Silken Chains (Bond by Morozov Bratva Book 1) (Bond by Morozov Bratva Series)
Chapter 5

“ONE MORE, please!”

I try to outshout the pulsating bass as I gesture for another whiskey shot to a bartender. She nods and promptly pours the golden liquid into the glass before placing it in front of me.

Swallowing the shot in one go, the burn of the whiskey contrasts sharply with the cold pinch of the dress. As I set the empty glass on the counter, I lock eyes with the too-cool-for-school bartender and gesture for one more.

What the hell was I thinking?

After witnessing my bookstore reduced to ashes today, I should be at home, spoon-deep in Ben & Jerry’s, drowning in tears and comfy blankets.

But here I am. Can’t sit thanks to this dress that’s two sizes too small. Can’t stand because, with every bass thud, I feel another part of me jiggle. Honestly, Ben & Jerry’s was the smarter choice. The frigid air of Club V isn’t doing me any favors, either, making my nipples prickle from the chill and reminding me exactly how exposed my ass cheeks feel in this getup.

Damnit, Serena, where the hell are you?

How in the world did she even talk me into this? Right. The promise of an exclusive VIP entrance and endless free whiskey. “It’s a promotional thing for my book business,” she’d said, batting her eyelashes innocently. “Come on, it’ll be fun!”

Fun. Right. And now she’s nowhere to be found.

“Why’d you even come?” I muse aloud, though I’m not sure if I’m asking myself or the silent bartender.

I fish out my phone from my purse, the screen illuminating a string of missed calls and texts.

Gothic Goddess Ser: Hey babe, I am SOOOOO SORRY! Lucas has a fever, and I can’t make it to Club V. But try to have fun without me! And replace a handsome man to flirt with 😉 xoxo. Love yah. 

Fuck.

Fuck shit.

I shoot back a quick reply.

Me: I want to hate you so much right now. But I can’t since it’s Lucas… Going home to Ben & Jerry’s now.  

Another shot is placed in front of me. Without hesitation, I knock it back. The warmth spreads, and for a moment, the room starts to spin just a little.

“Damnit, Ser,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone else. The alcohol quickly courses through me, blurring my usually razor-sharp judgment.

“Sounds like someone stood you up.” The voice is a creepy, too-friendly lilt and far too close. I turn my head slowly, already regretting my decision to come tonight. Before me stands a man, his hair clinging to his scalp in a losing battle against baldness, the fluorescent lights from the bar accentuating each glistening sweat bead on his forehead. His shirt is stretched over an ample belly, the top few buttons threatening to pop off.

“More like abandoned for a toddler with a fever. But who’s keeping track?” I shout back, my throat straining to be heard over the pounding music, the effort scratching at my throat, making me wince.

Don’t be friendly, Laur.

Don’t start a conversation. Go home.

His beady eyes, which have been roaming all over my body, finally settle on my face, but not for long. “Well, lucky me, then.” His grin reveals yellowed teeth and a sickly-sweet odor wafts from him, reminding me of rotten fruit mixed with stale beer.

“Yeah, quite the unexpected evening,” I retort, my voice a bit sharper than I’d like. I attempt to steady myself, but the alcohol’s grip makes it difficult. The floor feels unsteady, or maybe it’s just my legs.

I can’t decide.

His eyes are now on my tits, and his fingers twitch as if they have a mind of their own. I can almost feel their clammy touch on my skin without him actually touching me.

“You look like you need some… company,” he slurs, swaying a little too close to my personal space.

“I’m good, thanks,” I retort, trying to edge away, but he steps in closer, his greasy presence now almost suffocating.

“You sure about that, doll?” He leers, the look in his eyes growing darker.

I take a deep breath, reminding myself that scenes in public places are best avoided. “Absolutely. In fact, I was just leaving.”

“Already? The night’s just getting started.” He snickers. “Or you can leave with me…”

His hand slaps down, clammy and presuming, claiming territory on my waist like he’s planting a flag. A thumb grazes my breast, a move so bold it could be in neon lights. My skin crawls. My temper flares.

Crap. Crap on a cracker.

“Perhaps another time.” I picture myself as slicing through his sleazy little fantasy. My fingers curl around his wrist, and I use all my might to peel his grip off me, like stripping tape from a new package.

“Who you waiting for?” he slurs, his words sloppy as he clumsily reaches for my wrist again.

I’m really not in the mood for this.

“My boyfriend,” I stammer, aiming for vague.

“Yeah, right,” he snorts, barely standing straight.

I arch an eyebrow, my patience wearing thin. “And you’d know because…?”

Shut it, Laura. Don’t engage.

“Seen ‘em all… Y’all comin’ in, hopin’ for that… whatchamacallit? Special someone? And then, boom! Nothin’.” His voice slurs, like he’s in on some club joke I’m missing.

I have a strong urge to escape. “Well, if you’ll excuse me,” I begin, trying to sidestep him. “I need to replace my boyfriend now.”

He’s swaying like a skyscraper in a high wind, blocking me with that lumbering body of his. “Don’t kid yourself, pretty doll,” he slurs, his breath a distillery’s nightmare. “You’re just trolling for deep pockets…” And bam, his clammy hand slaps onto my butt.

“Hey!” I snap, my voice sharp, twisting away from him. I slap his hand, but he grabs onto me even harder. I push his hands off as hard as I can. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Aw, jus’ havin’ some fun, doll,” he slurs through his clumsy lips, that greasy smirk unfaltering.

“Yeah, by grabbing me?” I snap back in anger.

He shrugs nonchalantly, the alcohol making his movements exaggerated. “Was just tryin’ to appreciate ya,” he mumbles, his words nearly blending together. “Don’t see why you gotta be so uptight ‘bout it.”

“Get your fucking hands off me!” I struggle.

He gets closer, his foul breath mixing with the ambient scent of spilled drinks and sweaty bodies. “Don’t act so stuck-up, doll. I saw you alone, figured you’d be grateful for the attention.”

I can feel my heart kicking against my ribs.

Seriously, anybody… please

As if on cue, the music cuts, and the club plunges into an unexpected quiet.

I tug fiercely, trying to escape the constricting grip on my arm. Then, a voice cold with promise pierces the stillness, “Get your fucking hands off my woman.”

I’m looking all over the dim club, trying to figure out who’s talking. There’s this exciting but kinda risky vibe in the air. Then, like the sun finally breaking through the clouds, he comes out from some shadowy spot. Like a dark knight.

Could’ve sworn he just walked out of those spicy romance books I can’t put down. He’s the living, breathing version of the dark ink and grumpy mystery guys who fill those pages.

My mouth’s bone-dry, and my armpits are working overtime. My body’s shouting a full-blown, caps-locked WOW.

My eyes involuntarily rake over him, lingering on places I’ve no business staring at. It’s like my pupils have turned into little heat-seeking missiles, targeting all the hot spots. My cheeks flare up, the heat undeniable.

I’ve never ogled someone this shamelessly. The thought hits me—maybe clothes are just doing him a disservice. I blink, surprised at my dirty thoughts.

Where did that come from?

His eyes, so intense and penetrating, seem to recognize something in me, or maybe it’s the other way around.

A memory niggles at the back of my mind. Wait, have I seen him before? Those eyes, that stance, the way he’s looking at me now… It’s like déjà vu, a scene from a past I can’t quite recall.

Gosh, that whiskey’s kicking in strong now.

Mr. Grabby Hands, still audaciously maintaining his grip on my ass, seems to shrink with every advancing step of my defender. He manages to squeak out a feeble, “F-fuck off!”

With a voice that sounds like it’s used to giving orders and having them followed, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Lethal warns, “Back off before I make sure those dirty hands can’t touch another damn thing. Especially not my woman.”

Hold up. His what now? 

I must’ve been dreaming.

Or drunk.

Or both.

With a swiftness that surprises me, he snatches me away from Mr. Grabby Hands and pulls me right into his personal bubble of designer cologne and testosterone. Our faces are so close that I can almost see my shocked reflection in his eyes.

What is going on here?

Holy hell, is it even legal to be this tall? That scent of his—it’s downright sinful.

His grip on my waist tightens, pure strength radiating from his hand. It’s like getting hit with a jolt—like someone’s plugged me straight into an electric socket, and all the charge is heading straight to my core. Who knew a mere touch could make a girl feel this… orgasmic?

I mean, seriously?

I look up at him, eyes wide. That intoxicating masculine energy envelops me. He pulls me closer, and my head hits his hard chest.

Holy hell.

I’m about one deep breath away from making a scene that would make a romance novel look G-rated.

Suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I catch a few of Mr. Grabby Hands’ cronies shifting, their intentions clear. They’re gearing up for a brawl, probably hoping to even the odds. Bad idea. Before they can make their move, a pack of sturdy men in crisp black suits, who apparently accompany my mysterious defender, step in, forming a barrier between us and the incoming threat.

Who are these guys? Ninja bouncers?

But what takes the cake is the main event: Mr. Grabby Hands, perhaps fueled by liquid courage or sheer stupidity, makes a move toward the man, clearly underestimating the situation. Bad move. In a swift motion, my defender sidesteps, grabs his arm, and twists it behind his back, pushing him down to his knees.

“Consider this a warning, Roberto,” he hisses into Mr. Grabby Hands’ ear while maintaining a vise-like grip. Roberto, now clearly regretting his life choices, nods fervently, hoping to escape this night with all limbs intact.

Releasing him, my defender stands tall, watching as Roberto and his posse stumble away, clearly outmatched and outclassed.

Turning those fierce eyes to me, he asks, “You okay?” His voice is a blend of concern and restrained power, making my heart race.

Breathe, Laura, breathe.

His gray eyes delve, holding me captive in an unbreakable stare.

“I…”

Oh, dear lord.

My pussy stirs from her eight-month hibernation and urgently signals that despite this man radiating strong “commitment-phobe with dominance tendencies” vibes, she’s absolutely up for a wild ride.

Stop it. Damnit.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I manage a shaky, “Yeah, thanks to you. But you really didn’t need to put on a show just for my benefit…” My voice accidentally ramps up a notch. “And that whole ‘my woman’ thing…” Suddenly, my volume drops, heat creeping up my face.

His eyes darken, boring into mine.

“Who says it was an act?”

I blink.

Excuse me?

Before I can question more, his gaze does a quick sweep over me. “Bad choice, wearing that here.”

What the hell?

Rude. “Last I checked, my wardrobe wasn’t up for discussion,” I retort, my chin rising a notch.

His left cheek twitches into a half-smirk, and I realize his hand is still glued to my waist.

He then glances at my too-tight top, a smug look on his face. “You’re gonna need clothes that can handle the… overflow,” he says, eyeing my tits.

Give me a break.

Enough’s enough.

I glide past him, leaving his self-assured bubble.

“Until we don’t meet again,” I quip without looking back.