His freaking doll.
I roll that thought around in my head for the next few days. While I’m cleaning, while I’m lounging, while I’m alone in the steam-filled shower.
His little doll.
It repulses me. But I keep coming back to it. Over and over, I think about what it means.
Submissive. Quiet. Obedient.
Everything I’ve tried to be for years, thinking that if I could only act right, I’d somehow be exempt from this exact scenario.
But the best I’ve felt since coming here was when I was tearing this room to pieces and when I threw that book at Tigran’s head.
He doesn’t bother me for a couple of days after that one visit. I stew for a while, but eventually, I take him up on his offer. Vito’s more than happy to provide me with a black American Express in my name. “No limit, of course,” he says happily. “Order anything you like and have it sent to the house. And if you need furniture delivered, just inform a member of the staff or flag me down personally.”
Dad was generous, but he was never no limit generous.
I’m a little giddy at first, looking over all my options online. Until I realize that the second I start spending Tigran’s money is the second I owe him something.
I agonize. For two days, I obsess and worry, with one eye on that locked door.
I don’t go near it except when I hurry to my bedroom.
But the door’s always in the back of my head.
What would happen if he came in through there? And what does it mean that I’ve been tempted to knock?
Just to get it over with, of course.
Except I can’t bring myself to do it. Not just because I find Tigran to be so terrifying.
But also because I’ve never been touched by a man like that.
I became a recluse at the age of thirteen, which means I’ve barely been around men who aren’t related to me since then, much less actually had sex with one.
The idea of touching him is overwhelming, both because it scares me and because I want it.
Which is definitely wrong and something I need to suppress.
Instead of giving in to my filthy, dirty needs, I touch myself at night in bed. I’ve gotten pretty good at taking care of my needs through a generous application of fingers, spit, and porn.
But these last couple of nights, I haven’t needed my usual favorite videos.
Closing my eyes and thinking about Tigran has been more than enough.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“Good morning, Dasha,” Vito says on the morning of the third day after my husband’s abrupt visit. My rooms are cleaned and straightened, though pretty barren now. Vito sweeps in with a tray of coffee and French toast.
The man is a wizard when it comes to sweet breakfast foods.
“You do realize you’re my favorite man in the world, right?” I ask as I sit down greedily in front of my breakfast.
“Don’t tell Tigran that, please. My employer can be rather jealous.” Vito’s eyes sparkle with amusement. He’s a jolly old man, and I’ve really grown to like him despite myself. “Unfortunately, I have some bad news for you.”
“You waited until I started eating on purpose,” I mumble at him around a mouth filled with the most amazing French toast I’ve ever tasted. Buttery, sweet, rich, divine. I could die right now, and I’d ascend to breakfast food heaven where the angels live on fluffy pancake clouds.
“I most certainly did,” Vito admits. He disappears into the hall before returning a moment later, pushing a clothing rack.
Several different dresses sway from side to side.
I sit back in horror.
“What are those?” I gasp, raising an accusatory fork. Syrup drips into my lap. I scoop it up with a finger and pop it into my mouth. Delicious. I’m a freak for this stuff.
“Your husband wishes you to know that the meeting is tonight. He says you are to pick one of these and have it on by six this evening.” Vito clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable, but he holds his composure. “Your husband also wishes me to convey the importance of this request, and that your failure to follow through will result in—” He clears his throat awkwardly. “A punishment.”
My eyebrows shoot up and my heart skitters in my chest. The memory of last night’s fantasy flits through my brain. Tigran lifting my conservative skirt up over my ass, only to find I’m not wearing any panties. “You filthy fucking girl,” he purrs as he spanks me raw. “You’ll need a punishment now. Open your mouth and take my cock once there’s a bruise the shape of my hand on your bare ass.”
God, I’m absolutely deranged.
“What kind of punishment are we talking about here?” I ask him.
He fidgets, wringing his hands. “His exact words were, If she’s not dressed on time, I’m going to kick down her door, shove her in some clothes, and drag her by the fucking hair to that meeting. I’m sorry to be vulgar.”
Oh, sweet mercy.
A sudden flush of arousal falls over me. The image of Tigran stripping me, punishing me, and dressing me when he’s done—
Well, it’s not the most distressing thing I’ve ever imagined.
“Thank you, Vito,” I say, summoning every ounce of propriety I can manage. “I appreciate your honesty.”
“Very good, Dasha,” he says, sounding relieved. “Will there be anything else?”
“Yes, actually.” I keep my chin up. I will maintain my dignity, even if I am going to escape into the bedroom and furiously masturbate the second Vito’s out of the room. “Please bring more French toast in approximately thirty minutes.” That should give me enough time to get off at least once.
Probably twice.
“Wonderful. I’ll be back in thirty.” He turns smartly and shuffles out of the room.
Once he’s gone, I look down at my plate.
Then I leap up, run into the bedroom, slam the door, lock it, and bite down on the pillow as I rub my fingers over my clit, back arched and ass in the air, sweat oozing down my back.
I come so hard thinking about Tigran punishing me that I nearly black out.
My brain is broken, but my god, my body feels amazing.
They’re all absolutely despicable.
It’s like Tigran enjoys making my life miserable.
There are moments of tenderness, like when I woke up to him giving me water in the church or when he held my hand when the plane was landing.
Those were brief flashes of humanity, and I genuinely liked him during them.
But then everything else has been one massive middle finger.
The first dress’s neckline plunged far enough that my tits would have to be taped inside, and it’s not like I’m extremely busty. The next one was backless, the next was too tight, the next was too short, and the last one made me look like a prostitute.
None are remotely my style.
I prefer to be conservative. No reason to show off everything I’ve got. Men’s eyes will glaze past me if I’m in full sleeves and a hem down to my ankles.
Better to look like a schoolteacher during the Great Depression than a stripper.
“This is unreasonable,” I murmur to myself, finally putting on the first dress again. It’s navy blue, which is a color I like, and the hemline’s down to my knees, which is acceptable. There are also little sleeves and the back’s fully covered.
But it’s chesty. Way more chesty than I’m comfortable with. I mess around with various bra combinations, but there’s no getting past it.
I can’t have anything on top if this dress is going to work.
“I’m screwed,” I moan, staring at myself in the mirror. I’ve got on my makeup at least, and the scar along my face is covered up nicely. But nobody’s going to be looking at my face when my tits are hanging out.
What an absolute nightmare.
I pace back and forth across the room. It’s five-thirty, then it’s five-fifty, and finally six rolls around. I have on heels, my hair’s in a tight conservative braid, and I can’t even look at the door.
Much less leave in this dress.
Someone knocks lightly. I yelp, staring in horror.
“Dasha?” Vito’s voice. Calm and measured. If anyone will understand, it’ll be him. “It’s time, Dasha. Are you ready?”
“Come in,” I squeak at him, feeling mortified and tiny.
Vito enters the room. He stops just inside and stares at me. A smile breaks across his face. “Please take this as intended. You look wonderful.”
I groan and nearly collapse. Despair washes over me. I had hoped he’d shake his head and tell me the dress simply won’t be appropriate, but instead he looks like a proud father sending his daughter off to prom.
An experience I never had, by the way.
“I can’t do it,” I say in a very small voice. “Please, Vito. You have to help me.”
His face hardens slightly. I’m reminded suddenly that he’s Tigran’s employee, not my friend. “I know this is difficult, but your husband made it clear.”
“Forget my husband,” I say desperately. “Please—”
“Dasha, this is important to him. From what I understand, the meeting will be brief. You’ll shake hands, introduce yourself, and make some small talk. Then you’ll be brought back here. It’s an hour of your life, at most, and when it’s over, you’ll never be asked to do something like this again.”
I tremble with fear. This can’t be happening. “But I can’t. I just can’t do it.”
“You can, Dasha. You’re strong. I really don’t want to tell Tigran that you’re refusing to come out. I can’t cover for you for long, but I can buy you a few more minutes if that’s what you need.”
I pull into myself. This can’t be happening, but of course it is. There was no way Tigran was going to leave me alone and let me do whatever I wanted for the rest of our lives.
This alliance is politically important, and that means showing my face to his people at least once.
I understand all that. It still doesn’t make this easy.
“Let’s go see him,” I say, pushing myself to my feet.
Vito looks relieved. “Very good. He’s waiting downstairs.”
I’m shaky as I follow Vito into the hall. My knees are weak and watery. My stomach’s a total wreck. I feel like I’m going to pass out at any moment. We pass a couple of male members of the staff—guards, most likely, based on their black outfits and hard expressions—and I swear they’re staring at my dress.
I know what they’re thinking.
Filthy, dirty, ruined, broken.
Tigran’s standing in the front hall. I pause when he comes into view. My husband turns, and a strange expression passes over his face when he sees me on the stairs.
For the briefest moment, he looks enamored.
His eyes move down my body, from my ankles to my lips, lingering briefly on my scar and on my chest, before locking onto my eyes. I lick my lips, unable to help myself.
He looks good. His dark, slim suit fits his muscular frame. His hair’s messy and slightly curly with dark streaks and light honey-brown highlights. I love the sharp line of his jaw and the soft curve of his lips. I even like the hint of tattoos I can see at the collar of his dress shirt.
And there are the hands. My favorite of all. Hardened and callused. Hands that know what they’re doing. Hands that’ve been places.
“You look perfect,” Tigran murmurs. We’re alone now. Vito hurried away, leaving me with my husband.
Pride swells in my chest, and it gives me just enough strength to reach the bottom of the steps.
Before it fizzles away and I’m panicking again.
“I can’t do this,” I say, meeting his gaze. I’m pleading, and it’s pathetic, but I can’t help myself. “I’m sorry, Tigran, I know it’s important. I get it; you need to show me off to the rest of the Brotherhood. They haven’t met me yet and weren’t at the wedding. But please, I’m so uncomfortable in this dress, and I’m on the edge of losing my mind. Can’t you invite them here? And let me pick out my own clothes? Compromise with me, and I swear, I’ll be exactly what you need.”
His lips press into a hard line. He comes closer. My big, terrifying husband. “And what do you think I need, little doll?”
I grimace at that nickname. I hate it, but it also sends a tingle between my legs. Is that seriously arousal? Do I actually like that he wants to treat me like his toy?
“You need an obedient, proper Russian wife. One who will make your family realize how serious this alliance is.”
His jaw works. Did that piss him off for some reason? “You’re wrong,” he says sharply. “That’s not what I need at all.”
“Then what?” I ask desperately, so far gone that I’m begging. “What do you want?”
He comes at me fast. I gasp in shock as he pins me against the wall. His hands grip my wrists and shove them above my head, holding me tight. I squirm, breathing hard, a heady mix of excitement and terror ringing through my veins.
“I want you to stop acting like you’re scared all the time and start fighting back,” he whispers, lip curled. But that makes no sense. That’s not what men want, is it? They want a pretty, meek little thing that obeys all their orders. Don’t they?
He releases my wrists with one hand while the other keeps them pinned. I struggle weakly, breathing hard and staring into his dark eyes. His thumb moves closer and strokes down along the length of my scar.
My face breaks out in tingles.
“Let go of me,” I say, weaker than I wanted. But I’m having a lot of trouble keeping it together.
“No.” His thumb moves to my lips. He presses lightly, and I realize he’s breathing fast too.
I open my mouth. I’m not even sure why I do it. He presses his thumb between my lips, and I think about him punishing me.
I think about those incredible hands of his spanking me roughly.
“Suck,” he commands, voice low and firm. “Go ahead, baby. You want to do what I say? Then suck.”
I stare at him—
Before biting down hard.
His eyes go wide with surprise, and he grunts in pain. I release my teeth, but he doesn’t pull his thumb out. I expected him to grab my hair or roughly throw me away, but instead, he grins like he actually enjoyed the pain.
“There she is,” he says, sounding jubilant. What the hell is wrong with this guy? “You filthy fucking girl. Go ahead, bite me again.”
I whimper with arousal and anger. My tongue presses forward, rolling around his skin. I taste blood—did I actually break skin?
I suck gently, licking at the little tooth wound.
He groans. Our eyes are locked. It’s the most erotic moment of my life.
Then I bite him again.
“Fuck, baby,” he says, baring his teeth. This time, he releases my wrists with his other hand and slips his thumb from my mouth. He rubs the little wounds right below his knuckle. “That’s the little animal I know you’ve been hiding under that prissy exterior.”
“Let me go back to my room,” I say, licking my lips. I still taste his blood on my tongue.
“You have to understand, I’m a broken, fucked-up man. I don’t deserve a pretty little thing like you. There’s no pity in me anymore.” He grabs my hand and holds it tight. He pulls me close and leans down to speak softly in my ear. “Next time, try to bite it off. Otherwise, it’s not nearly painful enough.”
I shiver at the thought of next time—almost like he wants me to hurt him.
He drags me to the door and pushes it open. Panic threatens to overwhelm me. The evening is cool and comfortable, but I feel too exposed in my low-cut dress. My heels clack on the front stoop. Down at the street, Damian’s parked and waiting. He tips his cap at me, smiling.
“Wait,” I say, desperately searching for a way out. “Let’s make a deal.”
Tigran pauses at the top of the steps. “What deal?”
“The baby,” I say, latching onto the only thing I know for sure that he wants. “If you let me stay here, I’ll give you the baby.”
It’s only after the words leave my mouth that I understand what they mean.
Let you fuck me. Let you take my virginity.
Let you get me pregnant.
He stiffens. His shoulders tense. I feel him looking at me, and I want to melt into the concrete.
Or hide back under my covers and glide my fingers into my pussy while sucking my thumb and pretending it’s his.
“We’ll start tonight,” he says, his tone rough. “And the heads of the family will come here to meet you over the next few days.”
“I pick my own clothes.”
“All right. We have a deal then.” He turns to face me. His hand tightens in mine. There’s something horrible in his eyes—something dark and bleak. Like he knows this is going to be the death of us.
Then, with a terrible wrenching of metal and a chest-pounding rush of air, the car explodes.
I barely have time to react before Tigran grabs me against him and throws his body on top of mine. Fire streaks into the air and pieces of debris land nearby. He grunts once as glass scatters around us.
Car alarms blare, but they sound like they’re underwater. My ears are ringing desperately.
“Dasha,” Tigran says, pulling back. Blood streaks down his face. There’s a cut across his scalp, oozing along his skin. “Are you okay? Dasha?”
I’m dazed, but nothing hurts. “I’m fine,” I say and can barely hear myself. “What happened? Tigran, what happened?”
He pulls himself to his feet and looks back. Pain flashes across his face as he holds me tightly against him. Mourning and rage too, as his lips pull into a snarl.
“Damian,” I say, understanding. “He might be—”
“You’re all that matters,” Tigran yells, kicking the front door open and dragging me inside.
He barks orders as the house guards gather around him. Vito appears and guides me back up into my room. The old man checks me over carefully for wounds and sits with me for a little while as the sound of chaos unfolds outside.
My ears keep ringing.
And all I can feel is Tigran’s body protecting me, and all I can taste is his blood on my lips.
