Page 12 of Prince of Control (Bratva Heirs #1)

Chapter Seven

Baron

She let me kiss her.

I keep reminding myself of that fact as Lara downs more and more champagne in the living room of Baranov House.

Her phone started ringing with calls from Brash about five minutes after that svoloch who asked her to have a drink last night drove away. He’s Brash’s spy, I’m sure of it.

She didn’t take Brash’s calls, but she turned cold again after that, refusing to sit up front with me on the drive home.

Phoenix offered to drive, so I could ride in the back with her, which I reluctantly agreed to.

I don’t like to be the guy riding in the back, subject to someone else’s driving, but the situation seemed to call for it.

I opened more champagne, and Lara drank–thirstily.

When we got back to the house, Emma had set out a spread of hors d’oeuvres–I guess someone told her I was getting married–and the whole rest of the house was gathered with more champagne bottles and proper glasses for a mini-reception.

I gnash my teeth, wanting to carry her upstairs to our room and figure out how to get back to the place where she let me kiss her. But that moment is gone, and the boisterousness of my friends seems to be a welcome distraction for her.

Leo leans over to speak in my ear. “Melinda Tracy is outside.”

Fuck. I don’t need this right now. Melinda had texted me this morning while I was taking Lara on the campus tour, and I hadn’t bothered to answer.

She’s not my girlfriend. I owe her nothing.

I shake my head. “No entry.”

“I told her. She insists on talking to you. Says she won’t leave until you come out.”

Blyad’ . I know what she wants.

“I’ll take care of her,” I murmur, glancing at Lara.

She notices. She’s tipsy but not drunk.

On the front stoop, I find the daughter of Illinois Senator and Vice Presidential hopeful Gabe Tracy.

I lean in the doorway, barring her access to the house.

I instructed the members of my house not to give her entry this year because the last thing we need is the press or Secret Service following her here or doing background checks on any of us.

Not that we personally have records. Still, I’m fairly certain our deep bratva roots will come up in their system.

She throws her hands out in an exaggerated question stance. “What’s the deal, Baron?”

Melinda’s irritated with being refused entry, but she wants what I have to offer more than she cares about being mistreated.

Of course, mistreatment is always on the table with her.

“Baron–Ben–please.” She uses my real name rather than the moniker most everyone at Thornecroft calls me to infer intimacy. “Don’t be a dick. I need this.”

I don’t allow drug addicts to hang out at Baranov House, but Melinda’s drug of choice is pain. And she knows–intimately–how our house got its nickname, “The Gulag.” She’s taken more trips to our dungeon than any other non-house member on campus.

Melinda’s not my girlfriend.

We don’t have that kind of relationship. I’ve never even kissed her.

But I do have a certain penchant for delivering pain. And her straight A, over-achiever double major/triple minor personality requires a certain form of stress relief. One that usually comes in the form of a long session at the receiving end of a belt or riding crop.

“You can’t come in. You know why.”

“He hasn’t been elected yet. No one cares what I do.”

“You know that’s not true.”

Her brown ponytail is pulled up too tight on the top of her head.

She’s jittery, like she had too much caffeine, her brown eyes too bright, her body movements quick and jerky.

She’s in sneakers and yoga pants with a matching Lululemon sports bra like she just came from a run.

Her ribs show above the neckline. If I had her in the dungeon, I’d demand to know what she ate today.

But I can’t take that role with her ever again. I’m married.

“I need this.”

“Find someone else.”

“Who? You’re the only one I trust. Especially with my dad’s nomination.”

I shrug. I want to suggest she talk to Anders because I know he has a thing for Melinda, but that would put her back in our sphere, which I can’t have.

“Not me. Even if your dad hadn’t been chosen as a presidential running mate, I’m out this year.”

Her eyes narrow. She’s bright enough to need to understand everything at play. “Why?”

“I’m married.”

Her jaw drops at that. “ What? ” She looks offended, which makes me frown.

I never gave her any reason to think she had a claim on me.

But I don’t think she’s attached to me that way.

It’s only ever been transactional between us.

I hurt her because I enjoy honing my practice on a willing partner.

She craves it for the endorphin release. Nothing more, nothing less.

“My bride flew in from Paris this week. She transferred to Thornecroft.”

Melinda cocks her head. “Bullshit.”

“Truth. I had an arranged marriage to a Russian bratva princess.”

I know part of the mystique of Baranov House is that everyone knows or believes we’re bratva heirs. I play it up when I can, not because I’m a tough-guy but because that reputation does more to spark business and alliances and command respect than me trying to prove we’re legit.

Besides, we’re not legit. We may not be in our parents’ business, but we created our own enterprises.

Now Melinda’s sure I’m lying to get rid of her. Her nostrils flare. “Fuck you, Baron. You’re an asshole.”

“It’s true,” I say mildly.

A flash of uncertainty shows under her mask.

I don’t want her to think I’m playing games with her–that’s not my style. “It’s the truth, Melinda.” My tone is gentle. I show her my hand with the shiny new gold ring.

This time, my words seem to settle over her and land, lowering her shoulders and relaxing her face. “Seriously?”

I nod. “Yeah. It’s been arranged since we were babies, but the timeline got moved up.”

“Why?”

“She had interest from another party.”

I probably shouldn’t have shared that part, but Melinda can be counted on for discretion. I know many savory secrets about her that she wouldn’t want discussed on campus.

“That’s just between you and me,” I say to be sure.

She relaxes a bit more now. “Yeah, I’ll be sure to keep my mouth shut around all my other Russian bratva contacts.”

“I mean it.”

She mimes zipping her lips and throwing away a key. “All right. Well, I would never mess with a married man, so no worries.”

I nod. “Glad you understand.”

Hearing the voices of my friends, she tries to look past me into the house. “You can’t come in here,” I reiterate.

“What about for parties?”

Ugh. I don’t want to ruin her social life, but I also don’t want any attention on Baranov House. I relent. “Twice a semester. For the biggest parties only.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re a dick.”

As she turns to walk away, the part of me that needs to protect everyone around me surfaces. “If you’re ever in trouble–”

She looks back over her shoulder and sends me a forgiving smile. “You’d be the first guy I came to.”

I enter the house and find Lara stationed in front of the large picture-glass window. She’d seen everything.

Had she overheard? No. No way. We sound-proofed the house for parties. Sound wouldn’t carry in or out.

“Who was that?” she demands.

I hide the satisfaction her question brings. She cares. I doubt she’s jealous–she doesn’t care about me enough for that yet–but she staking her claim.

I walk over and lightly rest my hands on her waist. She skitters to the side but then settles, letting me touch her. “That’s Melinda Tracy.” I know the more truth I can offer Lara, the sooner she will learn to trust me.

“Her dad is running for Vice President, so I banned her from the house this year. She was pissed off about it.”

Lara stares up at me. Her eyes are the most stunning shade of blue, enhanced by the dark brown shade of her hair. I want to kiss her again.

Desperately.

I want to break down her walls as much as I want to strip off those clothes.

“Because illegal things happen here,” she surmises.

I shrug. “I don’t want undue attention on us. I would also hate for anyone to draw connections between her father and mine.”

“You’ve slept with her.”

“No,” I answer instantly to put her mind at ease.

Lara’s eyes narrow. “You showed her your ring.”

Right. She saw that. I consider my next words. While truth is the best policy, I’m not sure she’s ready to learn about the dungeon and the things I do–or used to do–down there.

“I did. She wanted something from me. Something I’ve given her in the past. But as you saw, I showed her my ring and ended things. You’re my wife. I’m not going to fuck around on you.”

Confusion scrambles her forehead. “ What did she want from you?”

Gah. I hesitate.

She pushes my chest, and I drop my hands from her waist. “Hang on,” I say, but she’s already moving away from me.

She marches up the stairs, her perfect ass swaying with each step.

I follow. This is what marriage is about, right? Resolving differences?

I mean, fuck if I know. I’ve never even had a serious girlfriend.

When we reach the bedroom, her phone rings again.

Fucking Brash. She looks at the screen and sends it to voicemail.

“Is that your boyfriend?” My voice sounds dangerous. I don’t mean to show this side of myself to her.

I get my violence under control. It’s time I broached this subject with her. “Did I see the name Brash?” I pretend I don’t know who she was dating. “Not Brash Rostov, the oligarch’s son?”

Lara turns, surprised I know him.

“I went to boarding school with him.” I shake my head, remembering the torture I’d found him inflicting. It had triggered my PTSD, and I’d gone nuclear. If a monitor hadn’t caught us, I would’ve killed him with my bare hands. Instead, I got expelled.

How do I tell her that she’s in more danger from him than me?

“The Rostovs aren’t who you think they are. They’re…worse than bratva.”