Hunted By The Bratva Beast: A Bratva Stalker/Captive Romance by Jagger Cole (books to read in your 20s .txt) 📕

on Viktor’s payroll, and our own crews of people looking into it. No people, no fingerprints, not a single shred of evidence that might point to who’s responsible.

No bodies, either.

I shower quickly, still trying to clear my head. I dress for work, head downstairs, say hello to the doormen, and then step into the morning. Oleg, my usual driver, grins at me. When I pass him the mug of black Russian tea I’ve brought down with me, he groans and crosses himself dramatically.

“My baba, Mary mother of Christ, and you… saints, all of you.”

I laugh as he opens the door of the town car for me. “We really need to raise your standards on sainthood.”

“Oh, I’m easily bought for a cup of good black tea.”

We drive through the city in relative silence—me sipping my double espresso, Oleg happily drinking his tea. At the office, the guards downstairs greet me warmly, and the front desk manager bids me good morning as he unlocks the door to the private executive elevator for me.

Viktor’s “company,” which is entirely a shell corporation within about twenty other shell corporations, leases the top two floors of the mid-century office building on The Loop. My brother has made the Kashenko Bratva an absolute powerhouse in this city by buying off the right people and keeping everyone happy. But still, it never hurts to run your criminal empire through some fake companies.

Viktor is at the top. Lev is number two. But unofficially, I’m number three. And from this office, I help to make sure the empire is running smoothly. All roads lead to Rome, as they say. It’s my job to make sure those roads are paved, plowed, and maintained.

Deborah, my assistant, smiles as I walk past her and into my office. Inside, I close the door, pause for a moment to drink in the view out of my office window, and sink into my chair. But after that, there’s no holding it back anymore.

The dream replay hit me again like a wave. I blush, squirming in my chair as his dream touch slips over my skin like a memory.

I still haven’t said anything about the man who grabbed me that night. Even if keeping that back is a constant source of internal conflict for me. Even if I still dream of those arms, and those eyes.

Even if he’s dead.

But soon enough, Deborah is buzzing me about the day’s schedule. The phone is ringing, emails are piling up, and another day begins.

Luckily, it passes quickly. I’m in back-to-back meetings for most of it. Then phone calls, then more meetings. By the time I can take a breath, I realize it’s growing dark outside, Deborah went home an hour ago, and I’m absolutely starving.

I text Oleg that I’m good for the night, and I take a cab home. The wealth and privilege that comes with the life I live is great. But sometimes it’s nice to feel a bit more like a normal everyday person.

When I’m finally back home and inside my place, I take another deep breath. Being busy all day always feels good. But being home is wonderful. Knowing that its mine, too, and not a handout from my brother is an added bonus.

I make some quick supper, and then catch about ten minutes of some cooking show on Netflix. After that, I’m back on the exercise bike for another forty minutes until my thighs are burning.

In the bathroom, I turn on the shower and then head back into the rest of the apartment. It’s a completely safe, guarded luxury building, with ten Kashenko soldiers keeping watch as well. But it’s force of habit for me to check all of the doors and windows anyways. Satisfied that they’re locked, I head back into the bathroom and strip down for the shower.

I turn, and my eyes sweep over my back in the mirror. I frown slightly, but the scars don’t bother me like they used to. When Viktor first brought me back to America, I would wear a t-shirt over my bathing suit if I even worked up the courage to go out to the pool. That’s how ashamed I was of the marks from my past.

Now, I just look at them as that: my past. The scars from the abuse I lived through at my foster home run much deeper than my skin anyways. But I’m better these days. I can shrug it off now.

I step into the scalding hot water of the shower and sigh happily. The heat soothes my sore muscles, and I close my eyes. At first, I start to think about my schedule tomorrow and plan the day. But soon enough, it’s the dreams that take over.

This time, the replay bleeds into a daydream. I imagine the dark, dangerous stranger stepping into the shower with me. He pins me to the wall, making me whimper as his huge hands spread my legs.

I blush under the water, getting warm and tingly in places I shouldn’t when I think about him. But I do, almost every night. The huge, rasping-voiced man from the party has become my go-to fantasy.

I know it’s terrible, and wrong. I know it might honestly mean there’s something profoundly fucked up and broken inside of me. But that might be it. I am broken inside. I’ve pieced myself back together, with a lot of help from Viktor. But even the healed parts are crooked and patchwork.

You don’t “get over” an upbringing like mine. It’s the same reason I’m twenty-three and I’ve never slept with anyone. Because screwing someone, even casually, would mean opening up. It would mean an intimacy I’m not quite sure I’ll ever be able to feel.

So instead, I spend my nights fantasizing about a beast of a man who very well may have been trying to kill me. Or at the very least, abduct me or something.

You’re mine now, little one.

Those growled words bring a surge of lust to my core. I moan as my hands slip down