Bazarnik glared at his prisoner through the bars as she ate her dinner. She hadn’t said a word yet. Hadn’t asked where she was. Hadn’t asked for clothes. She seemed to be as comfortable in a cell, completely naked, as she would be at a dining table fully dressed. From what little he knew about her, he was certain life in Russia had not been easy for her. Perhaps hardship had taught her resilience. He had been through enough in his own life to know better than to pity her.

He had no way of knowing how right he was. Tatiana’s serene demeanor was the direct result of the coping mechanism she turned to when faced with stress. As she chewed a small, carefully cut bite of steak, she told herself she didn’t care. As she washed it down with a delicate sip of ice water, she told herself she didn’t care. She knew she would grow accustomed to Bazarnik’s relentless gaze because eventually she would convince herself that she didn’t care. If she repeated the mantra enough, eventually she’d believe it; that’s how it worked.

Bazarnik shifted in his chair, clenching and unclenching his jaw at the sight of this woman’s flesh on full display. As his heart raced, his cock became engorged with the blood that thundered through his veins. He had intended to make her uncomfortable by taking her clothes and thus denying her any semblance of human dignity, but she appeared to be impervious to his efforts as she serenely ate the meal he had brought her. He, on the other hand, was reeling from the effect she was having on him. Something about this woman pulled at his insides. Who the fuck did she think she was, casting a spell on him so quickly?

“Get done eating or I’m taking it,” he snarled.

Tatiana rushed to finish. Nothing was ever for sure with Bratva and this guy seemed particularly hardcore. She’d seen his tattoos and knew they represented his life laid out in ink on his body. Only someone who knew Russian culture would understand those tats, and Tatiana was Russian through and through. She understood that she was at the mercy of a brutal, hardened criminal – a killer, no doubt.

She backed into the corner when he rose from his chair and unlocked the cell door once again. She assumed he was just coming in to take the empty tray, but he closed the door behind him, locking himself in with her.

He leaned back against the bars with his arms crossed over his muscled chest. She took a moment to study him. He was intimidating in a raw, primitive way, but attractive in his own distinctive way. His look was not one that just anyone could pull off but, damn, he wore it well.

He enjoyed her silent appraisal, smirking at her interest in his appearance. If only she’d seen him back when he had spikes surgically implanted on his head and a hoop in his nose. He’d reluctantly stopped wearing the nose hoop and had the spikes removed because it drew the wrong kind of attention from law enforcement. He had let his blonde hair grow out past his shoulders, usually wore it in the simple ponytail that was favored in Bratva. His striking blue eyes were accented by strong brows. His face was chiseled in sharp, angular lines with prominent cheekbones and a square jaw. A flame tattoo on his neck extended up onto his cheek. He was gorgeous in a biker kind of way.

His striking looks aside, it was his overall presence that intrigued her. Arrogant. Calculating. Malevolent. And he was looking at her like he wanted to possess her and hurt her all at the same time. Even the way he had threatened to take her food if she didn’t hurry was a turn-on and she had no idea why.

She was looking pensively at the flame tattoo on his neck when her eyes widened. She had finally connected the dots. Ah, clarity.

“It was you. You blew up that warehouse. You’ve got a thing for fire.”

“That’s why they call me Bazarnik.”

“The Fireman.”

“You got it. Since you know my story, how ‘bout you tell me yours, Tatiana?”

“How ‘bout you get me some clothes?”

 “No, I think I’ll keep you just the way you are, thanks.”

“Sounds like you already know all about me. There isn’t much to tell. That bastard Hector got my sister hooked on drugs. She died. I went to the warehouse to kill him, to take my revenge. But you got to him first. You fucking stole that from me.”

“See, that just proves my point. You know too much. My task here is containment. Damage control. That makes you my responsibility. My property.”

“Property?!” she snapped, her skin flushing angrily all the way to the tips of her beautiful breasts.

He approached her with deliberate steps, getting right in her face as he hissed, “Damn straight. You got mixed up with Bratva. There’s no getting out of that shit.” He placed a finger under her chin and lifted it, forcing her to meet his eyes. “You. Are. Property. Mine!”

“That’s crazy. You’re crazy,” she breathed, her voice barely audible.

He stepped away from her with a laugh. “Crazy is something of a requirement in Bratva. But here you are, and once you’re in there’s no getting out. I’m your only hope of staying alive. But don’t worry, you’ll like me sooner or later. By the time I’m finished with you, you’ll be glad you weren’t left out on those streets alone.”

“I killed a man. Can you save me from that?”

“Have you now?” he said speculatively.

He listened as she filled him in on her upbringing and how it culminated in her sister’s sham of a marriage and eventual escape that led to her overdose. A long silence ensued until Bazarnik cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said stiffly. “I have no brothers or sisters myself, but I imagine that would be most difficult.”

How was it possible that he recognized a kindred spirit in this woman even though their lives couldn’t be more different? He was a loner with an obsession with fire, no family ties, and no idea how to be around people day in and day out. She had had a rough childhood, yes, but she had had a deep connection to her sister, a connection so deep that she devoted herself to exacting revenge on those who caused Tadita’s death.

He understood that kind of devotion, that kind of loyalty, because that was what he had found in Glazov’s Bratva cell. Tatiana’s family ties had been severed abruptly by her father’s betrayal and her sister’s untimely death; perhaps Bratva could give her a fresh start, if she wanted one. He hoped she did; otherwise, she would have to die – likely by his own hand.

“So, you killed the fucker and left him face first in his spaghetti.”

“And meatballs.”

He grinned. He was starting to like this girl. “Very nice. Tatiana, I think you’ve come to the right place. Regardless of how you got here, if there’s blood on your hands, Bratva could be your saving grace,” he mused aloud as his gaze slid insolently down her slim form. “Or your downfall.”