Page 23 of Bound By the Bratva

“Fuck,” I gasp. “Yes… like that. Fuck me. I want you.” The words I mutter can’t be any more honest.

Rolan's grin turns predatory, his eyes darkening with victory. "Louder," he demands, his accent thick with lust. "Say it louder, so the walls of this entire estate can hear how much you want me." I hate him, I really do, but my body betrays me as I scream out my surrender.

"Yes, fuck me! God, Rolan, don't stop!" His answering growl is primal, animalistic as he pounds into me relentlessly. My orgasm looms closer by the second, and I know there's no going back now.

His fingers once again find their way to my clit, stroking me in time with his thrusts. "That's it,malyshka," he whispers in my ear, his voice a guttural moan. "Come for me." His words send me over the edge into oblivion. My core detonates and I convulse, unwittingly finding his sides under my fingers’ touch. Rolling my hips, I meet his every thrust until I’m nothing but a jiggling ball of pleasure and ecstasy.

His release comes hard, heat flooding my insides. When he slows, his teeth sink into my shoulder, and his grip on my hips doesn’t let up.

As my orgasmic haze begins to clear, I'm acutely aware of Rolan still inside me, his heavy breathing in my ear. I feel dirty and used, as if I've betrayed not just myself but also Nikolai. Screaming and clawing at the walls won’t do anything to purge this humiliation from my very soul. But I can’t help but think it would bring me some sort of relief from the war in my chest.

Rolan rolls off me, spent and panting, his chest heaving with exertion. His eyes, once dark with lust, now hold a flicker of something else—regret? No, it must be my imagination.He's a monster, I tell myself again, willing my heart to believe it. "There," he says eventually, wiping a hand down his face.

I lie there for a moment, letting the cool air kiss my sex-heated skin. The fire has died out in the hearth and my will tofight him is gone. He sits on the edge of the bed and picks up his pants.

“Why me?” I ask him, staring up at the ceiling. I don’t expect a straight answer, but I expect something.

Rolan, however, slides his pants on, tugs them up, and glances over his shoulder at me. “Why not?” he says as he collects the rest of his clothing and shuts himself into his adjoining bathroom.

12

ROLAN

The test results don’t surprise me. Dr. Isaev's handwriting loops cleanly across the page, the genetic markers boxed in red, underlined with clinical emphasis. The conclusion is printed in sterile, bureaucratic Russian. 99.98% probability of paternal relationship. Nikolai is biologically mine. I stare at it, motionless, letting the silence in the study settle around me.

A breeze rattles the windows and tugs at the heavy velvet curtain. Outside, the sky is still gray from the remnants of last night’s storm. The smell of rain and scorched ozone clings to the glass. I take a slow sip of vodka and let the ice melt across my tongue.

I already knew from the moment I saw his face. Now the facts are on paper—he is my son, and no one can deny it.

A knock hits the door too sharply to be Anya coming for the third time this morning to ask if Nikolai will be going to school. And I haven't heard from that lying sack of shit, Pyotr, yet, but no one from the gate called to say he tried to get through.

"Come in," I say without looking up from the report. I can't take my eyes off the paper for some reason. Maybe it's theshock of it settling in. I'm a father. My father is adedushka. A new generation of Vetrovs began five years ago without my knowledge, and I feel I've missed so much.

Stepan steps in with hands clasped behind his back. He doesn’t move farther than the threshold, gauging my mood before he speaks. "There’s a disturbance at the front gate."

I arch an eyebrow but don’t shift in my seat. My fingers tap once against the armrest. "Who?" I ask, but I feel like I already know. It's a shame it took him an extra fourteen hours to figure this out. If he were sober enough to walk to the boy's school at pick-up time, he'd have known then.

"Pyotr Morozov. He’s drunk and aggressive… says he wants to see Anya."

I lean back and sigh, set my glass down, and run a hand down my face. "Are the guards holding him?"

"They are. You told us not to harm him unless instructed." Stepan's eyebrows rise skeptically, and I can see how much he'd really like to harm the bastard. I would too—but that would hurt my son. As much as I don't like it, Pyotr the fuck-wit Morozov is family and I won't lay a hand on him, though I'm not necessarily going to come between him and his enemies unless I have to.

I pause, then push back from the desk and rise. "Then this is their instruction. Let him in, let him come to me."

Stepan hesitates, brow furrowed. "Are you sure?"

I button my jacket. "Yes," I say. "I want to hear what a man sounds like when he begs for the family he nearly destroyed."

He nods and leaves, and I straighten the cuffs of my shirt and walk to the wide staircase. My shoes echo across the wood. By the time I reach the landing, I hear him coming. His shouting spills through the corridor, but it doesn't matter how loud he screams. Anya won't hear him. She's tucked away in the other wing of the house.

"Anya! Anya, where are you?!" His voice cracks with desperation.

The front doors slam open. Pyotr stumbles inside, flanked by two of my men. His coat hangs off one shoulder, soaked from the rain. He reeks of vodka, and his eyes burn with rage. They're red-rimmed from drunkenness and lack of sleep as he glares at me bravely. I have to give it to him—he has more balls on him than most of my men. He's stupid, but he's trying.

"Where is she? Where’s my little girl? You bastard, you took her! And the boy too!" He throws an arm out and nearly slips. His voice frays at the edges, wild-eyed and foolish.

"Shut the doors," I call. My voice cuts through the noise. The guards obey without hesitation. They seal us in with the thud of the oak door, and I descend the stairs, stopping on the landing. My jaw tightens as I see just how drunk he is. He can't even stand without jerking and swaying.

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