fress
(n.) to eat without reservation and heartily
RONAN
Sweat and animosity cloaked the dining room like a saccharine shadow, though it remained silent enough to hear a pin drop. Or just the scrape of my fork.
This wasn’t a usual dinner for me, and it wasn’t due to the presence of two of Alexei’s men, whose bruised bodies and egos were bound to their chairs, but because I preferred to eat supper at eight.
Polina swept in to grab my finished plate dressed in her nightgown, a frilly sleep cap askew on her head. Curiosity pulled her out of bed no doubt, rather than a desire to serve me herself; gossiping and cooking were two of her finest talents. It was the latter that made her become the only woman I considered marrying, regardless if she was twenty years my senior and probably weighed more than me. Poverty as an adolescent and four years of prison food taught me to enjoy a meal more than most.
When Polina continued to stand there and stare at my guests, I told her in Russian, “That will be all.”
She practically jumped out of her nosy stupor and muttered, “Of course,” before rushing from the room so fast her cap flew off. Her arm reached back into the doorway, a hand searching around until it grasped the ruffled hat, and then it and the rest of my cook disappeared.
Alexander, Alexei’s nephew, sneered at the scene, but he didn’t say anything. Probably because he was warned if he spoke a word, I’d cut out his tongue. There was nothing more nauseating than hearing loyal sentiments toward Alexei while I ate.
Albert sat at the end of the long table, eyes cold, arms crossed. Viktor sat beside him, both pinning my guests with intimidating stares. The overload of rivalry and testosterone was beginning to make me feel thirsty. And bored.
Sitting back in my chair, I trimmed the end of my cigar and wondered whether Mila would deign to make an appearance anytime soon or if I would have to drag her ass down here. Patience was a virtue. It was the only reason she got four days to play the isolated captive in my guest room. Of course the circumstances and end goal weren’t so virtuous. Solitude was an effortless way to bring even the strongest men to tears.
I lit my cigar and wondered if seclusion had changed Mila’s temperament; if it had dulled her hatred and turned her into a good, submissive pet. The idea ached in my cock, and a very impatient need to know how she would behave expanded. I found both reactions bothersome, so, instead of giving in to the urge to go retrieve her, I decided to wait a few more minutes.
I gestured to the servant who stood beside the door to pour me a drink. As always, the girl moved as quietly as a church mouse. She even squeaked like one when I grabbed her unsteady wrist before she overfilled my glass. The noise was one of pain, and I knew I hadn’t hurt her.
“Izvinite pozhaluysta,” she blurted. I’m sorry.
My grip on her wrist lifted the hem of her white dress sleeve an inch, revealing a purple bruise and the source of her discomfort. I released her, and she began to sop up spilled vodka while mumbling frantic apologies.
The girl—whose name I should know but didn’t—put a hand to her forehead and swayed, clearly growing dizzy. I knew the culprit was her papa’s short fuse—he was a reliable enforcer of mine. I didn’t usually interfere in my men’s family drama, but I gave a silent command to Viktor to speak with him. Good servants were hard to find, and I didn’t appreciate mine being abused so they couldn’t even do their job properly.
“Go,” I told the girl. “You’re no longer required tonight.”
She fled the room without a word.
Alexander’s eyes flared with disgust, probably believing I beat my servants on the regular. I merely raised a brow, amused at the show of bravery. His companion was sweating bullets and was moments away from pleading for his life.
Finally, Mila appeared in the doorway.
I pulled the cigar from my mouth, narrowed eyes sliding down her body and the stupid fucking T-shirt Gianna gave her that barely covered her ass. Elvis’s smirking face front and center was the only amused one in the room.
Anger flushed hot and heady through me, though something else intertwined—something darkly satisfied. It might be the confirmation she clearly had some fight left in her, but it was more likely the fact I was going to spank her ass for this later.
“Come here, kotyonok.”
She hesitated for a beat before complying, avoiding my gaze the entire way. I’d saved a chair for her beside me, but since she disobeyed my order to dress and wouldn’t even give me her eyes in the process, I pulled her tense body into my lap when she reached me.
Mila’s rigid posture told me she couldn’t be more uncomfortable with this seating arrangement, but she didn’t voice her complaint. Ignoring the bound and bruised men with a nonchalance the race of her heart belied, Mila decided she was hungry for dessert.
“Is that medovi—?” The rest of the word came out on a breathy yelp when I cupped a possessive palm over her pussy beneath the table.
She was either the best fucking tease on the planet, or Gianna was stingy with her underwear. Hot, bare cunt pressed against my palm, and the semi I was sporting since Mila’s ass settled on my lap hardened to stone.
“What are you wearing?” I asked darkly in her ear.
She panted, futilely tugging at my hand between her thighs, but she still managed to mock me with the obvious. “A T-shirt?”
I couldn’t decide if her sarcasm angered me or turned me on even more. “Why aren’t you wearing what I sent up for you?”
“I don’t wear silk,” she countered with heat.
I should have known she’d have a problem with the abuse of poor silkworms.
I was a second away from dragging her upstairs and forcing her into that dress, but her response changed things. She had a soft heart. I didn’t want to destroy it. I wanted it in the palm of my hand.
And right now my hand was occupied.
I gave her a warning squeeze. She sucked in a breath, arching her back in an effort to escape my hold, but when she realized she was getting nowhere by struggling, she stilled and dug her blunt nails into my hand.
The smallest amount of disquiet flickered through Albert’s eyes. Mine told him to take his concern and go fuck himself with it. He pulled his gaze back to Alexander, whose expression seethed.
As the hostility in the room grew too abrasive to ignore, Mila finally took in our guests. She seemed to focus on the one with a pretty face.
“Don’t get too excited, kotyonok,” I drawled. “He’s your cousin.”
Her lips parted, the grip on my hand eased, and she took in Alexander and the scene more thoroughly now—from his bound wrists, to the man beside him, to the revolver that sat on the table.
I caressed her soft thigh with my thumb. “No better time for a family reunion, don’t you think?”
She swallowed, and, in unveiled aversion toward my dinner party, she said, “A funeral would be a better time than this.”
A smile touched my lips. “As you can see, we’re still working on my pet’s manners.”
Mila either didn’t like the degrading nickname or her manners being criticized because her nails pressed into my hand, leaving little crescent moons behind, if not blood. Her hair was in my face, curly, untamed, and exuding a faint summery scent. While I would usually be annoyed with a resentful woman on my lap who smelled like innocence and sunshine, I wasn’t there yet.
“Do you remember what I said to your papa?” I asked her.
She shook her head, her eyes on Alexander. I couldn’t say I’d ever had my hand between a woman’s thighs while she stared at another man with devotion. The fact he was her cousin didn’t quell the frustration that flared to life.
Pressing my thumb against her clit, I rubbed it in a slow circle. She tried to ignore me as goose bumps rose to her bare skin. The subtle reaction, the feel of how soft and wet she was . . . fuck me. When I continued the motion, her breath slowed to little puffs of air, and a pink flush rose up her neck. She turned her face into my neck and whispered, “Please don’t.”
The soft words ghosted down my spine, melting the irritation to a liquid heat that coiled in my groin, but with her attention back on me, I pulled my hand away. Maybe because she forced “please” past those lips. Or maybe because I knew I could get her off in a room full of men and something in me didn’t like the idea.
“I told your papa if I found him in Moscow before I invited him, we’d need a lot of FedEx boxes to ship you home.” I ran a thumb across her jawline. “Ty pomnish eto?” Do you remember that?
Her eyes finally met mine, iridescently blue and wary, and she shook her head like it had slipped her mind. I wanted to smile because, fuck, she was kind of adorable. But the awkward fact I thought that about anyone other than my niece quelled the impulse.
“Considering it wasn’t your papa I found but two of his men, we need to discuss a different course of action.” I reached into my suit pocket and set a single golden bullet on the table. “Since you’re so fond of games, shall we play one the Russian way?”
She stared at the bullet for a long second before Alexander interrupted the thick silence.
“She has nothing to do with this,” he snarled.
Viktor got to his feet to cut out Alexander’s tongue for speaking, but I stilled him with a hand, and he sat back down.
It was when I met Albert’s severe gaze, I recognized everyone in the room believed Mila would be on the other end of the barrel with a chance of one out of six. Dry amusement filled me at the ridiculous realization.
I wasn’t going to shoot Mila.
I hadn’t even fucked her yet.
Albert seemed mollified by whatever he saw in my expression, but I was no longer amused. My gaze hardened, telling him I would do whatever I wished with Mila, and he wouldn’t intervene. As he held my stare, a dark, ruthless heat emerged at the idea he might actually be challenging me. I didn’t want to fight Albert, and it wasn’t because I thought he would win. He wouldn’t. In fact, beating him half to death in prison after he insulted my brother even though he had three inches and thirty pounds on me was one of the reasons I gained his loyalty. He was also . . . a friend. The word sounded a little melodramatic and sour, but it was the closest thing I had to describe the relationship.
When he pulled his gaze away and relented, a flare of resentment for Mila surged. She was fucking not only with my head but my men’s, so I kept up the façade she might not see tomorrow just to watch her reaction.
“Will you do the honors, kotyonok?”
“Wait,” Alexander growled. “We deserve the punishment, not her.”
“Shut up,” his friend hissed and, if I wasn’t mistaken, he kicked Alexander under the table.
Mila interrupted their quarrel. She grabbed the revolver and slipped the bullet into one of the cylinders, then stared at the gun in her hand like she was thinking about turning it on me. With a chuckle, I took it from her before she could follow through with that.
When I pointed the revolver at Alexander, two surprising things happened. Alexei’s nephew looked relieved, and Mila—well, she finally acted like she gave a shit about our little game.
“No!” She struggled to escape my lap, but I held her still, if only to keep her from flashing everyone in the room something that belonged to me. “I thought . . .”
I raised a brow. “You thought what?” She wouldn’t beg for her own life, but she would for two men she didn’t know. The stupid, selfless act was the most irritating thing I’d ever experienced.
“I thought you—”
“Hvatit.” Enough. I was unable to listen to another word from her mouth right now. Gripping her chin, I pulled her eyes to mine. “You and I, kotyonok . . .” I stroked a thumb across her cheek, my voice softening. “We’re far from finished.”
She didn’t look convinced, so I pulled her face closer and sealed the promise with a short kiss. She was as tense as a statue, but her lips were soft, pliable, warm, and somehow, she still tasted like strawberries.
The fleeting press of her mouth on mine swelled the ache in my cock to a raw throb, and an ounce of irony arose. I needed to get laid if a quick kiss got a stronger reaction from me than a woman’s tongue on my cock.
I pulled the trigger.
Click.
Before Mila could finish a relieved breath, she jumped when I fired at the next man. The bang ricocheted off the walls. Smoke rose from the barrel, and his lifeless body slumped to the table. Mila trembled against me, a hand over her mouth.
“Guess we get that funeral after all,” I said drily.
Blood spread across the table, and my gaze narrowed as it reached my plate of dessert.
“I’m going to . . .” Mila trailed off, her head lolled, and then she went limp in my arms, a comatose tangle of blonde hair and legs.
“What the fuck’s wrong with her?” Alexander demanded. His wary gaze took Mila in, and he didn’t even glance at the dead man beside him.
After adjusting Mila’s weight so her head rested on my shoulder, I picked up my cigar and puffed on it while viewing her unconscious form with feigned narrow-eyed concern. “Not sure. Do you think she needs to eat?” I blew out a breath of smoke and met Alexander’s gaze, mine sparking. “I thought Mikhailov women only needed to be fucked to survive.” For some reason, I didn’t want to tell him about her phobia. Those little details were mine.
“You son of a bitch,” he seethed. “She’s not her mother—”
“Save it,” I said, bored. “I’ve heard it before.”
“Let her go. You can take me instead.”
“Tempting, but you’re not my type.” I sent a look to Viktor to get him out of here. “Strip him,” I ordered. “He can crawl back to Alexei like a wounded dog.” Meeting Alexander’s eyes as Viktor hauled him to his feet, I said, “Make sure you tell Alexei how well his daughter fares.”
He glared. “Fuck you.”
Viktor punched him in the stomach before slamming his pretty face into the table. I sighed when blood splattered onto my piece of cake.
“Watch out for the wolves,” I added while he was being dragged out. “Although, I hope they have better taste.”
“Go to hell, D’yavol—”
Viktor yanked him out the door.
Sitting back in my chair, I held an annoying look with Albert before he got to his feet and left the room. I was blowing out a smoke ring, feeling oddly content, when Mila roused. I bit my cigar between my teeth and pulled the bloody cake to her.
“Medovik, kotyonok?”
Her expression paled, and as a soft chuckle left me, she scrambled off my lap and puked into a potted plant.
