Page 9 of Prince of Control (Bratva Heirs #1)

I’m dying to put my hands on her waist. To lower my face to her neck again and breathe in her scent.

I fucking loved having her in my bed last night.

The most controlling part of me–probably the same part that makes me masterful in the dungeon–wants to hoard her like a possession.

I’ve had a lot of women but never wanted to make one mine before.

Despite the number of young women who throw themselves at me, none have interested me enough.

Not even the ones who have bared themselves–both literally and figuratively–to kneel at my feet and accept pain and humiliation.

I feel a tenderness for them. I’m protective of them.

But I never wanted to conquer and consume anyone like I do Lara.

Is it just the challenge? The fact that she’s mine but doesn’t want to be?

Or is there something special about her? Like, this was all fated, and some soul-level part of me recognizes that she’s my destiny?

“Baranov House sits on the southeast end of campus,” I tell her. I sweep a hand to indicate where the rest of the campus lies. “Most of your classes are in that direction.” I touch my thumb to the garage keypad, and the door slides up. Lara stays on the porch, watching me doubtfully.

The garage is packed with house member’s bikes, scooters and motorcycles–all good for getting around campus. My motorcycle is electric, so nearly silent, which is nice for an early morning. I put on a helmet and grab another for her, then start it up and drive it over.

“It’s walkable, but for expediency, let’s take my bike, so I can show you the whole campus.” I hand her the helmet.

For expediency, and so I can get close to her.

I hold my hand out to her to help her climb on behind me.

She doesn’t move.

I wait. I’m not going to insist. Lara is mine whether she chose it or not. I don’t have to throw my weight around.

Her jaw clenches, but after a moment, she ignores my hand and puts on the helmet. When she throws her leg over, her mini skirt rides up her thighs and gives me a flash of panties.

My dick gets hard. I can’t help myself–I mold my palm to one of her exposed thighs and squeeze.

She freezes, but before she can react, I remove it and accelerate.

She catches her breath, her hands flying out to grab my waist. I love the feel of her hands on me. I glance back as I start down the road. Her dark hair–worn down today in layered waves, blows back. Her full lips part.

Anya set me up to receive the records of all Lara’s texts and phone calls.

It was Brash who texted her this morning.

I was pleasantly surprised she hadn’t told him she was leaving town until this morning.

That means they can’t be that close. If she were in love with him, she would’ve said goodbye in person.

Then again, maybe Adrian prevented it. Still, her text wasn’t that personal.

That doesn’t mean Brash will stop pursuing her. She’s an asset his father decided he wants in his arsenal. Maybe Brash even sees something in her himself although he’s a sociopath. I can’t believe he could ever care about her.

But maybe he sees the same thing in her I do.

That thought makes me grit my teeth. Even if Lara never accepts me and our marriage remains nothing more than a sham, I will do whatever it takes to keep Brash Rostov from ever touching or even thinking about her again.

I drive the motorcycle through the cool morning air, glorying in having Lara’s soft curves molded against me. “This is the Modern Languages building.” I pull in front of the hundred-year-old three-story brick building. “Your first and third classes are in here.”

She nods but says nothing. I keep going with the tour, showing her where each of her classes will be, pointing out the main library, the food court, and the gym. Sunrise breaks the horizon, warming the sky to a light peach glow as I drive half a mile off campus.

“Where are we going?” Lara asks, no doubt realizing we’re away from the old brick structures of the university and heading down toward Whisper’s town center.

“I wanted to show you the best bakery.” I pull up in front of The Velvet Crumb, a light-filled bakery/cafe that opens at six a.m. “It’s not a Parisian cafe, but the scones are incredible.

” I stop the bike, and Lara immediately tumbles off as if eager to be away from me.

She yanks her skirt down as I open the door to the bakery.

The scent of freshly baked bread wafts out as we step inside.

The bakery features vaulted ceilings with old Victorian-era ceiling tiles. White tile covers the floors and eighteen-foot walls, giving it a bright and airy feel.

“Are you hungry yet?”

Lara glances at the cases of delectable goodies–braided breads stuffed with herbs and cheese, a large variety of scones, croissants, and tarts–and nods.

I step up to the counter with my hand lightly resting on Lara’s lower back. The girl working the counter bustles over. When she looks up and sees my face, she startles and blushes under her white baker’s hat. “Um, hi, Baron.”

I don’t know her, but she must be a Thornecroft student.

Lara turns to look at me quizzically.

“Hey there,” I say easily, brushing off the recognition. Most everyone at Thornecroft knows me. That’s the benefit of cultivating a bad-ass status.

“Can we get a couple of cafe au laits and–”

“Do you mean lattes?” she interrupts.

“Sure.” I know they’re not exactly the same because I Googled it this morning to make sure I got her coffee right. But close enough. She’s not going to find many cafes in this country that serve cafe au laits .

“To eat, we’ll have–” I turn to look inquiringly at Lara, “what would you like?”

“I’ll try the pumpkin chocolate chip muffin,” she says.

“And I’ll have the maple walnut scone. For here, please.”

The cashier bobs her head and rings us up. “I, um, heard there's a back-to-school party at Baranov House Friday,” she ventures as I hold my phone up to the device to pay.

Ah. That’s why she looks a little nervous-giddy. One of the ways I turned Baranov House into a cash cow is by making our parties exclusively invite-only. That doesn’t mean they are small and intimate or free. Not at all. They’re huge.

So huge, the fraternities, long known as the sole source of social activity on campus, have taken a hit.

It just means we created a sense of mystery and exclusion which makes everyone want to attend. Whispers of the dungeon in the basement help boost that reputation.

“There is,” I say. “Are you coming?”

She turns a deep shade of red. “Um, no. I don’t have an invite.”

I reach into my pocket and pull out one of the party invitation cards Zoe had printed. Each has to be signed by a house member in order to allow entry. I pick up a pen. “What’s your name?”

“Tori.”

I write “Tori +1” and sign on the line, then slide it across the counter. “Consider yourself invited.”

Tori takes the card and tucks it into her pocket then opens her her mouth but hesitates to speak.

What now? I raise my brows.

“Um, does this invite get me into the dungeon?”

I give her a completely blank look. “What dungeon?” Perpetuating mystery and exclusivity is what drives rumors in Whisper.

She flushes. “Nevermind. I just heard…right. Nevermind.” She waves her hands in the air. “I know nothing.”

“There’s nothing to know. Tori, this is my wife, Lara. She just transferred here from a school in Paris. I want you to take good care of her anytime she comes in here, okay?”

Tori bobbing her head. “Of course. Nice to meet you, Lara. Welcome to Thornecroft.”

“Thanks.” Lara turns her electric blue eyes on me and stares as Tori moves away to make our coffee.

I pull a fat wad of cash out of my pocket and tuck it in her pocket. “You probably don’t have any U.S. dollars. This should get you by.”

“You are just like my dad,” she says. There’s condemnation in her tone.

“I’m guessing that’s a bad thing?” I usher her to a two-person table by the big picture window and hold her chair for her to sit.

“You act like everyone is under your command.”

I sit across from her, keeping my expression neutral. She’s right. I do believe everyone’s under my command. I believe everyone has a leverage point that can be toggled. Tori’s was a simple invite to a party. Some people’s is feeling included. Some people’s is fear.

I’m willing to push all the levers to get my desired outcome.

“I don’t do it for shits and giggles,” I say mildly.

“Shits and giggles?” she repeats. It’s obviously an English phrase she hasn’t heard before. Her English is perfect without a trace of an accent, but she hasn’t lived in America since she was a tot.

“For fun. For my entertainment.”

The way her brows drop tells me she doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. “Why do you do it, then?” she demands.

“I do what’s necessary to protect what’s mine.”

She chuffs. I want to kiss her pouty lips. Show her how well I’m going to take care of her. “And I’m yours?”

I hold her gaze steadily. “Yes.”