1
Pyotr
Two Years Ago...
The girl in the blue dress is going to ruin me.
I know this the moment I see her across Dimitri's ballroom, standing beside her pathetic excuse for a father like she's afraid to breathe without permission. Vera Reznikova. Eighteen years old as of last week. I made it my business to know. Daughter of a gambling addict who owes me four hundred thousand dollars and climbing.
I should look away. I'm forty-three. She's barely legal. Too young. Too innocent. Too fucking perfect.
My cock doesn't care about the age gap. It's already hard, pressing against my zipper as I watch her fidget with the bracelet on her wrist. She doesn't want to be here. That much is obvious from the way she stays glued to Mikhail's side, her dark eyes scanning the room like she's searching for escape routes.
Smart girl. She should run.
But she won't.
"That's Reznikov's daughter." Dimitri appears at my elbow, vodka in hand, reading my stare with the accuracy of a man who's known me twenty years. "Just turned eighteen."
"I know."
"Too young for you."
As if I don’t know.
I take a slow sip of my own drink, never breaking eye contact with the girl. "Don't care."
Dimitri sighs. It's the sound of a man who knows he's already lost the argument. "You're going to claim her, aren't you?"
The truth is, I decided the moment I saw her. The moment my body recognized what my mind is only now catching up to: this girl was made for me. Made to be owned. Made to be bred. Made to carry my children and warm my bed and look at me with those wide, frightened eyes while I ruin her for anyone else.
She shifts her weight, uncomfortable in heels that are too high. The curve of her hips—wide enough for childbearing, my caveman brain supplies helpfully. The soft swell of her breasts under that modest blue dress. The way her dark hair falls over one shoulder, exposing the vulnerable column of her throat.
I want to bite her there. Mark her. Make her scream my name while I pump her full of my cum and breed her like the pretty little bitch she doesn't know she is yet.
"Pyotr." Dimitri's voice holds warning now. "She's a child."
"She's legal." I drain my vodka, setting the glass down with controlled precision. "And she won't be a child for long."
Because I'm going to take everything. Her innocence. Her virginity. She's absolutely a virgin, I can tell from the way she carries herself, all awkward grace and uncertain movements. Her future. I'm going to take it all and give her exactly what she needs in return.
Structure. Discipline. My cock buried deep in her pussy every night. My baby growing in her belly.
The thought makes me harder. I adjust myself discreetly, never taking my eyes off her.
That's when it happens.
Mikhail says something to her in a sharp, commanding voice. "Sit down and be quiet, Vera."
And shemelts.
The tension drains from her shoulders. The frantic energy stills. She immediately sinks into the chair behind her, hands folding in her lap, eyes downcast. Docile. Obedient.Relieved.
Natural submissive.
She doesn't even know what she is yet. Doesn't know that her body craves orders the way other people crave air. Doesn't know that the reason she's uncomfortable isn't because she's at a Bratva party—it's because no one's telling her what to do, and her mind is screaming with too many choices.
But I know.
