Page 2 of Violent Love: Viktor (The Caged Hearts Pet Play #5)

Viktor

The Krolik was masterful in her craft.

Not only had she provided us with a blueprint of the hotel, she’d also marked every camera inside and out.

We had a full entry and exit route planned, avoiding them all.

A few traffic cameras couldn’t be helped, but the vehicle would be switched out before extraction.

Ania had input our fake reservations, and she’d assured me the staff would hand over the keycard for Petrov’s room.

There was nothing she hadn’t thought of.

The more I came to admire her, the deeper my regret grew for how I’d treated her when we first met.

Back then, she was a threat to my Pakhan—a risk I couldn’t ignore.

I nodded to Sergei and Abrasha when I got the text confirming the hotel cameras were down.

We’d be in and out like ghosts.

And with a bit of luck, I’d get a few hits in before we carted the bastard off in the laundry trolley.

Sergei remained in the alley as we moved quickly to the main entrance.

Abrasha handled reception.

I headed up the stairs to wait in the hallway.

My face was too memorable to risk exposure.

The thought of dragging Petrov back to my operating room sent a hum through my chest. There were so many methods I’d yet to test—too many beautiful ways to make a man scream.

When Abrasha approached, grinning, I knew it was on.

The cameras were down, and the keycard had been forged.

Now, it was time for the fun part.

“Go grab the laundry cart from the service room,”

I said, taking the white card from his outstretched hand.

“No blood,”

he warned.

I rolled my eyes. Why did everyone think I couldn’t control myself?

Then again, I had shot or stabbed plenty of people just for answering too slowly. Abrasha wasn’t wrong. This wasn’t a street rat or rival crew member—this was a high-ranking politician. I let out a breath and slid the card into the gold-plated slot. The light blinked green. The lock clicked open.

The lavish bastard had taken the state suite. I could hear the telly blaring from the other side of the room.

No blood.

I pulled out the syringe and crept past the smaller bedroom. The telly was still going, but Petrov wasn’t in sight. I found him in the main bedroom, back to me, fumbling with his towel. I stepped behind him, towering over him. The cap came off the needle. I drove it into his neck.

“What—”

he managed, before dropping.

Rage burned through me. It only took seconds. I kicked him hard while he was down.

Then came the gasp.

I looked up.

A maid stood in the bathroom doorway, blue gloves on, towels and a spray bottle in her arms. Her black uniform made the white towels in her hands pop. Her eyes widened when she saw the needle in my hand. She backed into the bathroom.

I lunged, jamming my foot in the doorway as she screamed and tried to slam it shut. One shove, and she was on the floor. I stepped inside. She scrambled to her hands and knees, trying to crawl back.

Her dark hair was twisted at the nape of her neck. When she lifted her face, her eyes were a fucked-up blend of pale green and brown. The moment she saw my scars, her fear turned to full-blown terror.

I clocked her name tag.

“Natalya,”

I murmured, tossing the used syringe into the bath behind her. I drew my gun. “This is unfortunate.”

“No, please—”

I pressed the barrel into her cheek. Soft, perfect skin. Flawless. She could’ve been twenty, maybe thirty—I was shit at guessing ages—but seeing her kneeling in front of me made my mind flash to Ania. Those days in the Pakhan’s office. Bunny tail plug, masked, and silent.

I cocked the gun. Her eyes welled. When the tears spilled, she squeezed them shut. That was when I saw the small pool spreading across the tiled floor.

Piss.

She’d pissed herself in fear. Most men would’ve recoiled—embarrassed, disgusted, but I wasn’t most men. I watched the pool spread, soaking into the floor, her body trembled as if she could shiver her way invisible.

Her fear was beautiful.

Not like Krolik’s defiance—no, that was forged steel. This was different. Natalya was fragile and raw, a nerve exposed.

There was no resistance. No screaming or begging.

She simply knelt, still and obedient like an offering laid at my feet.

Was it the gun?

Of course it was.

She was reacting to the threat, submitting to the fear. That was expected, natural.

But I saw more than that.

Not just fear.

Potential.

She was waiting—not for mercy, but for instruction.

Not because she was broken.

But because something inside her wanted to be shaped.

Not now. Not yet. But one day, she might kneel like this without the threat of violence. She might crave it. Choose it.

Not out of fear—

But devotion.

To me.

Her Master.

My cock throbbed behind the steel of my belt at the thought, and I wondered if she’d taste like salt when I made her cry harder.

Time to take a leaf from my Pakhan’s book.

I gripped her jaw until her mouth opened and slid the barrel between her lips. Her eyes snapped wide. I could’ve sworn they’d pop from her skull. Her body trembled, her breathing shallow and broken. She stared at me like I was death itself.

I didn’t blink.

It didn’t matter what she thought of my face.

“Do you want to live, suka?” Bitch.

No answer. I narrowed my eyes.

She was in shock. Or suicidal. Either way, her life was gone.

Then it happened. Her pupils dilated. Black widened, bleeding into green and brown. Fight-or-flight kicking in.

I’d seen fear in a thousand eyes. None of it compared to this.

She was ripe. Ready to be broken. Trained. Owned.

“Da,”

she whispered, tongue pushing against the gunmetal.

I smiled.

Pulled out the second syringe—Ania’s contingency. She’d planned for unforeseen complications. She always did.

When the girl whimpered like the animal she would become, I rewarded her—pressed the cold barrel deeper into her mouth.

My phone vibrated. Mission.

The reminder cut through the heat like a scalpel.

I’d nearly lost myself in her fear. In the way she trembled. Whimpered. It would’ve been so easy to keep going. Just a little more pressure, a little more obedience. But this wasn’t the time. Not yet.

I had a fucking politician to bag

“Sleep, suka,”

I said, pulling the cap and sticking the needle in her neck.

She swayed. I withdrew the gun and caught her before she hit the floor. I recapped the needle and tossed it into the bath.

Clean-up would come later.

I opened the door as Abrasha arrived with the trolley.

“What took so long?” he asked.

“Complication. Get Petrov in. We’ve got a second body in the bathroom.”

He blinked. “What? Who? Didn’t the Pakhan’s wife say he was travelling alone?”

“She did. It’s a maid,”

I muttered, scanning the room for the first cap until I found it under the bed.

It was almost funny—laying the piss-soaked maid on top of Petrov. She was smaller, easier to conceal. We pulled extra bedding to cover them both. Abrasha swapped his jacket for a porter’s and took the service lift. I used the front.

By the time we zip-tied them in the van, I was already rewriting my plans.

Not for Petrov. His fate was sealed.

For her.

My suka.

All the pain. All the humiliation. It would be hers.

I pulled out my phone as Sergei drove, sent the all-clear to Ania, and then opened a browser to start compiling the list of tools I’d need to make my new dog feel at home.

The Pakhan had his Bunny.

Why shouldn’t I have a bitch?

Sergei drove faster.

I smiled.