Page 6 of Prince of Control (Bratva Heirs #1)

I take it all in. It’s a big house–like the fraternity or sorority houses in the American comedies filled with friendly, good-looking young people.

But the old Victorian-era house is in perfect condition, like it’s been newly renovated.

A lot of money went into this place. And the thumbprint security?

Why is that necessary? The furniture is high-quality, and the house is spotlessly clean–other factors that don’t go with student housing in my mind.

And the weirdest thing is the way the students obeyed Benjamin’s orders like he’s their pakhan .

One look from him, and they jump to comply.

But several of them speak Russian, which means they could be born into it. Like him. Like me.

A shiver runs through me.

I’m in danger here. I can feel it.

I still don’t understand anything that’s happening. There’s a bigger picture I can’t see, and the undercurrent of secrecy and violence scares me.

I pass the Asian guy with a Norwegian name and accent–Anders, I think–and the slight-figured Phoenix, who might be trans, on the stairs. I must be headed in the right direction. I pause at the second landing.

“Keep going, malyshka ,” Benjamin murmurs behind me.

I flush and whirl. “I am not your baby.”

He looks at me with no emotion–just that hint of amusement. Of power. I hate how his fathomless expression unnerves me. He says nothing, just looks at me. It’s somehow more intimidating than any reply he could have made.

Suddenly breathless, I turn back to the stairs and continue upward. I pause at the next landing.

“One more.”

At the top of the last flight of stairs is an enormous bedroom, clearly the prince’s chambers.

It’s as beautiful as the rest of the house, with hardwood oak floors polished to a sheen and covered in a thick, plush shag orange rug.

There are large windows on three of the walls.

On the fourth wall is a closet and an en-suite bathroom with a small window.

It’s surprisingly cheery for a criminal’s lair.

There’s a king-size, four-post bed draped in what looks like a fluffy goose-down comforter in a dove grey silk duvet. Like Benjamin, the bedding shows measured control. The bed is made, but the king-sized feather pillows mound in a casual heap at the head.

Benjamin props the suitcase he carried on its side on a footstool and unzips it. “I’ll get a second dresser in here for your folded things. For now, there’s plenty of room and hangers in the closet.”

He walks into the closet, pulling the gun he took from me from his waistband. He opens a safe, and I catch sight of stacks of cash when he deposits it inside.

I’m too tired to unpack. I just want a shower and to go to bed.

“Where do I sleep?”

I’m not sure why I bother asking. It’s obvious where he expects me to sleep. In his giant bed.

With him.

As exhausted as I am, my body heats at the thought of being under those covers with him.

“In my bed.”

Something about the way he enunciates each word makes me whirl to see his face. My lips part to draw a breath when I catch the way he’s looking at me.

Like a hunter who just caught his prey. Like a hungry lion looking at his next meal.

His gaze sends an electric zing right between my legs. My pussy clenches. Clit throbs.

But I refuse to be turned on by the idea of him claiming me.

“I’m not sleeping in that bed with you.” I suspect this battle is already lost, but I’d have no self-respect if I didn’t make my resistance clear.

Benjamin shakes his head with mock remorse. “My wife doesn’t sleep on the floor.”

“ You could.” Maybe not my most forceful argument. Like I said, I don’t have high hopes of winning this one.

“Not in my house. Not with my wife in the room.”

“I’m not your wife yet,” I say stiffly.

His eyes glitter with anticipation. “Tomorrow, printsessa .”

I stand on trembling legs, staring at him. For some unfathomable reason, my panties are damp, and I can’t stop wondering what happens tomorrow when we come back to this bedroom.

“There are towels and washcloths in the bathroom. Do you need anything else?”

“To go back to Paris.” My voice wobbles, and I curse myself for showing him my pain.

He closes the distance between us, and I suddenly find myself in his arms.

I push against his chest, but he catches the back of my head and angles my face up to his. “I know you didn’t ask for this.” He catches my gaze and holds it. “Neither did I. But we’re going to make the best of it.”

I want to fight him, but tears make his face blurry.

“Together, malyshka . We’re a team now.”

He takes mercy on me and releases me from his gaze, pulling my face against his chest.

I don’t want to take comfort from him. I hate the sob that climbs up my throat, but when he kisses the top of my head, it comes out in a huff. I squeeze my eyes closed, and tears soak his shirt.

His thumb massages the base of my skull. It feels wonderful.

No. I will not fall for this nice guy act. I know he’s anything but.

“Don’t,” I choke and push him away, and he allows it.

“We’re not a team. I’m your prisoner. And I’ll be fighting you every inch of the way.” I lurch toward the bathroom. When I turn to shut the door, I see him still standing there, watching me. The tiny smile that plays on his lips tells me my instincts were right.

Benjamin Baranov is not a nice guy.

He’s the devil.