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“I never wanted this,” I whimper weakly. Pain jolts my center and I ball my hands into fists, nails digging into my palm. “I just wanted to be normal.”
“Thisisour normal, dear sister.”
Pavel grunts as he leans forward to pin my knees to my chest, exposing me to the other men in the room. Shame leaps to the forefront of my mind when I feel my pussy growing wetter from each hard thrust, and I struggle to keep myself from crying.
Heat stings my flesh, prickling my skin simultaneously with embarrassment and pleasure. The sound and smell of sex overwhelm my senses. I stare up at Pavel, finding twin emotionless pools of green above as he uses me.
This is what I’ll see for the rest of my life.
Chapter Seven
Pavel
I step into the lobby of my penthouse, bright lights reflecting on the polished white tile. Liya stumbles behind me, squeaking as she catches herself on something. I don’t know what. I don’t bother to turn around and look.
“Kiril Vladimirovich,” I formally greet the man hovering near the front desk with his patronymic.
Kiril Malinsky is a brigadier of mine who’s been in the Suvorov Bratva’s service since I was a kid. For years, he’s thought of himself as my father’s right-hand man, even though he was nothing more than just another brigadier. Desperation oozes from him. It stinks like the sweat of an injured animal, much like his overpowering cologne.
A traditional Russian greeting rolls from my lips as I shake his hand. Then I say firmly, “Wait here.”
He appears like he wants to argue but doesn’t. He wouldn’t dare. That kind of opposition would land a bullet in his brain.
But something about the way he observes me tells me he’s full of surprises this morning. What will it be this time?
I summon my housekeeper to the lobby. When she appears, I say, “Viktoria, take my fiancée upstairs. Get her comfortable.” I shoot a critical glance at Liya and add, “Get herpresentable.”
Liya looks like hell froze over, shoulders shrugged inward while clutching the cardigan she grabbed before we left. No fiancée of mine is going to look like a goddamn frightened mouse. She canactlike that all she wants with me in the bedroom, but she needs to be flawless in public.
Viktoria bows her head, proving to be one of the few people left who are truly obedient to me. Liya will learn. In time.
I’ll make sure of it.
“Kiril Vladimirovich,” I call while marching toward my office. “Come.”
He hops from a chair and springs after me, accompanied by a familiar young woman with blue eyes and black hair. She beams warmly as she follows her father, but nothing could have made my day worse than seeinghersmile in my direction.
She nods. “Pavel Sergeyevich.”
I sigh heavily while reaching for the knob of my office door. Crisp air sweeps over me, smelling of pine cleaner. “Zoya Kirilovna, how nice of you to join us.”
That little squeak of affection that breaks from her makes me feel sick. But I lead them both into my office without argument. He’s my brigadier, and she’s his daughter.
And now I see what opposition lies ahead of me.
A furious Kiril steps toward my desk. “Fiancée?”
“Yes, my fiancée,” I repeat mechanically while unbuttoning my blazer. I slip it from my shoulders and hang it on the coat rack in the corner of the room.
“I expected you to marry Zoya,” he says with a strained tone while gesturing to his daughter. I don’t look at her. I don’t need to look at her to feel the way her sharp eyes pierce me. “Per the arrangement Sergey Ivanovich had made. Or did you conveniently forget about that?”
I play with the knot of my tie. “My father had a way of making promises he couldn’t keep.” My gaze sweeps over Zoya. “Marrying down wasn’t exactly a smart idea on his part.”
Aside from her flinch, she shows no outward sign of displeasure at the jab. It’s no hard feelings, really. Everybody knows marrying at your level or up is best.
She was fun while she lasted, I reflect.But she’s old news.
“This is an insult,” Kiril claims. “My daughter is more than dedicated to you. More than committed already. To toss her aside is to disregard what your father wanted.”
