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“Fuck!” Mikhail groaned.
He speared deep inside of her and held there, his cock pumping her full of his hot seed. Annika could feel him pulsing, emptying every precious drop into her virginal womb. She clenched around him and met his lustful gaze. The two of them stayed locked together until he was totally spent, and he dropped her just as easily as he had scooped her up. Annika could only lie there, sticky with come and tinged with blood, while he freed her wrists and stepped back from the bed. He hastily put his clothes back on while Annika was still limp on the bed.
“You’re leaving?” she murmured, her heart sinking.
“I’m finished. It’s time for you to rest now,” he ordered her.
“I’m not tired,” she defied, but Mikhail only raised an eyebrow and smirked at her, knowing the truth. He had sufficiently worn her out; she was exhausted.
“You’ve had enough for tonight. I didn’t realize you were a virgin. Take a warm bath for the discomfort,” he ordered, walking to the door.
“Wait! Will you come back?” Annika asked. She hated the desperation in her voice, but there was simply no hiding it.
Mikhail opened the door and glanced over at her. “If you’re a good girl,” he answered with a filthy smirk. “Goodnight, wifey.”
Annika cried, “No, wait—”
But he was gone. She heard the click-click-click of the locks engaging, followed by Mikhail’s footsteps leading away from the door. She stared at the door for several minutes, willing it to open and show him standing there again.
Finally, she accepted that he wasn’t coming back. She dragged herself into the bathroom to soak in warm, lavender-scented water, admiring every bump and bruise as she lathered up. She brushed her teeth and crawled into bed. With only the moonlight flooding into her room, Annika watched the camera until her eyes grew heavy, and at last she drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER7
MIKHAIL
Accordingto all wisdom and common knowledge, it did not rain in Las Vegas, particularly in the middle of June. The summer months were notoriously hot and dry, with barely a flash of rain to dampen the canyons. Most people in the area didn’t own a raincoat or an umbrella. It was almost silly to imagine needing them out here in the dusty desert. Yet, there was a strange dark pallor over the mountains and valleys on the day Vasili Sokolov announced his imminent demise. Bratva members would recall the day vividly for generations to come, adding a little more flavor to every retelling. Over time, the story of Vasili’s stormy death would crystallize into the stuff of legends.
On the fateful day itself, Mikhail woke before dawn to the clatter of thunder. The sound was so unexpected, so out of place, that his instincts upon waking couldn’t tell him what was wrong. He leaped out of bed and reached for his gun, thinking that the loud sound that had woken him up must’ve been an intruder. It took a few moments for him to realize that the noises were coming from outside. It was barely five in the morning, and the world outside his bedroom window was dark. He went to the window and observed the deep purple sky, stretching from his neighborhood in the Arts District all the way out to the foggy mountains. There was another clap of thunder, followed by a streak of white light across the sky. Rain began to drizzle over the city, pattering against the windowpane. The weather service had not predicted rain. In fact, almost no one in their right mind would have predicted it. But there they were: rain clouds gathering and shifting above Las Vegas, illuminated brilliantly now and again with heavenly light.
His first thought upon seeing the rain was of Annika. He wondered if the thunder had woken her, too. Did it frighten her? Was she awake on the other side of that wall, watching the storm at her window just like he was? More importantly, he thought, did he care?
It had been over a week since he’d retrieved her from California and secreted her away into the locked bedroom cell, six days since their tension-fueled hookup. Mikhail had been doing his best to return to normal procedure, going on missions, taking on interrogations, collecting Obschak as usual. He spent his days away whenever possible; it was almost too much just being in the same apartment with her. Especially after that lapse in judgment, Mikhail knew the dangers of being physically close to Annika. She was a lesson in temptation.
Annika was well behaved these days for the most part, and she even seemed to crave his approval, making her almost a willing captive. She hung on his every word, even when she was pretending to ignore him or defy him. Mikhail had many years of psychological observation and manipulation under his belt. He knew what a fawning victim looked like. She was starting to identify with him, to think of him as an ally rather than an enemy.
Annika’s attitude remained strong, but her insults were less vengeful now. There wasn’t as much poison in her tone. Mikhail noticed the way she constantly glanced at the camera in her room, and how she perked up every time he walked into her room to deliver a meal. He felt no remorse about fucking her. After all, she would be his property soon enough anyway.
However, he was concerned about letting her distract him. She was beautiful, intriguing, and captivating in a way he hadn’t planned for. He found himself aching for another roll in the sheets with her. He almost never remembered his dreams; in fact, he had assumed he simply did not dream at all. After meeting Annika, that had changed. His nights were filled with cloudy seductions and surreal, stolen kisses. He was always disgusted with himself upon waking, but no amount of resistance could stop his subconscious from thinking about her.
On that rainy day in June, Mikhail angrily swept Annika from his mind. What business did she have taking up so much real estate in his head? Especially when there were so many important things to do before his father’s death. This was a crucial era of the Sokolov legacy, and he didn’t want his attention soaked up by some Baranov girl, regardless of how pretty she was.
It was that morning, standing at the window watching the lightning roll through the clouds, that Mikhail received a simple text message.
It’s time.
His heart thumped a little harder as he read it, the full weight of those two little words sinking into him like a bevy of knives. The message was from his father’s closest advisor. It was a declaration and an invitation at the same time: Vasili was dying, and he required Mikhail’s presence at his bedside.
Although it was a long time coming, Mikhail felt as stormy inside as the sky outside his window. He showered and dressed in silence. He wore all black, but he looked stylishly put together, like he was attending an upscale business meeting rather than a deathbed. He wasn’t simply dressing for death. He was preparing for the rebirth of a lifetime.
He checked the security camera. He was relieved to find Annika still sound asleep in her bed, looking like a princess. She was so peaceful, Mikhail lingered a moment just watching her softly breathe before heading out into the rainy morning. He wouldn’t be around to bring her breakfast and dinner today. He had more important business, more important people who needed him. Luckily, he had already arranged for a trusted Bratok to carry out the twice-daily duty, under strict instructions not to interact with Annika in any way. If she spoke, the Bratok was not to respond. If she put up a fight, he was to simply leave the room, always locking it up behind him. Mikhail didn’t like leaving her in someone else’s hands, but he couldn’t be in two places at once, and this was the day he’d been planning for many long years now.
When he arrived at the Sokolov Estate, the deathbed rituals were already in progress. Vasili Sokolov was a powerful, influential, charismatic leader who had garnered a massive following of loyal men and women throughout his reign. The grounds were swarming with Bratva members, all dressed in mourning black and clamoring for one last audience with the great patriarch. But the crowds parted like the seas when Mikhail walked into the mansion. Men bowed out of his way, murmuring words of support and consolation. He recognized most of them as long-time friends of his father. Many of the mourners had watched Mikhail grow up, but they knew him as their superior. Nobody underestimated Mikhail. They understood that with Vasili weakening by the second upstairs, they were looking at the next leader of the organization.
By the end of the day, there would be a new Pakhan.
“He’s waiting for you,” said Vasili’s advisor, standing like a grim reaper at the top of the grand staircase. He was an old man himself, stooped and scarred from decades of service.
Mikhail ascended to the second floor, down the ornate hallway, and into the most opulent room of the house: Vasili’s bedroom. He could sense a change in the air as soon as he stepped through the doorway. Despite the crowds multiplying downstairs and across the rainy grounds, there were only a few trusted attendees at Vasili’s bedside. All of them ducked out of the room when Mikhail arrived, understanding that this was now official Pakhan business.
