Page 13 of Bound By the Bratva

He waits. "I’ll erase a third of the debt—fifteen million rubles—tonight," he says. "No paperwork or formal arrangement. Only one condition. You give me what I want, right here, right now." He’s so certain, it makes me feel like the floor has tilted beneath me, like there is no world outside this room.

I breathe slowly through my nose. The silence grows thick. My heart pounds hard enough to echo behind my ribs. "And if I say no?" I know what he's asking me to do—the same sickening thing he asked of me six years ago, and I'm not sure I can say no. I feel like I may vomit on him. I manage to keep my tone even, but I can feel the panic clawing at the edge of my calm, waiting to rip through me.

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug, casual. "Then you keep waiting tables. Keep counting change. Keep watching your father drink himself closer to a bullet." He takes a slow step to the side as he downs his drink. I feel the air shift with each move. Every step he takes feels like another door closing behind me, locking me in.

I want to slap him or scream. I want to throw the tray across the room. But I do none of those things. I just look at that check, then him, and I hate that he looks exactly the same. The same eyes. The same calm. Time hasn’t softened him—it’s sharpened him.

He takes another step. It puts him just inches from me now, close enough that I can see the faint scar above his brow. "You walked in here because I asked. Not because you were forced. Noone will know what happens in this room but us. And tomorrow, you go back downstairs… with one third of your father's debt paid off, Anya."

He sounds like he’s laying out a business proposal, not tearing what’s left of my heart to shreds. In his mind, he’s doing me a favor.

My throat burns. Everything I’ve held back presses to the surface—fear, fury, the unbearable weight of every moment that brought me here.

"Don’t pretend this is a choice," I say. I shift my weight and lock my jaw. The words drag out of me like broken glass.

Rolan leans in. "You’re the one pretending."

His breath brushes against my cheek. His hand rises slowly and he plants his palm against the wall beside my head.

My breath catches in my chest. And still, I don’t move. He's a sickening asshole with a superiority complex, but I'll never make that much money in my life.Batya'sdebt will always hang over us. The men who like to beat him just to make sure he keeps up on his payments—I could hold them off for weeks with this much money, even buy Nikolai new clothes and fresh food.

My eyes flick up to his and the sinister smirk on his lips makes me cringe. I fucked him before. I could do it again. It would be nothing, right? To sell my body for this measure of freedom. And who's to say I have to stay here? I could take the money and run.

"Fine," I mumble so quietly I don't even hear it, but his hand slides down the wall, across the side of my face and lower to my neck, where he grips me until I feel my pulse weaken.

"Fine?" he asks.

"Yes," I gargle, too breathless to push past his firm grip. "I'll do it."

Rolan’s eyes slither across my face down to my chest where he tears the front of my shirt open and admires my tits. When heleans closer, ready to claim my lips, I turn my head. His grip is so forceful I almost can’t avoid him, but he doesn’t stop me.

“Is it yes or no?” he growls, and I clench my jaw.

“Lips are for love, asshole. You can destroy my body, but you won’t cross my lines doing it.” Looking at him out of the corner of my eye, I notice a glimmer of satisfaction in his gaze before he lets go of my neck and uses both hands to tear my shirt the rest of the way open.

“Strip. Now,” he orders.

My hands tremble as I fumble with the buttons on my waitress uniform, gaze still eyeing that check. Beads of sweat form on my brow and between my breasts. I can't believe I'm actually doing this—again. For money. For a debt that wasn't even mine to begin with. But what choice do I have? My father, my son… They depend on me. I can’t let them down.

Rolan watches me intently, his eyes hungry as my clothes pool at my feet, leaving me standing before him in nothing but my underwear. He pulls me to the center of the room then circles me like a predator. His every step is purposeful and menacing. My skin crawls with revulsion, but I force myself to stand tall, chin up, and endure this humiliation.

He stops behind me and leans in close enough to smell my hair. "You've grown since the last time," he mutters, his breath a hot whisper on my bare skin. I grit my teeth and clench my fists at my sides, willing myself not to react. "On your knees, Anya."

I hesitate for a moment longer, but debt and responsibility crush down on me like an anchor. Slowly, I drop to my knees in front of him, my heart pounding in my ears. I avoid looking at him as I fumble with his belt, unbuckling it and tugging down his pants. His cock springs free, hard and ready, and I swallow the bile that threatens to rise in my throat.

"That's better," he purrs, running his hand through my hair roughly. "You always were a natural at this.”

The first touch of my mouth on him is like swallowing acid, but I force myself to continue. My hands shake as I grip his thighs for stability, trying not to think about who I'm really doing this for. I close my eyes, shutting out the room, the city, and the man in front of me. Instead, I picture my son's smile as he runs through a meadow of wildflowers in the country—a place far away from here.

Rolan moans softly, his grip tightening in my hair. I let out a muffled whimper as he forces himself deeper into my mouth. My stomach churns, but I push through the revulsion, focusing on the debt that's slowly being chipped away with each humiliating second. His cock is rock hard and slick with pre-cum, which I can’t even admit to myself that I like, but when I let a groan vibrate up, he tightens his grip more and pulls my mouth away from his body.

“God, you suck like a vacuum, Anya.” Rolan backs away, letting his dick stand proud. He struts to the tray of drinks, picks up a vodka and tonic, and downs it, then nods at the tray as he says, “Drink?”

“Fuck you,” I spit, and it’s the wrong thing to say. He sets the glass back down and marches over to me, grabbing me by the elbow and shoving me toward the couch.

“On your knees. Now.”

I want to defy him, to spit in his face and walk out of there with my head held high, but I think of my father and the debt, so I do as he says. With shaking knees, I position myself on all fours on the leather couch, my ass in the air and my heart pounding in my ears. I can feel Rolan's eyes on me, scanning every inch of my naked body, and it makes me feel even more degraded.

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