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

over my skin. But I stop myself right before. If I’m going to continue this, it’s going to be in bed.

I step out of the shower into a swirl of steam. I grab a towel and dry my hair off, then my body. I wrap it around myself and turn to the mirror.

I scream.

But then, I jolt into action. I grab the plunger from under the sink—the closest thing to a weapon available. I yank the bathroom door open and bolt into the bedroom for my gun, which is locked in a box in my underwear drawer. With it in my hand, I whirl and storm through the apartment, trigger finger ready.

But it’s completely empty.

The front door is still locked. The windows are locked. But when I pull on the sliding door to my balcony, it slides open. My heart grows cold as I glance around. I know this was locked before the shower. I know it was.

My heart is pounding so hard I swear I can see it thudding against my chest. My senses are tuned, adrenaline racing. I do one more sweep of every room and closet. But when I’m sure I’m alone, my pulse still won’t slow.

Numb and trembling, I turn and walk slowly back to the bathroom. The steam from the shower is mostly gone, but the mirror is still fogged enough to see the word written by a finger across the glass.

“Soon…”

My pulse skips. My breath catches.

The message terrifies me. Of course it does. And yet, it also excites me. It paralyzes me, but also floods me with a forbidden heat at the same time. I read the single word over and over, letting the swirling mix of anger and arousal percolate inside of my chest.

He’s alive. The dark, terrifying stranger who haunts my dreams and has me waking up wet and aching for him at 4:30 in the morning, is alive.

And I should not be this turned on about it.

3 Kostya

Moscow, Twenty-five Years Ago:

“Again!”

Blood clouds my vision. Pain overwhelms me. But I blink them both away when he roars at me.

“Hit him again, you little pussy!”

I draw my fist back, but I hesitate. I don’t want to hit the other boy again. He’s my friend, not my enemy—the closest thing to a brother I’ve known. Just as the man screaming at me to hit him is the closest thing to a father I’ve had.

“I—”

“I said hit him, you little bitch!” Fyodor screams in my face. I tremble, still hesitating. But Dimitri doesn’t. I may be bigger than him, but at twelve, he’s still two years older than my ten. And right now, he uses that.

The older, bloodied boy snarls as his fist slams into my ribs. I groan as my breath leaves my body. Dimitri uses the moment and loss of focus well. He rolls us, his knee catching me hard in the balls. I cry out, but then his fist crashes in my face. A tooth loosens. My lip splits. I feel my nose break, and the blood almost chokes me.

Dimitri does not have the hesitation I did. He keeps hitting me until I’m numb. Until my hands fall to the floor. Until Fyodor finally taps his shoulder with a chuckle.

“Good boy,” he grunts. “No mercy, not ever.” He turns to me, and his proud smile fades to a sneer. “Don’t you forget that lesson today, Kostya. When I say hit him again, you will hit him again until I say stop. When you show mercy, you show weakness. Don’t you ever forget that.”

Dimitri climbs off of me. I’m barely conscious, but I nod slowly. Fyodor smiles a warm, almost fatherly smile at me as he reaches down to help me up. Weakly, I take his hand and groan in pain as he hauls me up.

The older man smiles again as he squats down in front of me. He uses a towel to wipe the blood from my face.

“Are you okay, my little soldier?”

I nod. “Da.”

“And did you learn your lesson?”

I nod again. “Da.”

He smiles. “Good.”

Suddenly, his fist slams into my stomach. I double over in pain, dropping to my knees. Fyodor leans close, his mouth by my ear.

“Don’t you ever disobey me again,” he snarls. “When I say hit him, you will hit him. Is that understood?”

I say nothing as he gets to his feet. But suddenly, the anger is overwhelming. With a roar, I get to my feet and rush at him, fists clenched. I swing like my life depends on it, but it’s wild. Fyodor dodges it with ease, smiling as he turns to hit me again. This time when I drop on my ass, I stay there.

Fyodor laughs. He turns to Dimitri, who’s cleaning himself up in the kitchen sink. “Can you believe this ungrateful little shit, Dimitri?”

My “brother” looks at me with concern. But quickly, his face hardens. His lips curl into a grin.

“You should show more respect, Kostya,” he grunts and turns away to open a beer.

“Da, respect, Kostya,” Fyodor growls. He walks over to where I’m sitting on the floor and looms over me. “I didn’t need to take you or Dimitri in, did I?”

I shake my head.

“Answer me,” he snaps.

“No,” I mumble. But then I catch myself. “No, sir,” I correct.

Fyodor smiles. “Where were you when I found you?”

I look down. “The orphanage, sir.”

“Da, the orphanage. Not a good place. Tell me, Kostya, do you know what happened to the other boys there, who I did not take from there?”

I nod.

“I took you and Dimitri, because you are strong, like me.” Fyodor pounds a fist against his chest. “I took you because you show promise, and you have fire in your balls.”

He took us because we were the biggest boys at the orphanage. He took us because on weekends, Dimitri and I fight other boys our age in the “junior leagues” of Moscow’s underground boxing world. Fyodor bets heavily on these fights.

And yet, I know he’s right. I know the hell that