back against him until he’s at my entrance.

“More,” I whimper, pressing back against his cock, so empty, so desperate for him to fill me.

“If it’s too much,” he starts, sounding more animal than human.

“I want it,” I counter, forcing a note of authority into my voice even as my body quivers with anticipation. “I want everything.”

The guttural sound he makes is almost feral, and without further warning, he shoves his cock into me, spreading me open on the length of him with a slow, deliberate movement that makes my eyes roll back into my head.

“Fuck.” His hands tighten almost painfully on my waist as he pushes deeper still, testing the limits of what I can take. But I won’t beg for mercy—not this time, not ever.

“Yes,” I breathe instead. “Fuck me.”

With a growled curse, he obliges, pulling back just enough to slam into me with brutal force that has stars bursting behind my eyelids.

In this position, with my hands grasping the sheets and his fingers digging into my hips, he feels bigger, thicker, and the slight pain only enhances the pleasure, a delicious, decadent flame burning deep within me.

His pace quickens, drawing closer to the edge, and I arch my back even further, shameless in my need to draw every ounce of pleasure.

The feel of him so deep, the way his thighs slam against mine, the way he grunts with every thrust—it’s pure animal hunger, instinct amplified, neither of us certain we’ll survive this but also uncaring.

“I can’t—” I gasp as another orgasm threatens to tear me apart. “Yakov?—”

“Come for me,” he orders, breathless. “Let me feel it. Let me hear it.”

I obey, shattering in a white-hot explosion of pleasure. Yakov follows, gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, filling me with his seed in warm jets that signal his surrender.

When it’s over, when the aftershocks finally ebb and our breathing returns to something like normal, he gathers me in his arms and pulls me against him until our bodies are arranged in perfect symmetry.

“So,” he whispers into my hair, his voice drowsy with post-orgasm bliss. “What’s your answer?”

“To what?” I’m so warm, so safe, so perfectly nestled against his chest that I can hardly remember my name.

“To the arrangement,” he says, planting a soft kiss on my temple. “Will you move in?”

“I think we should talk first,” I decide, some small part of me still afraid of being hurt.

He stiffens slightly. “About?”

“The future.”