HE SMILES DOWN AT me, his jaw strong, his smile wide, and his teeth bright and shiny white. He’s handsome, in the most classical sense. He’s a poised gentleman through and through.
I’ve known of him for months, seen him at events that Ziven drug me to. But now, he’s mine. His strong, soft hand wraps around the side of my neck and gives me a firm squeeze.
“Ready?” he asks, arching a manicured brow.
“I’m ready, Oswald,” I whisper.
I watch as his grin goes from wide, to almost devilish. He yanks me closer to his chest, and I inhale his spicy scent as his head dips down. His mouth presses harshly against mine in a bruising kiss. It’s nothing like the kisses Ziven has given me. My body doesn’t melt, and my belly doesn’t quiver.
This is what I wanted, I remind myself.
A man who was not connected to the Bratva in anyway whatsoever.
A good, clean man. A respectable man.
The District Attorney for the city of Denver. You don’t get more respectable than that, and he wants me—me. I should feel like the luckiest girl in the world, so why do I feel so guilty? Why does my gut tell me that this isn’t right? Why do I feel—scared?
“Welcome home, Quinn,” he announces as he steps away from the front door of his home, what can only be described as a Modern Mansion.
It’s ostentatious, with extremely high, soaring ceilings, and clean lines showcasing the modern flare throughout. The flooring is blonde hardwood with black accents. The staircase is aligned with what looks like caging, or chain link, instead of normal handrails. I feel a sense of foreboding just looking up the staircase that surrounds the upper level of bedrooms.
“You can unpack. I made room for you in the closet,” he murmurs. I nod as I start to walk upstairs.
Oswald follows me, his hand wrapped around my waist and his chest practically pressed to my back with each step I take. Once we’re upstairs, I set my suitcase down on the floor in the master bedroom and unzip it.
“I’d love to see what clothes you have,” he suggests as he steps away from me and sits down on the bed, his back against the headboard.
“They’re just clothes,” I whisper.
“Let me rephrase. You’ll try on everything for approval, Quinn. You are on my arm, and you represent me now. I can’t have you looking like some Russian’s whore,” he grunts, cocking an eyebrow.
My eyes widen at his words, and I take a big gulp of air. I do what he’s demanded. He only allows me to keep a handful of my clothes; the rest he throws into a pile and informs me that he’ll take them to the dumpster in the morning.
“Come,” he murmurs once I’ve finished putting the few outfits I’m allowed to keep away.
I’m dressed in a loose, knee length shift dress, that was also a keeper. I make my way over to him, a little scared of him now. This isn’t the man that I’ve been texting and e-mailing for weeks. That man said sweet things and seemed so nice. This man, he’s judgmental, he talks down to me, he frightens me, and I’ve only been here a few hours.
Standing at the side of the bed, I gasp when his hands wrap around my waist and he pulls me on top of him only to roll us over, so that he’s on top of me. His chocolate brown eyes gaze at me, and I relax under his stare.
“You’re mine now, Quinn. All of you,” he mutters. I stiffen beneath him as his smile turns cruel.
His hands grasp the collar of my dress and he rips it completely off of me, rising to his knees. Tears fill my eyes when he grabs my shoulder and flips me onto my stomach.
I stifle my scream in the plush comforter when I feel him enter me from behind. It hurts. I feel like he’s ripping me in half as he pistons in and out of my body with force. I’m not the least bit wet, and he doesn’t care. Tears stream down my face, and then, finally, I hear him grunt with his release.
“Clean up. Don’t stain my sheets,” he announces.
I turn my head to the side and watch him walk away, fully clothed. I limp to the bathroom to clean up and cringe at the sight of blood. I walk over to the mirror and wash my hands. My makeup is smeared, black rims beneath my eyes, and my face is pale. My hair is mussed up, and I look terrified—because I am.
“What have I done?” I whisper to myself.
Ziven’s occupation was one that I didn’t like or agree with, but not once during sex did I feel like he’d violated me. His eyes were always kind when he looked at me, even when he was pissed off at me for acting like a screaming bitch to him.
I was never scared of him, not ever. I can’t say the same for Oswald. I’m scared, completely and totally scared. All of the sweet talk was just that—talk. He’s nothing like I thought he was.
“I’ve made a mistake, a colossal mistake,” I whisper as my eyes fill with tears.
I wipe them away quickly and turn to the bedroom to find something to cover myself with.
“Don’t bother,” Oswald grunts as I open the drawer where I’d stowed my nightgowns.
“W-why?” I ask.
“Because I’m going to fuck that pussy of mine all night long,” he grins.
I shiver out of a mixture of disgust and fear, which makes him smile even wider.
“You been fucked in the ass, Quinn?” he asks. I shake my head. “You’ll love it,” he laughs.
My mind screams at me to run, but I’m frozen to my spot. I watch as Oswald calmly removes all of his clothes, and I scan his naked body with my eyes, landing on his hard dick. It’s not as big as I thought it was. In fact, he’s half the size of Ziven.
Even with his dick being on the smaller side, he can obviously hurt me and make me bleed. Just the thought of it going inside of my ass makes me want to cry. I’m fairly positive he won’t use lube, and he definitely will not be gentle.
Oswald walks up to me, wraps his hand in my hair, and yanks me behind him as he heads toward the bed. He throws me toward the mattress, letting go so that I crash into the side.
“On your knees,” he orders.
I instantly fall to my knees, out of nothing but pure fear, on the plush carpet floor. His hand wraps in my hair again, and he pulls me toward his cock. I close my eyes and open my mouth, knowing there’s no way out of this. Oswald is at least six-foot-tall, and one hundred and seventy-five pounds to my five foot-three and one hundred and fifteen pounds.
I made my bed of shit by running from Ziven, and now I have to lie in it.
I stretch my sore body and roll over, both thankful and grateful that Oswald isn’t lying next to me. I stifle a groan and slowly, shakily, walk to the bathroom.
The person who greets me in the mirror doesn’t even look like the woman who walked through the front door only hours ago.
I have bruises up and down my neck, my breasts, my stomach, and if I dare to look further down my body, I’ll see bruising on both the insides and outsides of my thighs, my pussy, and my ass.
I close my eyes and let out an exhale, thankful that he didn’t actually fuck me in the ass last night like he eluded to. Though, I have no doubt that he will, eventually.
“What happens now?” I ask myself.
I don’t bother answering myself as I start the shower and try to massage the pain in my body away. There are no more tears to cry. I did that last night. Oswald didn’t care if I cried. He didn’t care if I wanted more, or begged for him to stop. It seemed as though begging for him to stop only fueled him up more.
Once I’m clean and cry, I wrap myself in a towel and go back to the bedroom. There’s a note on the nightstand, and I make my way over to it. In perfect, all capital, male handwriting, it says—
QUINN-
I’LL BE HOME BY FIVE. BE READY. NO CLOTHES.
-O.J.
A shiver runs up my spine just imagining having to live last night all over again. I walk over to the closet and grab a dress, one of the few pieces he left me, and I put it on, thankful it’s loose and comfortable. I don’t bother with undergarments; my poor body can’t handle anything else touching it at this point.
I make my way downstairs and try to open the front door. It’s locked, but there’s no way to unlock it. There’s only a deadbolt and a handle, but it’s as though it’s locked from the outside. I look around and see a sliding glass backdoor. I walk over to that, tugging on it only to discover that it’s also locked, and there’s no way to unlock it.
My eyes dart around the house, and I let out a shaky breath.
I’m a prisoner.
The devil opened up the door, I let him talk me inside with his silver tongue, and now I’m in hell. I limp over to the couch and I sink down, careful to gently ease myself onto the soft cushions. I wrap my arms around my middle, hugging myself for a semblance of comfort.
This is so much worse than even living with my father. My drunk, addicted to gambling, indifferent, and neglectful father. I thought I was going to be this brave woman, finally able to make her own choices in life.
This was my time.
I made a choice and I was so excited to finally have that for myself.
I have never been able to make my own decisions.
My father always made them for me, I wasn’t allowed to go to public school, to date, or to be normal and then Ziven took me and even though living with him was a dream compared to my father, it wasn’t my choice and I couldn’t enjoy it because he’s dangerous, and he’s this badman, this Bratva man. Then, I had an opportunity, finally, an opportunity to change my life.
I didn’t realize I would change it for the absolute worst life imaginable.
I messed up, big time. I can only hope that Ziven will stay true to his words that he’ll always keep coming after me. But I honestly don’t think that he will.
I’ve been such a cold, cruel, bitch to him for so long that I don’t think he’ll ever want me back again. He’s probably glad to be rid of me at this point. My bottom lip trembles and more tears fall from my eyes, tears I didn’t think I had left.
“Where is she?” Mika asks as we meet up to talk about the new shipment that should be arriving at any second.
“Doesn’t matter,” I shrug, kicking a rock to the side.
“You’ve been chasing after her for over a year. It matters,” he murmurs.
“Well, I’m not chasing her anymore. How’d New Year’s go with Oksana Vetrova?” I ask, changing the subject.
Mika grunts but offers no other words as an eighteen-wheeler truck pulls up. I watch as two bikers exit the vehicle and come our way. I’ve met one of them before, goes by the name of Camo, the other is new. Camo lifts his chin to me and then extends his hand.
“Ziven,” he grunts.
“Good to see you again,” I say with a grin, inclining my head toward the new guy.
“This is Torch,” he introduces. I turn and extend my hand out to Torch, who grasps mine in a friendly shake.
“Everything is there?” I ask, lifting my chin toward the truck.
“Yeah,” Camo nods.
“No problems?” Mika asks.
Both men shake their heads. I instruct them to back the truck into the warehouse, where I have half a dozen men ready and waiting to unload the boxes.
“Gonna have to stay in town for the night. Got anywhere we can unwind?” Camo asks.
“What are you looking for? I can have women sent to your hotel,” I offer. They both shake their heads.
“I got a woman,” Camo announces. “She’d smell another pussy on me a mile away. Just need to have a few beers, relax,” he shrugs.
“Here—this bar, they have a badass live band that I’ve seen a few times called Mountains and Men. Good beer, relaxed atmosphere, and some good rock music,” I say as I write down the name of the Brew Cycle and hand it to Camo.
“Thanks, brother,” he says, lifting his chin.
“Here,” I say, tossing him my car keys. I have a Mercedes Benz G-Class SUV that I drive during the winter. It’s dark pewter colored and a nice ride for the cold Colorado snow.
“What’s this?” Camo asks.
“Take my SUV. Just leave it here when you head out of town, and I’ll come by and pick it back up,” I shrug.
“Thanks, man,” he grunts.
Mika and I tell them goodbye and head to Mika’s Land Rover SUV. Neither of us speak a word. He’s probably lost in thoughts of his New Year with Oksana Vetrova, and I’m most definitely lost in thought about Quinn Parker.
I fucking miss her.
She was a little bitch, but I had these moments where, if I squinted, I could see the softness she had beneath her. Sometimes, she would blush, or she’d get real quiet and I’d see that shy girl I knew she could be.
I miss that the most, the promise of what she could have been to me; what we could have been to each other. Maybe that makes me a cunt and not a man, but it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s over.
My phone rings, and I answer it without looking at the caller ID.
“Hello.”
The phone stays silent.
“Hello?” I say a little louder, only to have Mika look at me sideways as he drives. “Hello,” I repeat.
I hang up a moment later and then look through my caller history only to find that the last number to call me was private.
“Nobody there?” Mika asks.
“Nyet,” I mutter as I stare at my phone, waiting for it to ring again.
It doesn’t.