Page 34 of Reclaimed By My Ex’s Bratva Brother

We stayed like that, both breathing hard, sweat cooling on our skin. My legs were still wrapped around his waist, unwilling to let go just yet.

Finally, he pulled out. I winced at the loss, at the feeling of him dripping out of me. He arranged my skirt back down, the gesture almost tender—a stark contrast to how he'd just taken me apart.

I pushed myself up on the desk, my face burning from hairline to collarbone. This was nothing like what I'd imagined. Normal assistants managed schedules and answered phones. They didn't get bent over their boss's desk.

"Where's my underwear?" The cool air between my legs made the question suddenly urgent.

"For the rest of the day, you don't wear any."

"Excuse me?"

No way was I going commando in this office. My eyes scanned every visible surface, but that scrap of red fabric was nowhere to be found. When had he even hidden it?

"Put your energy into following my instructions and doing your job, not hunting for a pair of panties that are too wet to wear anyway." His grin was wicked.

What choice did I have? Order underwear online? My size wasn't exactly easy to find. And he was my boss. He wasn't giving me any other option.

The next few hours were torture. I had to endure the rough denim of my skirt rubbing against my most sensitive parts. Several times I nearly moaned aloud from the tingling, stinging friction.

But every time I met Varlam's knowing eyes, I swallowed the sounds down.

Near the end of the workday, the torture finally ended. Varlam pushed a plain black gift bag across my desk.

"Go put these on." His tone brooked no argument.

I grabbed the bag and practically ran to the bathroom. Inside was a pair of exquisite panties. I didn't know what fabric they were made of, but the moment my fingers touched them, I knew they cost a fortune.

I slipped them on carefully. They fit perfectly, like they'd been custom-made for my body. Every curve was accommodated with precision that made me suspicious.

Finally safe, I exhaled in relief. But looking at my flushed face in the mirror, my heart sank again.

I didn't understand why Varlam had changed so drastically after I'd said those words. Or maybe this was who he'd always been—controlling, possessive. Keeping women close, controlling their work, their whereabouts. Maybe he wanted to control their bodies' responses too.

And this was only day one. I couldn't imagine what the rest of this arrangement would look like.

Over the next few days, my work involved more than just reviewing and adjusting wedding proposals. I also had to organize the accounts for Varlam's restaurants, bars, jewelry stores, and certain "special" businesses. The regular shop records could go into the computer. The rest of the ledgers, he delivered to my desk personally.

The thick stack landed with enough force to make the desk shake.

"These accounts must be handwritten. No photos. No copies. No trace on any electronic device." His tone was final.

I opened the top ledger. No full names, just initials, dates, strange symbols, and strings of alarmingly large numbers. Some entries were crossed out in red, with only a brief notation beside them.

"What do these symbols mean?"

"You don't need to know."

"But I have to organize them."

I'd known he was mafia. Known his empire extended far beyond legitimate businesses. But until now, those illicit dealings had been abstract, distant from my life.

Now I felt like Varlam had cracked open a door, and I was peering through the gap at a corner of his real world.

"Copy them." He set a fountain pen beside me. "Not a single mistake."

I swallowed hard, looking up at him. "What happens if I write a number wrong?"

"One zero too few might buy someone an extra day." His voice was calm. "One too many might make someone disappear."