Page 4 of Bratva's Stolen Bride
3
PAYTON
He holds the knife steady at my throat even as his cock lengthens and thickens further under my hand.
My pulse flutters, and I’m more alive than I’ve ever felt.
My ex-boyfriend’s dad is hard. Or rather, he’s getting an erection as I watch, swelling in a way I knew happened to men—theoretically—but have never seen. I didn’t imagine it would be so quick, or make my tummy flip with excitement.
It’s not just how he’s reacting to me, it’s the power of it. Because I can see on his face the tussle of emotions, and almost… Fear?
He can’t be afraid of me. I’m nothing.
But with his sensitive, hard cock clasped beneath my fingers, even with the fabric between us, I feel powerful. Like I’m in control, not him.
He has a knife to my throat, but his erection balances it out.
“You want to escape that much, lisichka?” I don’t understand the Russian word, but this is hardly the moment to ask.
“Yes.” I swallow and grip the key harder, but it’s a lie. Getting it was instinct, and touching him a rash way to get the upper hand, but now I’m staring up into this man’s face, it feels like an excuse.
I want him to be strong enough to subdue every bratty tendency in me. To take me and make me his.
Is this a normal reaction to possible death?
I’m going to assume yes, since it’s never happened to me before, I can’t ask anyone, and I don’t think the internet would help me even if I had my phone to search.
“So pretty,” he murmurs, and presses the blade closer, his words rough with his Russian accent.
It’s entirely messed up that he’s hard, I’m trying to flee, and there’s the threat of him slitting my throat, but I’m hot between my legs. I’m turning to molten lava.
I’m excited in a way I didn’t realise was possible.
“Enough,” he growls and in one smooth action he takes the knife from my neck and sheaths it, then plucks the key from my hand. Grabbing me underneath the arms, he lifts me as though I weigh nothing, dragging me over his thighs and setting me down next to him. Shifting away, he subtly rearranges his trousers, so his erection is less noticeable.
I say less, because something that big is like smuggling a baseball bat.
“As I was saying,” he continues, as though the incident with the knife and his cock inches from my face didn’t happen, and it’s not quite a question. “You won’t see my son again, and you’re leaving London.”
Dominant and dictatorial. I glare at him. It’s a good thing I’m not in love with Ivan, because if I were, this would cause a major issue.
“How much do you know about what Ivan was doing?”
What’s the right answer here? I’m not sure. Which answer will keep me alive?
“Why?” I’m proud of how I sound. Far stronger than I feel on the inside.
He pointedly doesn’t look at me, and grits his teeth. In profile he’s even more gorgeous, the stubble of his defined jaw dark. I wonder how it would be on my skin? Would it hurt, like sandpaper?
I think I might enjoy that.
“Because you’re in danger. Ivan is…” But he trails off, not finishing the statement.
I curl into myself, because that sends a chill down my spine. Far too plausible. “Danger?”
“My son is in a lot of trouble, and is becoming…” He seems to choose his words carefully. “Erratic.”
“The money,” I say.
