Page 14 of Bound By the Bratva

Rolan circles me again, his footsteps echoing ominously in the quiet room. He stops behind me, and I brace myself for whatever humiliation he has in store next. Instead, he lightly traces his fingernails down my spine, sending a shiver throughmy core despite myself. I grit my teeth and grab hold of the back of the couch as his hand slaps hard on my ass.

“That pussy is going to rue the day your father decided to sit at that card table.”

Rolan's hand leaves a stinging heat on my ass, but I don't give him the satisfaction of a sound. Instead, I clench my jaw and try not to enjoy it too much as he slides his dick up and down my sopping entrance. I’m shocked he’s gotten to me enough to make me this wet.

Rolan chuckles darkly behind me, as if he can read my mind. "I know what you're thinking," he says, his voice low and menacing. "But let me make one thing clear, Anya." His hands grip my hips, digging his nails into my skin hard enough to draw blood. He pulls me back onto him, so I can feel every inch of his cock against my entrance. "This isn't just about your father's debt anymore."

"What do you mean?" My voice is a whimper.

"This," he says, thrusting hard inside me with one swift motion, "is about power. And I always get what I want." He pulls out just as quickly, making me whine, and then slams into me again, harder this time. "And I've wanted you since the moment I laid eyes on you."

I moan through gritted teeth as he sets a punishing pace, his hips slapping against my ass in a rhythm that leaves me breathless and aching for more. My pussy clenches around him, betraying me by how wet and aroused I am. He grabs my hair and forces my head down onto the couch, grinding against me even harder.

"You like it, don't you?" he growls in my ear, his breath hot and heavy against my neck. "Tell me you like it, Anya."

I clench my jaw tighter, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing me beg for more. But my own fucking voice betrays me, slipping out in pants and soft moans of pleasure, even whenhe smacks my ass harder and makes me jump and clench on his dick.

I feel myself teetering on the edge of orgasm, fighting against it with every fiber of my being. I can't let him see me break. I won't give him that pleasure.

Rolan senses my inner struggle and chuckles darkly. "That's right, Anya. Fight it." He reaches around and finds my clitoris, rubbing it roughly in time with his thrusts. "But you'll beg me for more, just like you did that weekend.”

The mention of the past is the final straw. I can't take it anymore. My orgasm crashes into me like a stampede, pulling me under its relentless pounding. I cry out, my body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure washes over me. I’m convulsing as Rolan groans in response, his grip on my hair tightening to the point of pain as he comes inside me.

Rolan's grip on my hair loosens, but he doesn't pull out right away. His hands smooth large circles over my hips and lower back. He pumps into me slowly while I twitch and feel the sticky sludge of his sex running down my leg.

Finally, he pulls out with a wet squelch and zips his pants up. I can feel the cool air on my abused entrance and the shame creeping in like icy tendrils. Rolan retrieves his tumbler of whiskey from the table and takes a slow sip, savoring the moment as he watches me regain my composure and scramble to find my clothing. My skin burns with the touch of him still there, the weight of his body, the mark he left—not on my throat, but somewhere deeper I can’t scrub clean.

"Bastard," I spit, my voice hoarse and breaking.

Rolan exhales slowly. He doesn’t flinch or rise to meet the insult. "You already knew that," he says. His voice is quiet now, almost calm, but I can still feel the venom in it.

I gather myself quickly and dress as fast as I can. I swipe a shaking hand over my face. I don't ask for the check as I walk past and pick it up, slide it into my bra.

The door opens easier than I expect, and I slip out before he has the chance to speak again, before he can ask for more. My legs are unsteady but I move fast, down the corridor, into the elevator, anywhere that isn't that room. And I still feel his sex draining down my inner thigh with every step.

By the time I hit the ground floor, I’m still trembling. Fury coils in my chest, but not just at him. It’s aimed at me too.

Because I didn’t hate it.

And the fact that part of me wanted it—that sickens me more than anything else.

8

ROLAN

The leather sticks under my palm as I push open the doors to the upper study. Misha is already seated, collar loose, wrist draped over the back of a velvet chair he didn’t pay for. Stepan and Renat stand near the windows, murmuring about the expansion. None of them look surprised to see me.

“We have a problem,” I say. I cross the room slowly, not bothering to take off my gloves.

Stepan lifts his chin. “You mean the Vladikavkaz crew?” His tone is too casual, but his eyes stay sharp.

“They’re not just sniffing around anymore.” I take the center seat, resting my elbows on the arms. “They’ve moved three debt collectors into the southern districts. One of them threatened a man who owes me—a drunk, but he’s still mine.”

Misha frowns. “Pyotr Morozov.” He sits straighter, rubbing a thumb over the ring on his right hand. He’s already calculating the implications.

I don’t bother confirming. Every one of them already knows. I watch their expressions shift with the recognition. Each expression shows calculation and familiarity with how I work.

Renat crosses to the sideboard, pours himself a vodka, and offers me the bottle. I shake my head and he drinks. His hand doesn’t tremble, but the way he gulps it seems like he's tempering his anger.

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