My hair, my natural color now, hangs down well past my shoulders in thick blonde waves. I miss my wigs. The long, white-blonde feels unnatural now. My eyes are cornflower blue, so I wear thick black mascara to bring them out, but I opt for a sheer pink gloss and a spritz of my favorite body spray. Thanks to our little shopping spree, I am pretty well decked out with clothes.
“I’m guessing business casual?” I yell through the door toward Matvei, who is lumbering on the other side, opening drawers, likely getting changed. He’s a big guy. He does nothing quietly or gently.
“What the fuck is business casual?” he says.
“I don’t know, skirts, dresses, something like that? Something you’d wear to, like, a business meeting.”
Of course, he has no idea what business casual is. He’s Bratva. Why would he?
“No, probably just casual-casual. We’re not going to a restaurant; we’re just going to the family home.”
Then something occurs to me. Ohfuck.
“Are your parents coming?”
“No, not today. My mom has some kind of book club or something.”
Can’t think of anything less fun than reading a book with his mother.
“Alright, okay. Just need to grab clothes.” I cinch my robe around myself and open the door, finding him standing on the other side, looking like sin in a pair of denim jeans and boots.
Mygod, Matvei.
My ovaries practically self-combust just staring at him. His black hair slicked back, his eyes piercing. The gold hoops in his ears glint under the overhead light—subtle.Badass. My eyes roll down to the ink creeping up his neck, disappearing into a fitted black Henley. Heavy black boots.
“You look good enough to eat.” I swallow hard. I’m not joking.
The corner of his lip quirks up. “Unfortunately, we don’t have time. But I’ll take a rain check.”
Oh, hell yes, you will. I imagine myself getting down on my knees in front of him, unbuttoning his jeans, pulling out histhick, veined cock, sliding it into my mouth—fuck. I’m wet. And he’s right, we don’t have time.
“Yes, sir. Rain check it is.” I frown at my options. “I’ll pick out something for you to wear.”
I give him a curious look. Interesting. Alright then. “Go ahead.”
I know he wasn’t asking my permission, but it’s fun to play. He settles on the most modest garment I own—a three-quarter-length sleeve black, fitted top and a pair of dark-colored flared jeans.
“You want us to match, Matvei?”
He looks at what he’s wearing, then back at what he picked for me. “That wasn’t on purpose, but I think I did it subconsciously. My friend told me that it’s a good idea to match your woman.”
Your woman.
“Maybe your subconscious was agreeing with him. Which friend was that?”
“Vadka.”
I try to remember him. I know he and Rafail are tight. He’s married with a kid. His wife Mariah is separate from the Bratva, and even though some of the Kopolov women are active participants, she wants no part of it.
And now I know that her husband likes to match her. Well, that’s kind of adorable.
Maybe they aren’t all monsters.
Then I remember the stories I’ve heard of Rafail, the very reason why I ran from this type of captivity to begin with. And my heart is all a flutter. Shit, I’m nervous as fuck.
Nah, not just nervous.Terrified.Because Rafail Kopolov isn’t just some name whispered in the dark but a legend. I’ve spent years building my life as a ghost, and this is the very man I ran from. Now I’m walking straight into his den.
I don’t know what to expect from them. What if they all hate me? What if the women all gang up on me? I’d rather face a firing squad than a coven of women who actively hate me. Been there, done that.
