Ruby Mayhem: A Russian Mafia Romance (Vyronov Bratva Book 1)
Chapter 11

I stretch beneath the covers and yawn as I stir awake.

My eyelids are heavy, and my body feels languorous and sore… but in a delicious way.

Suddenly, memories come flooding back like a tidal wave.

Dad!

I don’t care that he was probably the worst father in the world. He was still my dad. Even if he sold me to a ruthless criminal. A criminal who took me to heaven and back in a way I’d never imagined. A rush of humiliation and desire crash over me.

Oh, my God!

“No,” I groan out loud as I slide a hand beneath the smooth sheets and realize that he’s gone. I’m not sure if I’m sad or glad about that.

Glad!

Definitely glad!

I hate him. Hate him for bossing me around, and treating me like an object. I hate him for taking me so roughly yet skillfully that I thought I’d combust on the spot. But most of all, I hate him for leaving me alone in this cold, unfamiliar bed.

Even though I’ll never admit that last part.

My eyes dart around my surroundings as I try to orient myself. The room is opulent – like the rest of the damned over-the-top place – yet it’s masculine, with dark wood paneling and plush leather furniture. I’m drifting in a king-sized bed that dominates the space. The dark sheets – which probably have a 500 thread count – still hold his scent. It’s a heady mix of smoke and spice that makes my stomach flip in ways it shouldn’t. Thick curtains are drawn across the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting the room in a sensual gloom that only serves to remind me of what I was doing right in this bed mere hours ago.

I sit up, wincing as every muscle in my body protests the movement. He’d been relentless last night – dominant and demanding, and yet bringing me more pleasure than I’d ever believed the human body was capable of experiencing. My cheeks flame when I think of how eagerly I’d succumbed to him. Just as he’d told me I would. It’s yet another reason to hate him; for being right about that.

And now he’s gone…

I flop back and lie there, still tangled up in the sheets, trying to clear my head. My mind keeps replaying the last few hours, trying to make sense of them. Trying not to think of how he’d taken me roughly, how his hands had gripped my hips and pulled me onto him as he thrust into me. How his breath had felt, hot against my neck as he whispered dirty things in my ear that had me squirming in shame and desire at the same time. How he’d gripped my hair and pulled my head back as he came deep inside me.

It was so intense, so overwhelming… and yet so satisfying.

But now that it’s over, all I can think about is how much I hate him for all of it. For taking advantage of my vulnerability and using it against me. For making me feel like a dirty little slut who was nothing more than a piece of meat to be used and discarded at will. I want to hate him more than anything right now, but something deep down inside of me is still clinging to that feeling of pleasure that came from being with him. That feeling of being alive and raw and uninhibited for the first time in my life… that feeling that made me want more and more of him no matter what he did or said.

I shake off the thoughts and sit up, trying to get my thoughts under control. I push myself out of bed and stumble over to the walk-in closet. I don’t know where my suitcases were taken, and I’m not going to put on yesterday’s jeans and T-shirt. I can’t look at them without imagining how he’d stripped them off of me. Not to mention that my panties are probably ruined.

The closet is huge, just like everything else here. And of course, everything is neatly ordered, with shirts hanging in color-coded rows over racks of gleaming shoes. I reach in and grab a white button-down, and tug it on. It smells faintly of Kirill when I sniff it, but I’m not going to focus on that. Although the thing reaches my knees, I don’t relish the idea of walking around the place with my ass bare. Yanking open drawers, I go through socks, rolled-up belts, ties, cufflinks, and watches until I reach one that holds tidy piles of underwear. I step into a pair of navy blue briefs; they’re snug at my waist, which is probably because the man has such lean hips. And yet again, I’m lost in memories of my hands running over him.

Maybe you really are a slut, Tiana.

Bullshit! He caught me in a moment of weakness. I just saw my dad get killed. I survived a hail of bullets. And an interrogation. I’m freaking traumatized!

Tossing my head, I turn to the door, setting my jaw as I imagine how good it would feel to kick him where it hurts right now.

Or maybe not. Because that particular region was the focus of my attention as I explored him last night. And it hadn’t felt bad. Far from it. It had been a moment of awe when my hands had closed around his thick shaft. I’ve only ever seen photos of men’s cocks, but that was enough to know that his is a magnificent specimen.

Oh, dear God; stop it!

That’s enough, Tiana.

Stomping across the room, I pull the door open and poke my head out, looking up and down the hallway. I hear voices coming from one end; probably the guards he’d told me about. The vultures who will be hanging over my every move for the rest of my life.

“Screw him!” I mutter as I tiptoe in the opposite direction. The sensible thing to do would be to make my way to the kitchen and rustle up some breakfast. But why choose the easy option?

“You will never go into the East Wing,” I mimic his deep voice and rounded syllables and then giggle at my audacity. My words are strangely loud in the empty hallway and I shoot a quick look around to make sure there’s nobody who might hear me. Why wouldn’t he want me to go there anyway? Is he hiding something? What if that’s the only place where I can escape the building?

A realization suddenly dawns on me.

Escape?

Why would he not want me to go there?

If there is a way to get out of here, I must know about it. Maybe I can still follow through with my plan. Maybe I’m not totally screwed.

A new life, a fresh start, Teetee.

You’ve been treated like a hostage your whole life.

You deserve it.

I lick my lips and an idea is being formed. I must replace out what’s in this “East Wing”. If there’s an escape route, I need to see where it is. Maybe not all hope is lost. Maybe I can still take my one million and make a run for it. I just need to make sure nobody sees me.

I look back behind me, in the direction where I heard the thugs talk. There are still voices coming from the other end of the hallway, but they aren’t any different from before. Good. They haven’t noticed me.

What’s he going to do if he replaces out you went to the East Wing, Tee?

Tie you up and spank you?

The thought of that shouldn’t make my pussy tighten, but it does. Obviously, because I’m nuts. I shake my head and turn my attention back to my little act of defiance, then stop short. Voices grow louder nearby, and I duck into a dining area as a group of men walk past. I catch snippets of their conversation. Mostly in Russian, but a few words in English tell me that they’re discussing the attack yesterday. I’m pretty sure it left them rattled.

I wait until they’re out of earshot before I head back down the hall. I’m still on the tip of my toes as I move in the opposite direction, to the one I came through when I arrived yesterday. If my instincts are right, I’m heading east, right into the danger zone. It’s only when I reach the last room in the hall, and then spot a doorway at the far edge of it that my courage starts to run out.

That must be it!

Come on Tee, you can do this!

Think of your plan!

Steeling myself, I put my hand on the doorknob, and of course, it’s locked. But that doesn’t deter me. I’m sure he wouldn’t keep a key on him at all times; he’d hide it someplace convenient. Looking around the room, I try to think the way that Kirill would. Where would I keep a key if I was a tall, Russian mobster who is built like a god and has the biggest dick in the world?

Stop it, Tiana!

My eyes halt on a nearby cabinet. At the very top shelf is one of those Russian nesting dolls. Pushing a footstool to the cabinet, I clamber up and reach for it. Still standing there, I open it up.

Bingo!

That was way easier than I thought. The last couple of dolls are missing, and in their place is a gleaming key. I put the doll back in its place, push the footstool back where I found it, and face the door again.

“Here goes nothing,” I say beneath my breath. Turning the key in the lock, I grip the doorknob and push the door open. It swings easily, which is almost disappointing because I’d expected an ominous creak. Beyond it, everything is much like what I just left behind. More ridiculously decadent furnishings, paintings on the walls, rooms that lead into each other. Still, I can’t help creeping cautiously as I make my way through them.

What could he be hiding here?

What could be so bad that he wouldn’t want anyone to see it?

My mind starts racing as I envision a dungeon filled with implements of torture. Or what if he’s running a child slavery ring from here? I don’t want to think about him being involved in something like that, but maybe it’ll knock these stupid conflicting feelings out of me once and for all.

Yeah, right.

Because replaceing out that Kirill Vyronov is a child-selling monster would be a great way to stop crushing on him.

You’re sick, girl!

I keep exploring, moving further and further into this strange section of his home as I open doors to rooms that yield absolutely no sign of any nefarious activity. Until I turn a corner and see it. I’ve walked straight into a sunroom overlooking the gardens. It’s bright and airy with hanging ferns and pretty wallpaper. And sitting at the far end in a comfortable window seat is a woman.

My mouth drops open.

What the hell?

As I watch, she turns to look at me with wide, guileless blue eyes. Her silvery hair has been carefully brushed, and she’s wearing a pink satin robe with matching pink slippers. Her hands are folded on her lap, but they lift and flutter slightly as she takes in the sight of me.

“Hello?” I say tentatively.

“Vy prishli prinesti moloko?” she says in an anxious voice.

“Um… excuse me?” is all I manage to respond with because the breath has been sucked from me. I don’t know who this woman is, but the way she looks at me is starting to creep me out.

“Vo vtornik prikhodit khlebnik,” she goes on, a little more anxiously.

I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I have no idea what you’re saying.” Of course I don’t. Because she’s speaking Russian. I take a step forward, which seems to alarm her, so I stop. But I’m close enough to see her eyes… gorgeous sky-blue eyes that stare in a way that seems almost childlike.

“Mne nuzhno moloko. Pape skoro zakhochetsya blinov.” She’s wringing her hands now. Is she trying to ask for help? Has she been kept prisoner here too? Maybe she’s been tortured. I glance around the room. It seems so comfortable. And she’s obviously well cared for. Would someone torture her and then make sure her hair is brushed and her clothes are clean and neatly pressed? Would Kirill do something like that? It seems so perverse that I know it can’t be possible.

“I’m really sorry. I want to help, but-” I rub my forehead. “Do you speak English?” Obviously, she doesn’t. She would have done so by now if she could. But, like an idiot, I repeat the word. “Eng-lish!”

She gnaws on her lip, her hands still wringing as she looks about like a bird looking for escape. And then she stops suddenly, her features relaxing.

“Kirill pomozhet. On budet.”

My brow furrows. I still don’t understand her, but I picked up enough of what she said to recognize the word “Kirill.”

“Did Kirill do this to you?” I press. “Did he lock you in here?” The question is pointless, but I want to try to help.

“Kirill,” she says, her face breaking into a radiant smile as she points past me.

I freeze. And then I turn around. My mouth goes dry in an instant. My blood runs cold too.

Because right behind me, stands the one man who told me not to come here.

Kirill Vyronov.