Wren Davis is nothing but trouble.
A fucking tornado wrapped in a stripper’s outfit. She’s the kind of woman who’d burn your whole world down and laugh while it’s smoking.
And she called mecute.
Fuckingcute. Like I’m some puppy she wants to pet. No one’s ever had the balls to call me that before. Should’ve snapped her neck for it. Instead, I nearly fucked her against a dumpster like some back-alley john.
I slam my fist into the water, sending ice cubes flying.
“Get it together,mudak,” I snarl at myself.
Even if I wanted to pursue this—which I fucking don’t—it’s a disaster waiting to happen. She’s Sophia’s best friend, and Sophia’s married to Luka. OurPakhan. Our brother. Mixing business and pleasure never ends well in our world.
But my treacherous cock doesn’t seem to care about brotherhood or business. It’s still rock-hard, even in this sub-zero water, remembering the feel of her grinding against me.
“Fuck!” I roar, standing up abruptly. Water streams off my body as I step out of the tub, grabbing a towel.
I’m Dimitri fucking Orlov. I’ve taken down rival gangs, survived torture, built an empire from nothing. I’m not about to let some smart-mouthed stripper with killer curves and a death wish get under my skin.
No matter how badly I want to bend her over and fuck that attitude right out of her.
I wrap the towel around my waist, stalking toward the weight room. If ice can’t cool me down, maybe I’ll just beat these thoughts out of my head.
One thing’s for sure: next time I see Wren Davis, I’m setting her straight. No more games, no morecute. She needs to learn her place, and it’s not in my fucking head.
Or my bed.
I stalk into the changing room, the cold air hitting my damp skin. The massive mirror stretches across the wall, impossible to ignore. I drop the towel, my eyes drawn to the reflection like a moth to a fucking flame.
Scars. Everywhere. A roadmap of pain etched into my skin.
The long gash across my ribs—courtesy of my first fight at the Orphan Camp. I was twelve, scared shitless, but I won.
Had to.
My eyes trace the burn marks on my left shoulder.Blyat, I can almost smell the cigarettes thosemudaksused. The face of Yegor, that sadistic fuck, flashes in my mind. His yellowed teeth bared in a grin as he pressed the lit end into my skin. “Krichí dlya menya, svin’ya,” he’d say, his breath reeking of vodka and decay.
I grind my teeth so hard I taste blood. Yegor. That festering piece of shit’s still out there somewhere. My fists clench, nails gouging half-moons into my palms. One day, I’ll find thatsvoloch. I’ll make him piss himself and beg for death long before I even think about granting it.
The camp. Fuck. It’s been years, but I can still hear the screams. Still smell the fear and piss and blood. Boys broken down, remade into weapons. Into fucking animals.
Like me.
My jaw aches from clenching it, matching the phantom burn in my old scars. I’ll find that bastard, Yegor. I’ll peel his skin off strip by strip, cut out his tongue, and feed it to him. And I’ll whisper in his ear, “Scream for me, you fucking pig. Scream until your throat bleeds.”
I force my eyes lower, taking in the rest of the damage.
Ragged lines across my abdomen, courtesy of a knife fight when I was fourteen. Circular scar on my thigh where I dug out a bullet with my own fingers.
And lower still…
My cock’s still hard, the traitorous bastard.
I grab it roughly, hissing at the contact. Wren’s face flashes in my mind, and I growl in frustration.
I imagine reaching down, grabbing a fistful of her raven hair. Yanking her head back, watching her gasp. My other hand finds her tit, squeezing hard. I can almost feel her nipple hardening against my palm.
“Take it all,suka,” I growl at the phantom Wren.
