Ravaged Throne: A Russian Mafia Romance (Solovev Bratva #2)(2)

No. I can’t have imagined everything. If nothing else, one thing remains real.

My hand almost flutters to my stomach, but I squelch the instinct.

This is not his baby.

This baby is mine and mine alone.

Leo Solovev only ever saw me as a weapon, and he’ll view the baby as the same—if he gets the chance.

“So pretty,” Brit says, tugging on my hair again, bringing me back to my bitter reality. I wince at the pain and she smiles even brighter. “So very pretty.”

“Please,” I whisper. The word tears from between my lips, mostly because when I’m docile and subservient, she’s a little less cruel to me.

“Please what?”

“Please… master.” I spit out the word like a piece of rotten fruit.

Brit’s eyes glow a little. She looks like a snake. “Who would have thought that Viktoria Mikhailov would call me master,” she says, delighted. “It’s wonderful.”

“You’ve got the wrong girl.” I’ve been saying it over and over again, trying to make someone understand. I don’t know who Viktoria is. Whoever they want me to be, I can’t be her.

“You’re a disappointment, I’ll give you that. But that doesn’t make you any less a prize.” She leans in close, her minty breath fanning over my face. “Whoever holds you, holds the key to the Mikhailov Bratva. So I’d say you’re very much the right girl.”

My stomach twists again. The key. Leo called me that, too.

The night we met at that restaurant was no accident. He knew who I was. He came with the intention of taking me. Whether he’d come with the intention of fucking me in the booth, though, I can’t let myself consider.

It doesn’t matter. Either way, I played easily, naively into his hands.

To be honest, a part of me was almost relieved to finally understand it all. It always seemed impossible that a man like him would be interested in someone like me. The truth was brutal, but at least it was the truth.

“I’m no key,” I whisper.

She smirks at me. “The little princess wants to turn back into an ordinary girl, huh?”

“My parents,” I say. “Where are they?”

She shrugs. “Don’t know. Nor do I care.”

I keep asking, but she won’t tell me anything. I look for the guilt in her eyes, trying to see if she’s done something horrible to them—but then again, I’m not sure she’s capable of that emotion. I’m not sure she has a conscience at all. God knows there’s no soul behind those shimmering eyes. Only pain—both hers and mine reflected in them.

“You killed them?”

“Did I?” She shrugs again. “Perhaps. I don’t keep track.”

“It’s one of the qualities I appreciate most about you,” someone else croons.

Spartak Belov’s slick voice cuts through hers. I feel my body clench. I want to cave in on myself and disappear altogether.

I’ve grown used to her claustrophobic presence. But the two of them together? Nauseating.

I jerk away from Brit so fast that she loses her hold on my hair. She gives me an irritated look, but thankfully, she’s too distracted by him to keep inflicting petty pain.

“I thought I heard someone lurking out there,” Brit says.

He stalks into the room and goes straight to her. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

He grabs her around the waist and pulls her possessively forward. Their bodies slam together. The kiss that follows is heated, passionate. But they aren’t lost to it. It’s meant to be an exhibition. They’re nothing if not performers.

I watch as their tongues war with one another. And it is definitely a war. They both seem to be fighting for the upper hand. I’m willing to bet half of their attraction is tied up in their struggle to be the more powerful one.

It’s a hollow battle, though. Even I know that Brit’s struggle for dominance is relegated to their bed.

And in this case, my cell.

When they part, Spartak keeps his arm around Brit’s waist. But he turns towards me, licking her off his lips.

“Why haven’t you let the girl shower?” he muses as he looks at me.

I glare at Brit. She smiles in return, no shame about her lie being discovered. “I wanted to see what it would take to make her beauty wilt.”

“My jealous little kitten.” Belov laughs and then licks the side of her face like an affectionate cat. “You wanted to see if you could make her repulsive to me.”

She shrugs again. “Do you still want to fuck her?”

He eyes me carefully. “As badly as ever.”

She stiffens, but her expression is detached. I wonder if it’s all just an act. She seems too good for this man. Like she could swallow him whole and spit out his bones if she wanted.

“Is it because she’s beautiful?” Brit asks. “Or because she’s the Mikhailov princess?”

“Do I need to choose?”

Brit wriggles out of his grip. He lets her go. Mostly because he’s focused on me. When he takes one predatory step in my direction, I scurry backwards. My skin is already crawling, my stomach churning. I don’t know what I’ll do if he touches me.

“She’s got some new scars,” Belov remarks with an appraising eye.