Page 22 of Sexting My Bratva Boss

She’s silent on the car ride to her apartment, noticing the car tailing us with two of my soldiers, and likely the car pulling away from her apartment building—making sure it’s safe for her to enter.

Before I can open her door, Audrey does it herself and stumbles out, not careful enough on her still-bruised ankle. She attempts to walk right by me without a single look.

I reach out and catch her wrist, holding firm.

“Not even a thank you.”

She stands on the sidewalk, trying not to let her fear show. But I can see it just under her skin as my eyes trail down her taut body once more.

“Thank you,” she cuts out, “but I don’t think I’m interested in this arrangement. I’ll find a way to pay you back.”

I laugh.

“Whether or not you can return the money, it’s not what I want.”

Stepping forward, I close the space between us, jerking Audrey against my body. The streetlights spill across her skin, making it look warm and inviting.

“I’m tempted to take you upstairs and desecrate your little apartment. Show you exactly what I want. You think I don’t know how wet you were earlier, when I touched you under the table? Imagine what I can do to you when we’re alone.”

She pulls away.

I let her go. It might be what’s needed to make her feel like she has control, an option, even if she doesn’t. If she says no, I’ll hunt her down and take her. But I’d prefer her to come willingly.

“I’m not interested,” she chokes out half-way to the door, fumbling for her keys.

“It doesn’t matter if you’re interested,” I call after her. “Everyone in the city knows you’re mine, Miss Wolfe, after tonight. They’ll be coming after you one way or another. If you want protection—if you want to stay alive—you’ll come to me.”

Chapter 7

Audrey

“Please state your reason for missing your shift today.”

The voice on the other end of the call could almost be a recording. My face heats as I lie, again: “Illness.”

This is the second day in a row I’ve called in sick, needing time to think after the volatile and… frustratingly tempting evening I spent with Mr. Martynov.

Or Konstantin, as he asked me to call him, but that feels forbidden. Like I’m tempting fate if I utter his given name.

“Thank you. Please be aware that eight hours will be removed from your current PTO cache, which stands at four-hundred-and-sixteen hours as of this call.”

Aclickon the other end signifies that the call is ended. It’s very Martynov Global Holdings: cold, direct, succinct.

I put my phone face-down on the counter and, wrapping the wool blanket tighter around my shoulders, head back to the couch. I almostfeelactually sick with how nervous I’ve been since that night.

Mr. Martynov’s—Konstantin’s—words ring in my head:Everyone in the city knows you’re mine.

They’ll be coming after you one way or another.

The curtains are drawn over my windows, but amber, dawn light still spills in. Knees to my chest on the couch, I try to push away the ache of tears coming on. But one glance at Nana’s photo on the shelf makes them spill over.

“What do I do?” I whisper to her.

I’ve always wanted a kid. Orkids,I’d once imagined—what seems like forever ago, when I was fresh into my first year of college and dreaming of my future. My degree first, and maybe I’d fall in love with some handsome guy from class, and we’d get engaged, and have a small but tasteful wedding. Nana would have walked me down the aisle. Kids a year or so later. We’d be happy.

Instead, here I am.

Wrapped up on the couch, shaking at the thought of—what?