Page 57 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

I hesitate.

His eyes sharpen. “It will be better for you if you do not lie to me.”

“Yes,” I admit. “He’s my brother.”

He gave a slow once-over to my soaked shoes, my thin jacket clinging to my frame, the hollow lines in my face. “Judging by the way you look, you are homeless.”

I nod, staring at the wet pavement. Rain drips from my hair onto my nose. I’m completely soaked now, shivering without realizing it.

“Look at me,” he orders.

I lift my eyes.

“I will have mercy on you,” he says evenly. “I will not kill you for stealing from me. But you will work your debt off.”

When I finally learned who I’d stolen from—the Pakhan of the New York Bratva—I realized the fact that I was still alive was fate giving me a second chance.

That night, his men took Igor and me to a house in Brooklyn. It was crowded with boys our age, some older. We became foot runners. Selling drugs, delivering packages, learning how to move fast and stay invisible while at it.

Chapter Seventeen

Laurel

Leonid’s been gone for almost a week, some business trip to another city, and so we haven’t been talking as often as we used to. My life feels empty without him.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some lovesick girl who can’t function without a man. I find fulfillment in my job and other things that don’t involve Leonid. But God, I miss him still.

I miss him like a physical ache: the low rumble of his voice, waking up sore in the best ways, marked by his hands, his mouth, his teeth. I miss the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not watching.

Ever since that night at the sex club, everything between us has shifted. He doesn’t hold back anymore in the bedroom.

He’s a full-on Dom now, commanding, rough, inventive. And I love every second of it. Every time we’re together it’s something new: restraints, impact play, edging until I’m begging, him taking me apart piece by piece and putting me back together with soft kisses afterward. I crave it. Crave him.

This is the longest we’ve been apart since… whatever this is. I keep telling myself not to name it. Not to overthink it. Not to fall too hard. But I’m failing spectacularly.

It’s Sunday and I’m walking back from yoga class, dressed in leggings and a cropped hoodie. Skin still damp with sweat, hair pulled into a messy bun.

The streets are busy with weekend shoppers, couples with dogs, the usual city hum. I decide to grab a coffee before heading home.

As I step off the curb toward the coffee shop, my eyes catch on a black SUV parked across the street, with its windows tinted. My stomach does a small, uneasy flip. I’ve seen that same car, or one exactly like it, parked across from my building at least three times this week.

I shake it off. Paranoia. New York is full of black SUVs. I’m being ridiculous. I order my usual oat milk latte, pay, and step back outside. The moment I turn toward my apartment, I glance over my shoulder.

The SUV is moving, slowly. Keeping pace with me on the opposite side of the street.

My pulse jumps.

I walk faster. The coffee sloshes in the cup. I glance again. The car is still there, half a block back, matching my speed. Not overtaking.

My heart starts hammering. I’m only a block from home, so I break into a power walk, then a jog.

By the time I reach my building I’m breathing hard. I shove through the lobby door, slam it behind me, throw the deadbolt, then the chain. My hands shake as I yank every curtain closed, living room, bedroom.

Then I creep to the living-room window, part the slats with two fingers, and peek out.

The SUV is now parked directly across the street. Engine off. Because of its tinted windows, it’s impossible to see inside.

My chest feels tight. Why? Who’s following me? My mind flashes to Jasper, my ex from Philadelphia. The last time I saw him, he was screaming that he’d find me. That I’d never be free of him, and that I belonged to him.