Page 18 of Hers to Command

She’s trying to use me.

And fuck it, but that’s doing it for me even when she’s not riding my cock like she’s at the goddamn Olympics.

I stand and walk over to the window, staring out at the city. My city.

Dmitri is a nuisance, sure, but this? He didn’t wait for Tsepov’s own men to organize a response. He is using his death and the power vacuum that now defines the top of the Bratva hierarchy with Mikhail gone and Anya grieving, to assert his own claim to power based on an unfinished deal Adrik Tsepov intended to make. He wants control, and Anya is his ticket. He won’t stop until he has it all. Her and the Russians in the city agreeing to him being their new boss. The way Anya’s father intended.

And it shouldn’t bother me as much as it does.

I should be focusing on strategy, on how to crush Dmitri and his idiotic ambitions before they escalate further. On how to use this power vacuum to my own advantage. How to make sure Gianna and Mikhail don’t get any ideas about annexing the Russian areas. But all I can think about is Anya.

She walked into my office with more balls than most men I know, throwing out a marriage proposal like it was a fucking business transaction. She didn’t hesitate, not once, even though I could see the tension in her body, the way she refused to look weak.

Now, she’s alone in her father’s shadow, and Dmitri’s coming for everything she has left.

I hate to admit it, but I respect that kind of resilience. And if Dmitri underestimates her, he’s dumber than I thought. But that doesn’t mean she’s untouchable.

And I don’t like the idea of anyone but me touching her.

Another phone buzz. This time it’s a message:One of Dmitri’s men was spotted near the Tsepov Residence. Waiting for orders.

My hand tightens around the phone. Maybe I’m being paranoid. Maybe Anya can handle herself.

I shove the phone into my pocket and grab my coat, the decision already made.

“Fuck it,” I mutter to myself, heading for the door. The message I type out to Toni is short and to the point.

I’ll handle it.

Chapter Nine

Anya

The streets blur as I weave through traffic, tears running down my face and gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary. The Flemingdon Park club is only a few blocks away, closer than my apartment, and I need to get there. Get to the office, where I can be alone. I’ll make sense of everything once I’m there.

My father. Riccardo. Everything.

I cut through a narrow side street, taking the quickest route. The club is where I’ve always been able to focus, the space I’ve carved out for myself.

But something’s off.

I glance in the rear-view mirror. A black SUV has been tailing me for the past few blocks, and now it’s gaining on me. The streets are too quiet for it to be a coincidence.

Shit.

I take a sharp right, speeding up, my mind racing. If I can just get to the club, I’ll be fine. The building is secure. My father’s men are there. But before I can make another move, another car cuts me off, slamming to a stop in front of me. When I check over my shoulder, true fear seeps into me. The SUV blocks me from behind.

There is nowhere for me to go.

I force down the panic that’s making my chest feel too tight, reaching for my gun. My door swings open before I can even lift the weapon, and a pair of hands yanks me out of the car.

“Let go of me!” I snarl, fighting back, but the grip on me tightens. Another set of hands rips the gun from my fingers. I thrash, trying to kick, elbow—anything to break free—but I’m outnumbered. One of the men forces a cloth over my face, the sharp scent of chloroform filling my nose, and I curse that I live a life in which the scent is easily recognizable.

My vision blurs as my body goes limp.

The last thing I see is the dark interior of the SUV before everything goes black.

When I come to, the world is spinning. My head throbs, and I blink against the disorienting light.

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