Page 12

MATVEI

I don’t sleep well.

I set up the fucking cage for a reason, but now that she’s in it, her light, waffling snores indicate she’s out—and I want her next to me.

And I’m hard as a fucking rock. After tossing and turning, I get up and rub one off in the shower because I can’t fucking sleep when I’m hard as fuck. It doesn’t bring the relief I’m craving. I don’t want my hand when her hot, tight cunt is right there.

In my room.

So I sleep fitfully until the morning light streams through the window, and I finally give up. I look over the edge of the bed and see her beautiful, sweet body splayed out on her back, the blanket askew. Sunrise kisses her bare legs.

I want to touch them.

I watch her, waiting to see if she’ll wake up afraid. But instead, she rolls over and stretches, her fingers brushing the cold metal above her head.

Her eyes meet mine.

“Morning, solnyshka. ” Always taunting.

I growl at her. “Morning.”

She watches me as if waiting to pounce. Something’s shifted between us.

I push myself out of bed and unlock the cage.

“I knew if I looked pathetic enough, you’d come back and unlock it,” she says, pushing up on her elbow. “Pity you’re far too big to get in here with me. It’s so warm and cozy.” She presses her hand against the mattress. “Memory foam?”

This woman.

I try to remind myself this isn’t about her but about me. About loyalty. Making her suffer.

Then why do I have to stop myself from hurting her? Why do I crave seeing her eyes light up? Why do I love that little smirk on her face?

And why can’t I shake the feeling that she’s playing the long game? Gaining my trust. Manipulating me?

I can’t trust the little brat.

She doesn’t immediately jump out of the cage, and that… throws me.

Instead, she stretches , slow and sinuous, like a cat waking in the sun. Her arms reach high above her head, back arching just enough to make my sex-starved, sleep-deprived brain take note. My gaze drags along every curve and valley, the creamy softness of her peach-colored skin, the elegant curve of her neck still marked with my bites, though they’ve faded to dusky pink. Her hair, the natural white-blonde, fanned over her pillow like sunrise.

God, I love the way she’s comfortable in her body, even knowing she’s made enemies everywhere she turns.

I should yank her out by her ankles, drag her to her feet, and make her remember exactly who owns her now. I try to remind myself why I hunted her, what she did, and remind myself that she’s dangerous as fuck and can’t be trusted.

But I don’t. I don’t do any of those things. Instead, I fucking watch.

She knows. She has to know how she affects me.

When she finally sits up, it’s deliberate, the queen arching her back and meeting my gaze. “Slept like a baby,” she says with a yawn. “Oh, wait.” She presses a finger to her lips. “Was I supposed to be scared? Being caged and all?”

She tips her head to the side.

Baby. I’m stuck on the word baby. I’ve been so obsessed with the idea of her carrying our baby, anchoring her to me, that just hearing the word plants the vision of her heavy with pregnancy, carrying my child …

I grunt and reach for her, but she’s already sliding out of the cage, unfurling like she has all the time in the world. Her gaze is amused. Calculating.

“I figured you’d fucking like it.”

Standing in front of me, she blinks long, long lashes at me and drawls as she reaches a hand to trace my bare shoulder. “The question is, big guy. Did you ?”

“Enjoy you caged?” I grab her hair and tug it back, baring her neck. I imagine what it would be like waking up to this woman curled up to me, her body rounded and full with my child, my palm pressed to her swollen abdomen. I lick my lips and swallow hard. “You know I do. You know I love having control over you.”

But something’s changed.

She’s not just playing the game anymore. She’s enjoying it.

And fuck me. I am too.

We head to the kitchen to make breakfast. She asks me questions about my routines, who works for me, and what I do for the Bratva.

“You know,” she says, after learning that I’m the one who manages cyber security and hacking, “our skills paired together would be straight-up fire .”

She’s not wrong. Cyber security and forgery? We could rewrite history. Dark, twisted history, but it would be history nonetheless.

“I want to know how you left things with the Irish.” I spread butter on toast and cut it into triangles before I push the plate to her. She eyes it thoughtfully and doesn’t eat it.

“If I were going to poison you, I wouldn’t do it in toast ,” I mutter. Would’ve poisoned the vodka last night or just skipped formalities and jabbed her pretty little neck again.

Her bright blue eyes meet mine. “Wait, you thought I was afraid of being poisoned?” She takes a huge bite.

I shrug.

“Nah, I just read something somewhere about cutting toast that way, triangles instead of rectangles, and I—” She shakes her head as my phone rings. “Nothing.”

She’s perched on the barstool, happily munching toast as if she hasn’t spent the last month fighting for her life.

I answer the phone with a scowl. Rodion.

“Yeah?”

“You talked to the Irish?”

I scowl at the phone. Anissa chews her toast, but her focus is narrowed on me.

“No. Why?”

“O’Rourke’s in town. What the fuck does he want to do with us?”

I shake my head. “I thought we were allies now.”

“We are. Allies who have each other’s backs, but you don’t just show up unannounced. We’re allies, but we’re not friends .”

“Where is he?”

“Sighted at the Wolf and Moon last night. Ruthie told us.”

And by us, he means Vadka, Rafail’s best friend. Ruthie’s his sister-in-law and bartends at the Wolf and Moon. It helps having an observant ally in the local bar. There’s a reason we know everything. Lips loosen over drinks.

“So he’s not hiding. Interesting.”

I can hear Rodion’s smirk on the other end of the line. “Ask your girl,” he says.

I scowl. “She’s not my girl.”

Anissa feigns being affronted with an exaggerated open mouth, her hand splayed across her chest. She holds my gaze and shakes her head.

“Right.” I can hear the note of derision in his tone.

Just a girl I keep locked up, feed by hand, and growl at whenever another man so much as breathes on her.

Totally normal behavior.

I grit my teeth and growl.

“Hey, I’m just saying, if it walks like a duck, fucks like a?—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Oooh. Touched a nerve?”

Touched fucking all of them.

“I’m just giving you shit. You’re one of the last to fall, and this woman’s gonna do you in. Mark my words.”

She will not. She’s here because I forced her, not because she wants to be.

“Fuck you.”

“It’s alright,” he says, snarky as fuck. “You can do this. Be a big boy. Use your big boy words.”

I exhale through my nose. “I fucking hate you.”

“Nah, baby, you love me. Now go take care of your girl and figure out what the fuck Cillian O’Rourke wants here.”

I hang up the phone as Anissa polishes off the last of her toast. “You men show affection so strangely,” she says, shaking her head. “Probably your bestie on the line, eh?”

I glare at her.

How’d she know?

But when she busts out laughing, I huff out a breath. “I tease, I tease,” she says, drinking from her steaming mug of tea. “I saw Rodion’s name pop up on the caller ID.” Her gaze levels with mine. “You don’t think you’re the only one who knows how to stalk, do you?”

I definitely fucking don’t.

The perpetual glint in her eyes fades a bit. “Did he say something about the Irish?” I note the way she moves without meeting my eyes, standing to rinse her dish and put it in the dishwasher. She takes out a mug and pours me a cup of coffee. “Cream? Sugar?”

I shake my head and take it black.

“Cillian O’Rourke’s in town.”

Something flickers in her gaze. “That’s strange. Why?”

“That’s a good question, isn’t it?”

She wipes crumbs off the counter and doesn’t meet my eyes. “Thought you were friends now.”

“We’re allies.”

She looks over her shoulder. “There’s a difference?”

“Yes.”

Leaning her ass up against the counter, she looks genuinely curious. “How?”

“You lay down a life for a friend. A friend calls you, you drop everything and go to them. A friend has a kid—they’re your blood. An ally means you don’t fight, doesn’t mean shit about actual loyalty.”

You take a brand for a friend.

You bury the body of a guy you fucking loved out of loyalty because he broke the code.

No. Cillian O’Rourke is no friend of mine. I don’t like that he’s sniffing around, asking questions about their missing forger.

“I love how you frame it all so generally,” she says with a sad smile. “And no, people don’t treat each other that way for friendship. You do.” Her gaze flickers away. “That’s you, boo. Not everyone.”

Doesn’t matter.

She goes on. “Alright, so today we buy me clothes, and we go find Mr. O’Rourke. Make small talk. We meet him, and I’ll tell you exactly why he’s here.” She smiles sweetly and clucks her tongue. “And here you thought you were just bringing me back for my pussy.”

Jesus.

But she’s right. Who better to ferret out O’Rourke than the woman who worked by his side for years?

“So I need clothes. Makeup. Nighttime eye cream before I develop bags. God. Shoes. Maybe a mani-pedi. Do they have gel polish here?” She winks at me. “Lingerie. Can’t exactly keep wearing nothing but your oversized tees, can I?”

No, no, she cannot.

“So what’s around here? I want options. You do want me to look presentable, right? And go ahead, tell me your greatest fantasy. School teacher? Sexy librarian? I can do that too.”

My greatest fucking fantasy is standing in my kitchen.

“Why the long face?” she asks curiously. “Afraid the brutal Brava enforcer’s become a glorified shopping assistant?”

My fucking god, I will tattoo my name across her ass before she steps foot outside of this house.

She’s playing me, but I already know I’m going to let her win.

Anissa’s back’s to me as she’s rifling through my fridge. She spins around with a carrot stick in her mouth. “And also, this might be the only time I ever admit your mother is right, but you do have a serious lack of food in this house. Can we get some food?”

I should’ve left her in the cage. Could’ve fed her fucking triangles of toast right through the metal bars.

The dryer buzzes down the hall.

“Go get changed. We’re heading into town.”

* * *