Page 14 of Bratva's Stolen Bride
And my god. As the first mouthful goes down my throat, something eases in my ears, the pain lessening.
“That’s it,” he croons, and he’s brushing my hair away from my face with one long finger, and watching me carefully. “Better?”
Drinking again, it sort of pops this time, and I had no idea it was so nice for my head to feel almost normal, and not as though it’s about to explode.
The starkly tattooed hand that brushed hair from my eyes continues stroking down to the nape of my neck, and despite everything, it feels good.
I struggle not to lean into his touch as he strokes my hair again, then again.
I can’t get over how lovely it is to be held near his big chest, to have his big hand on my hair. Hayley and I hug, of course, but it doesn’t feel anything like this. It’s not like being protected, a huge wall of man between you and the world.
“When you’ve flown dozens of times, you’ll laugh about this,” he says in a deep, rumbling voice.
“Hardly likely.” When am I going to be able to afford to take a plane again? This might be a bougie kidnapping, but afterwards I’ll be straight back to counting pennies and student loans. Especially with Ivan gone.
Well. Unless I’m dead.
“What happened to me?” I ask to cover my increasing embarrassment and a squirmy feeling of heat between my legs and excitement in my tummy.
“It was the pressure difference between the air inside your ears.” He traces his thumb over that part, giving the sensitive lobe a little squeeze, and I have to bite back a moan. “And the pressure of the air outside. And as we descend, the pressure is higher, and your ears hurt because that air is pushing to get inside.” He smooths his hand down my hair again then gently tightens his grip, tugging at pleasure sensors I didn’t know I had on my scalp. “Swallowing helps get air into that tiny space in your ear, so the air is the same inside and out.”
“Oh.” I feel so stupid.
Shifting to his seat beside mine, he brings my head to rest on his shoulder as we land. I don’t even see the ground hurtling towards us, because I’m breathing in the salt water and citrus scent of Feliks and despite the discomfort in my ears, I like him stroking my hair.
A lot.
When the plane has landed and Feliks leads me out onto a set of metal stairs, we’re met by a wall of warmth unlike anything I’ve felt. It’s fragrant and dense. But I don’t get to marvel at it for long, because we’re in another car—a solid SUV this time—within a second, and when I ask Feliks about passports, he just rolls his eyes and says that doesn’t apply to him or his guests.
He has an abrupt conversation during the car ride, all in Russian, but I recognise the word “Ivan”, and Feliks looks grave when it’s finished.
“My men can’t find him,” he explains to me when I give him an enquiring look.
Which is concerning, but by the time we’re on a freaking boat, I can’t hold onto the worry. This is luxury on a different level to anything I’ve ever seen. When Hayley and I arrived in London, we went to Buckingham Palace, and that was one thing. It was gold and floral fabrics. This though, isn’t obvious. It’s the sort of comfort that’s new, and the finest of everything. The most expensive version.
He points out the island when it’s a speck in the distance and we watch as we draw closer, it’s an emerald-green and yellow gemstone in a gleaming blue sea and bright sky. And that is even more amazing than the boat and the jet.
A private island, complete with lush jungle and sparkling sandy beaches.
The house Feliks leads me into is surprising. After the expensive vibes of his plane and boat, it’s quite simple. Tiledfloors, wooden furniture, bare wood beams. It’s deliciously cool compared to the heat outside though.
He shrugs off his suit jacket in the kitchen, and lays it over the back of a chair before removing his tie and rolling up his shirt sleeves. I watch, entranced, as he reveals tanned forearms covered in dark hair. Strong. Bulky.
On his right arm there are tattoos, all black outline drawings perfectly slotted in but not touching. As though his whole body is a carefully crafted set of artworks that were designed to fit together. I spy a skull, what looks like a drone, and a boat, but mostly I can’t make them out.
His left has a long snake that coils around his bicep, the head on his shoulder, staring up into Feliks’ face.
But what really catches my attention are his wrists. His are square and unbreakable looking, and black tattoo lines fall over a scatter of black hair. It doesn’t sound like the best part of a man’s body, but the pure masculinity of him makes me squirmy. His wrists, his big hands, and the point where his shirt hides the firmness of his arm muscles. Swoon.
He notices me watching him, and smirks. I turn, blushing. He’s just so hot.
“So, kidnapper, what are we going to do now?” I try to cover my embarrassment.
“What does anyone do when they get to a beach house?”
I jump, because his voice is close, and out of the corner of my eye I see him holding out a can of fizzy drink for me.
It’s cold from the fridge, and lets out a satisfying tishh when I open it.
