Hunted By The Bratva Beast: A Bratva Stalker/Captive Romance, Jagger Cole [good books to read for 12 year olds .txt] 📗

I picture him turning me and looking at me with those gorgeous blue eyes that I somehow know. My body twists and writhes under the sheets as I fantasize about him looking me in the eye as he takes me, as no man has ever taken me before.

When I realize the gun is on the bedside table and both hands are pushing down under the covers. I freeze. I hiss at myself and yank my hands back out. What the actual fuck is wrong with me?

But even without touching myself, the heat lingers. The filthy, fucked-up desires stay burning in my brain. The slick desire between my legs only intensifies. Until finally, I can’t stop myself anymore.

I give in, as I know I’d give in to him. My hands plunge beneath the covers. They slide over my stomach and push eagerly beneath the waist of my panties. I cry out when my fingers slide through my wetness. There’s no teasing needed—no slow burn or build up. I roll my clit desperately, hard. And in no time, I’m gasping into the darkness of my bedroom as I come shuddering against my fingers.

When I catch my breath, shame floods my face. I quickly hurry to the bathroom to clean up. After that, it’s straight to the kitchen for a very, very stiff drink.

My fingers tap the countertop as I sip the heavy pour of vodka. The Russian girl drinking vodka is a total cliche, but I don’t care. I drink, and I try to make sense of these urges—of these fucked up desires.

I’ve never been with a man because of the trauma of my past. I don’t need to see a shrink to know that, either. Bogan never touched me like that, even if he came close. But what he broke in me was the capacity to let my guard down. And even something fleeting and meaningless like a one-night stand involves some degree of intimacy. But I can’t bring that to the table. I can’t turn off my defenses or lower my walls; ever.

So here I am: twenty-three, alone, a virgin, and getting hopelessly turned on by… well, whatever he is. Whoever he is.

But one thing’s for sure: he’s out there. He’s alive. And he’s not done with me yet.

I finish my vodka and turn to walk quietly back to bed. I know sleep won’t come, but that’s not what’s about to happen in my bed anyways.

He might not be done with me yet. But I’m not done with him yet tonight either…

5 Kostya

Moscow, Twenty-two Years Ago:

“Are you ready, Kostya?”

I nod grimly. In the back of the van, I check the clip on the AK-47 in my hands. I glance back up at Dimitri and nod again.

“Ready.”

From the front, next to the driver, Fyodor chuckles. He takes a sip from his flask and glances back at me. “Da? You ready, boy?”

“Yes sir.”

“Today, you finally get your dick wet, da, Kostya?”

Dimitri snickers. I force a smile, nodding again.

“Can’t wait.”

Fyodor roars with laugher. “Eager little bastard, huh? Don’t you worry, Kostya. Soon, we pop that cherry of yours.”

The van swerves sharply around a corner and suddenly accelerates. Fyodor turns back to us again and grins.

“Here we go. Remember; no mercy. No weakness. Today, you make these fuckers bleed, da, my boys?”

We’ve long since graduated from underground junior league boxing. First, it was shaking down people who owed Fyodor money. That was easy. After that, we moved to petty theft, mugging wealthy people who walked down the wrong side-streets; that sort of shit.

Two months ago, we held up a liquor store. From there, Dimitri graduated to full-on soldier. Ever since then, he’s been regaling me with stories of gunfights, danger, and indulging in the spoils of victory.

“Ay, Kostya.”

I look back to Fyodor.

“Don’t you hesitate, boy. If I find a single bullet left in your gun, I put you out on the street, da?”

He grins at me, like he’s joking. He’s not. But I know he has to be hard on us. Life is hard. The world is cruel. This is what a father figure like Fyodor must do to prepare us: to make us hard, and bulletproof.

I worry at times that I’m not built for this. Physically, I am. At thirteen, it’s clear now that I’ll be even bigger than Dimitri. I’m bigger than half of the grown men under Fyodor’s command, actually. I don’t flinch at hurting when I have to. I’ve beaten crooked bookies, junkies who owed, rival Bratva underlings who stepped into the wrong neighborhood. A few weeks ago, I went to town on a man with a length of chain who’d hurt one of Fyodor’s whores.

That I actually enjoyed.

But today is a step up. Today, there’s a real gun in my hand. With real bullets. And there are real men in the warehouse up ahead who will be receiving those bullets.

The van roars past a rubble-strewn empty lot. Through the single window in the back of the van, I can see other boys my age playing soccer, laughing.

“Kostya.”

I blink. My attention slides back to Dimitri, across from me.

“You with me, brother?”

I nod. “Da, moy brat.” My brother.

“Good,” he grunts. He leans close and pats me on the side of the head, grinning at me. “Today, you become a man, Kostya. Do not hesitate. Do not think this isn’t in you. It is. It’s in you as it’s in me. We are soldiers, Kostya. We are killers. And today, you will bathe in the blood of our enemies, da?”

I grin. “Fuck yeah.”

I don’t know if I am like him, though. I want to be. I strive to be. I’m the bigger one, but Dimitri is the true soldier. He’s unflinching. When he goes to fight, or to kill, it’s as if he turns his emotions off entirely. No fear, no mercy, no nothing.

The van roars around another corner and then suddenly screeches to