The Dance: Bratva Vows Page 8

  I nod and squeeze his hand. He squeezes back.

  Once in my room, he gets on the bed and takes two remotes out of the bedside drawer. He’s propped up against the pillow, long legs out in front of him, chest bare, like every fantasy come true.

  “What do you like?” he asks.

  “All sorts of things. I love horror.”

  He frowns and glances at me. “I thought you might want something … gentle after your ordeal?”

  “Nah. Horror is always good. There’s a great new French series on Netflix; can you get that?” I give him the name, and he looks it up.

  “You want English subtitles?” he asks.

  I nod, and he sets it all up. Then he crosses his arms and watches as the first episode starts. Isn’t he going to leave now?

  “Thanks,” I say in a bid to get him to go, so I can lie down and try to relax.

  “Looks intriguing, you mind if I watch a little while?”

  I shake my head because I can hardly say yes, I do mind, without looking petty, and truthfully, him being here is better than being alone.

  “Give me a minute,” he says and heads to the fridge in the corner. “Do you like cola?” he asks.

  I nod. “Diet if you have it.”

  He grabs two cans of diet soda and a packet of pretzels and comes back to the bed, handing me one can.

  We sip at our drinks in companionable silence as the macabre tale of an ancient witch unfolds.

  “They say this house is haunted,” he tells me.

  “Really, wow, that’s cool.”

  He laughs. “You’re different, you know? Most women would be scared and upset and ask me not to say anymore on the subject.”

  “Ooh, no, I love things like that. I’m not scared. Well, maybe, if it’s a demonic spirit or something, yes, I would be, but I love the supernatural. What do you know about the ghost, or ghosts?”

  “Nothing. Never really looked into it, but some of the people working on the restoration told me it is allegedly haunted.” His face turns serious. “I used to hope maybe my wife would come back and somehow communicate with me, but she never has.”

  “I’m so sorry you lost her,” I say truthfully. Then I ask, “Is it weird me being here?”

  He sips at his drink and thinks. “It is, simply because since I lost her, I’ve not been with another woman or spent time with any. I don’t feel strange, though, having you in this space; it feels oddly right. My wife wanted me to move on. In the weeks before she passed, she had a few conversations with me, where she told me to find love, or at least not be alone. We’d had some tough years.”

  “With her being sick?” I ask.

  His eyes cloud, and he nods and swallows hard. “Yes, that, and we … we lost a baby.”

  Oh, God. His life has been damned tragic.

  “She wanted me to meet someone, have a family. I didn’t feel ready, you know?”

  “Do you now?” As soon as I say it, I realize it makes me sound like I’m asking if he’s ready with me, which is so not how I mean it. “Not with me,” I stammer. “I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant … in general.”

  “In general?” He shakes his head. “No.”

  The disappointment hits hard. I tell myself I should be thankful. Grateful he’s not ready to move on because that means he’ll get me my money and new identity and simply let me go. I’ll be safe, and I’ll be well off and have a chance to start life anew. I’m not grateful, though, I’m kind of sad at the thought of leaving him here in this massive house alone, and going off to try to forge a totally new path for myself, also alone.

  “With you, though…” Ilya breaks into my thoughts. “It makes very little sense, as I barely know you, but with you, I think I might be ready to at least try again.”

  Shit.

  Wow.

  Okay.

  I don’t know what to say to that, but as I’m considering my reply, a freaky witch leaps out of a closet on the TV in front of us, screeching loud enough to wake the dead, and I jump and squeal.

  “You like horror, huh?” Ilya laughs. Then he lifts his arm. “Come here.”

  And I do. I go to him and snuggle onto his chest as his arm drops to cover my shoulders.

  It’s warm. He’s hard and soft at the same time. Hard muscle, soft skin. The combination is comforting, and soon my eyes begin to droop. Ilya turns the TV down at some point, and soon it all fades away. The scary witch on the TV, the room, Ilya, the mess that is my life. It fades as I drift into a dream about Ilya’s haunted house.

  7

  Amanda

  I awake with a groan. My head is splitting. Glancing around, I see the room is empty. My pillow that was Ilya is gone. Where I don’t know, but light is spilling in through the partially open curtains, and so it must be daytime. With another groan, I drag myself out of bed and go to the window. Staring out at the landscape, I marvel at the acres of land around this house. I can’t see any other buildings. I’m not sure how big ten acres is, but it must be a decent size as there’s nothing around.

  Barking down below has me looking directly down to the ground from the window, and I smile at the sight of Ilya walking with a pack of Doberman and a German shepherd at his side. He’s wearing a black sweater and dark blue jeans.

  It’s amazing to me that I’m in Russia. I can’t get my head around it.

  My stomach grumbles, and I rub it. I’m hungry and nauseous at the same time, and it’s an odd combination. I wonder what time it is, and then it hits me. I have nothing with me. I was so out of it last night, I hadn’t thought about this detail, but where’s my phone?

  Shit. I feel panicked without it. Cut off from everyone, but hey, that’s probably the plan, right? Cut me off so I can’t call my bro or my friend and tell them what happened.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I consider doing something crazy like hunting for a phone in the house and calling someone, but then I remember what Ilya said about Allyov wanting me gone. I doubt it’s a lie. My mind goes on a tangent at that thought, to Andrius and his cold eyes. He doesn’t kill women, though, I remind myself. Only for the face of the thug and hired gun who killed my kidnapper to smash its way into my skull. He’d kill me if ordered. I’m sure of it.

  There’s a knock at the door, and one of the maids pokes her head around. I can’t recall her name and feel bad, but she smiles sunnily at me and says in heavily accented English, “There are clothes in the dressing room, two doors down, for you. The lady came, but you were sleeping, and the nurse said to let you rest. There’s also food downstairs, laid out in the kitchen, on the breakfast bar. Some cold meats, cheeses, bread, fruit, and yoghurt. I brought you coffee and some small cakes in case you want to nibble something now and look at the clothes first.”

  She does a little curtsey, honestly, a curtsey, and then she’s gone. I grab the coffee and take a grateful sip, then grimace because it’s black and there doesn’t appear to be any milk anywhere to add.

  The cakes are another matter; they are delicious! I feel somewhat like Marie Antionette in this opulent room eating dainty cakes for breakfast.

  After another cake and one cup of black coffee, I leave my room and enter the hallway. I see the door the maid mentioned is ajar, and I tiptoe to it, peeking in. Not sure why I’m creeping about, I laugh at myself. My eyes alight on two racks of clothes, plus boxes with what I assume are bags with shoes in them.

  Then I gawp. There are Chanel boxes and paper bags with Mulberry and Givenchy on them. There are two Louis Vuitton boxes, and five shoe boxes. Then there’s the two racks of clothes. They are a mix of casual and comfy stuff like jeans and soft jumpers, but even these are expensive. The jumpers are cashmere, and the jeans are J Brand and Versace. Good lord.

  I see a note propped up on a small, spindly legged table.

  Morning, beautiful.

  Try things on, see what you like. I had the clothes and shoes brought the same size as the things you were wearing. Take it all; it’s paid for. Anything you
don’t want, I’ll send back.

  The bag in the far corner is as much for me as it is for you.

  There’s also a smaller box on the windowsill. This is a personal gift from me, and I would very much like you to wear it.

  Ilya x

  The bag in the corner?

  I turn and see the Agent Provocateur bag and smile. Cheeky bastard.

  Then I go to the window ledge and spy the smaller box. It is plain white and non-descript. I open it, and there’s another box inside, Russian doll style; a jewelry box with thick embossed writing on the lid. Hesitantly I open it and smile when I see the gold chain with the gorgeous, delicate angel wings attached. I put it on immediately. It’s absolutely beautiful, and I like that he bought me this. It seems somehow personal, amongst all the other gifts.

  Heart pounding, with all the bounty in front of me and the wealth it entails, I trail my hands along the rack of clothes, looking at all these beautiful items and accessories. Things I could never afford. Things I didn’t think I gave a rat’s ass about, but seeing them here, like this, for me, well, it makes my stomach flip a little. It also scares me because added to the whole, landing in Russia without being checked, and going to a clinic who seem very secretive, stuff, getting endless designer clothes delivered to your home the day after you demand them seems another testament to Ilya’s sway here.

  If I have one weakness it is bags. Not that I own many expensive ones, but I do love them, so I head for the Louis Vuitton boxes first. The largest contains a tote bag in their signature monogram print. The second, smaller bag is a leather camera bag, crossbody style. They are both divine, and I hug the camera bag to me like a child at Christmas. The child I never got to be once Mum passed.

  I didn’t get presents; instead, I tried to ensure my brother had something to open. Yes, I was sixteen, so no longer a child as such, but it’s a harsh age to have to completely grow up at.

  The shoes aren’t my thing so much. Lots of expensive heels, and I don’t like them. Yes, I wear stripper heels for work, but out of work, I prefer casual. Then I spot the Nike box, and I grin. That’s more my taste. There’s a cool pair of running shoes in there. Another dark green box holds a pair of beautiful, classic boots. These will do, and maybe one pair of heels in case I have to go out somewhere smart.

  I choose a pair of Gucci heels and push the other shoe boxes to one side. They can go back, as I don’t need them and don’t want Ilya paying for them simply for the sake of it.

  Next, I go to the paper Mulberry bag and open it. Inside wrapped lovingly in tissue is an exquisite burnt orange bag, in the loveliest pebbled leather. It’s soft as butter and another keeper.

  When I start to go through the clothes, I keep most of the casual stuff, and one pair of sleek trousers, a smart top, and a cocktail dress. The many, many fancy dresses I put to one side to go back, along with the skirts. I rarely wear skirts, preferring trousers or jeans. I do take a dark navy wrap dress, though, which will work well with the boots.

  By the time I get to the underwear bag, I’m feeling a little shopped out. I open it and see all sorts of stunning lingerie. Smiling, I take the whole bag for keeps. Why not? I doubt Ilya will complain about me having a variety of lingerie to wear.

  Will he see me in it? Do I want him to?

  The answer comes in the steady throb of my core. Yes, yes I do.

  Ilya doesn’t come inside for a long time, and by the time he does, I’ve put the clothes I wish to keep away in the room I am staying in, and left the rest to be taken back to the store. I’m wearing a pair of jeans, a cashmere sweater, and watching TV in the upstairs den when he finds me. It’s an American news channel as everything else is Russian.

  “Hey gorgeous, how do you feel?” He drops a kiss to my head as if it is the most natural thing in the world. As if we’re a couple. As if this is real.

  “Better. Still tired, though.”

  “Well, it will take you some weeks to recover.” He sits next to me and watches the TV for a moment. “I know you don’t want to have to think about staying, but honestly, Amanda, there’s not much choice. You are safe here; I can keep you safe. In England, I cannot. Allyov has his tentacles everywhere.”

  “Can’t you persuade him that I won’t talk?” I turn my full focus to Ilya.

  His face falls, and something that looks distinctly like a flash of annoyance crosses his features. “Is it so bad here? So bad being with me?”

  I push up from the sofa and begin to pace. “No, actually, it isn’t. And if you’d taken my number and called me, and we’d talked, and then perhaps you’d come to England again, and we’d hooked up again … maybe I’d be here of my own free will at some point in the future. But, I feel like a prisoner, and I don’t like it.”

  “You are in some ways, I suppose,” he says.

  “What?”

  “For now. In a week or two, when you’re better, if you really want to leave, you’re free to. You have the money from Allyov. But, Amanda.” He stands too and comes to join me, taking my hands in his. “Look at it this way. You are alone and will be going forward. I am alone. Why don’t we spend the next two or three weeks making a go of this? That’s all I ask. A few weeks where we play house and see how we fit? If at the end of it, you want to take your money from Allyov and go, flee somewhere and start totally afresh, you can.”

  “You won’t stop me?”

  “I won’t stop you.” He fingers the angel wings on the necklace absently as he speaks.

  Not sure I fully believe him, but wanting to, I consider his offer. A few weeks, see how it goes. See if we get along, like one another as much as we want one another. Because we do … want one another. It’s between us now, filling the air with a hum of static and heat. It’s like something living between us. I’m still sick, my head hurts something awful, but I want him through the fog of the pain, and my fear and confusion.

  I lean into him and let myself rest my head on his shoulder; his arm comes around me automatically, and he pulls me closer. Gentle fingers tip my chin up, and he kisses me.

  This is a new kiss. It’s soft, but insistent, and so damn sweet it makes me want to cry.

  “I want you,” he whispers against my skin.

  “I want you too.” It’s the truth, and I can’t deny it.

  He drops fluidly to his knees and takes off my cashmere socks, part of the clothing he bought for me. Next, he gently unbuttons my jeans. And pulls them down my legs, helping me kick them off, as I balance with my hands on his shoulders.

  I’m left in only my panties, a strappy top, and covering that, a soft sweater. Ilya doesn’t pay any attention to my top half, though. Instead, he pulls my panties to one side and with a groan dives in and licks me right at my center.

  A small gasp escapes me, and I go up on my tiptoes in response to the touch of his tongue. He licks and kisses and licks some more, and I swear he has me a trembling mess in record time.

  Stopping his ministrations, Ilya stands and smoothly pulls my sweater off. Then he shucks his own clothes, all the time maintaining eye contact with me.

  That thing between us is roaring again, snapping and cracking at my skin like flames. With a mere look, he can reduce me to jelly.

  Once he’s naked, he pulls my strappy top off, and then my panties down, before lifting me into his arms. I expect him to place me on the sofa, but instead, he carries me to the heavy sideboard in the corner of the room and places me on that. He pulls me to the edge and tangles his fingers in my hair as he kisses me hard.

  Then he’s right where I need him, all lined up and ready to go. He pushes in, and I sigh and let my eyes close at the heaven of having him in me again. He grips my hips and pulls me farther forward, slamming us into one another. I wrap my legs around him and hold onto the sideboard as he fucks into me. We’re both moaning and working up a sweat, when he stops dead.

  My eyes snap open as I come to out of the delicious fog of arousal. “What’s wrong?”

  “Shit.”

>   “What?”

  “Forgot the condom.”

  Oh. My. God.

  I’m such an idiot. I got so carried away.

  “I’m on the pill,” I tell him. “And I’m clean.” I wait for his answer. I hope he is too because I just played Russian Roulette with my health.

  “I’m clean. Got tested when I thought I ought to start dating again.”

  “So…” I put it out there, unsure, but not seeing what the issue is if we’re both clean.

  “So … we’re good.”

  “Yeah, we’re good, and if you don’t start moving again, I’m going to scream.”

  He grins at me. “Your wish is my command.” Then he slams home, and I almost scream with the pleasure.

  My legs are wrapped around his back, my fingers gripping onto the sideboard, and his fingers are gripping me, bruising me, I’m sure. I don’t care. I like the bite of pain, it only adds to the pleasure.

  “Fuck, you’re so hot,” he groans in my ear as he bites my neck. And just that—his words, his bite, his fingers gripping me, dominating me, and I come. I cry out and convulse around him as the world goes hazy.

  After, he lifts me from the sideboard and grabs a throw from the second drawer down, wrapping the warm, soft material around us both.

  We head to the sofa, shuffling in step together, where we flop down into one another’s arms and hold each other.

  This is nice, I think as I close my eyes.

  I could get used to it.

  The next few days pass in a blur, and something starts to happen to me.

  I get used to it.

  I get used to someone caring for me.

  I get used to being touched affectionately.

  I get used to insanely hot sex on tap.

  I get used to it all, and I start to believe we can make a life together.

  I should know better. Never get your hopes up, and never trust a man. Never fall for the bad boy. Never put your heart on the line, and never, ever, let a mobster take you to his lair.

  On my seventh morning in the house, I walk into the den looking for Ilya, but he’s not there. I hear voices from a room I’ve not been in before. I walk to the door hesitantly and peer around it. Ilya is in there with three other men. They are scary as hell. Big, inked, and with faces that only a mother could love. He’s talking to them in English. They answer him in English, and I wonder why they aren’t simply speaking in Russian.