12. Chapter 12

12

Dimitri

I sink into the ice bath, the freezing water shocking my system, sucking the breath from me.

Blyat , it's cold enough to freeze my balls off.

Good. Maybe it'll finally kill this fucking hard-on I've been sporting since last night.

The mansion's dead quiet, just the hum of the filtration system and the occasional crack of ice. Used to be Erik and Luka would be here trading jabs and throwing punches. Now it's just me and my fucked-up thoughts.

I close my eyes, trying to focus on the cold, but all I can see is Wren. Her lips on mine, her body pressed against me in that filthy alley. The taste of her, like smoke and sin.

" Yob tvoyu mat' ," I growl, dunking my head under the water. The cold bites at my face, but it's not enough to erase the memory of her pussy grinding against my cock.

I surface with a gasp, water cascading down my face. What the fuck is wrong with me? One kiss, and I'm acting like a horny teenager who can't control his fucking dick.

Mudak!

Wren Davis is nothing but trouble.

A fucking tornado wrapped in a stripper's outfit. She's the kind of woman who'd burn your whole world down and laugh while it's smoking.

And she called me cute .

Fucking cute . Like I'm some puppy she wants to pet. No one's ever had the balls to call me that before. Should've snapped her neck for it. Instead, I nearly fucked her against a dumpster like some back-alley john.

I slam my fist into the water, sending ice cubes flying.

"Get it together, mudak ," I snarl at myself.

Even if I wanted to pursue this—which I fucking don't—it's a disaster waiting to happen. She's Sophia's best friend, and Sophia's married to Luka. Our Pakhan . Our brother. Mixing business and pleasure never ends well in our world.

But my treacherous cock doesn't seem to care about brotherhood or business. It's still rock-hard, even in this sub-zero water, remembering the feel of her grinding against me.

"Fuck!" I roar, standing up abruptly. Water streams off my body as I step out of the tub, grabbing a towel.

I'm Dimitri fucking Orlov. I've taken down rival gangs, survived torture, built an empire from nothing. I'm not about to let some smart-mouthed stripper with killer curves and a death wish get under my skin.

No matter how badly I want to bend her over and fuck that attitude right out of her.

I wrap the towel around my waist, stalking toward the weight room. If ice can't cool me down, maybe I'll just beat these thoughts out of my head.

One thing's for sure: next time I see Wren Davis, I'm setting her straight. No more games, no more cute . She needs to learn her place, and it's not in my fucking head.

Or my bed.

I stalk into the changing room, the cold air hitting my damp skin. The massive mirror stretches across the wall, impossible to ignore. I drop the towel, my eyes drawn to the reflection like a moth to a fucking flame.

Scars. Everywhere. A roadmap of pain etched into my skin.

The long gash across my ribs—courtesy of my first fight at the Orphan Camp. I was twelve, scared shitless, but I won.

Had to.

My eyes trace the burn marks on my left shoulder. Blyat , I can almost smell the cigarettes those mudaks used. The face of Yegor, that sadistic fuck, flashes in my mind. His yellowed teeth bared in a grin as he pressed the lit end into my skin. " Krichí dlya menya, svin'ya ," he'd say, his breath reeking of vodka and decay.

I grind my teeth so hard I taste blood. Yegor. That festering piece of shit's still out there somewhere. My fists clench, nails gouging half-moons into my palms. One day, I'll find that svoloch . I'll make him piss himself and beg for death long before I even think about granting it.

The camp. Fuck. It's been years, but I can still hear the screams. Still smell the fear and piss and blood. Boys broken down, remade into weapons. Into fucking animals.

Like me.

My jaw aches from clenching it, matching the phantom burn in my old scars. I'll find that bastard, Yegor. I'll peel his skin off strip by strip, cut out his tongue, and feed it to him. And I'll whisper in his ear, "Scream for me, you fucking pig. Scream until your throat bleeds."

I force my eyes lower, taking in the rest of the damage.

Ragged lines across my abdomen, courtesy of a knife fight when I was fourteen. Circular scar on my thigh where I dug out a bullet with my own fingers.

And lower still…

My cock's still hard, the traitorous bastard.

I grab it roughly, hissing at the contact. Wren's face flashes in my mind, and I growl in frustration.

I imagine reaching down, grabbing a fistful of her raven hair. Yanking her head back, watching her gasp. My other hand finds her tit, squeezing hard. I can almost feel her nipple hardening against my palm.

"Take it all, suka ," I growl at the phantom Wren.

My hand moves faster on my cock as I picture her struggling to take my full length. She gags, tears forming in the corners of her eyes, but she doesn't back down. Never does.

I'd thrust deeper, feeling the tight heat of her throat. My balls tighten as I get close.

"Fuck, Wren," I grunt, pumping harder. In my mind, I see her hand snaking between her legs, getting herself off while I use her mouth.

I'm so close, teetering on the edge. Just a little more and— But then I catch sight of my reflection again. The scars, the marks of violence etched into my skin. My hand stills.

Would she be disgusted by this body? This patchwork of violence and survival?

The thought hits me like a sucker punch. I slap myself… hard. The sting spreads across my cheek.

"Why the fuck does it matter?" I snarl at my reflection.

But I know why. Because for a moment, in that filthy alley, she made me feel… human. Not the monster I see in the mirror.

I turn away, unable to look at myself anymore. The weight of my past, the blood on my hands, it's all there in those scars.

Luka's father saved me from that hell. Gave me purpose. A family. And how do I repay that? By lusting after his daughter-in-law's best friend?

" Mudak ," I mutter, grabbing clean clothes.

My cock's finally starting to soften.

I need to focus. The Bratva needs me. I can't let some stripper with a death wish fuck that up.

No matter how much I want to fuck her.

I yank on a crisp white shirt, the fabric straining against my chest and biceps. Suka , I need to tell the tailor to stop trying to make this shit fit so tight. Buttons barely hold on as I tuck it into my black slacks.

The tie feels like a noose as I knot it, choking off the last of my dirty thoughts. Or trying to, anyway. My mind keeps drifting back to Wren.

Did she get home safe last night?

The look in her eyes… Blyat , so empty. Like staring into a void.

"Stop it," I growl at myself, shrugging on the suit jacket. It's snug across my shoulders, the early morning workout leaving my muscles pumped and aching.

Good. Pain I can deal with. Unlike these fucked-up feelings.

I slide on my holster, the familiar weight of my Glock settling against me. Some men feel naked without their watch.

Me? I feel naked without my piece.

Stepping into my shoes—Italian leather, polished to a shine that could blind you—I catch my reflection again. On the surface, I look like any other businessman. If you ignore the bulge of the gun or the scars peeking out from my collar.

Or the dead look in my eyes.

I run a hand through my hair, trying to shake off the memories.

Yob tvoyu mat' , why can't I shake her from my head? One fucking kiss in a dirty alley, and I'm losing my mind. Pathetic.

I slam my fist into the locker, the metal denting under the impact. The pain shoots up my arm, grounding me.

This is who I am.

Violence. Power.

Not some love-struck teenager pining after a stripper.

Grabbing my phone, I check for messages. Nothing from Erik or Luka. Good. Means the night went smoothly. No fires for me to put out. Literal or otherwise.

I head for the elevator, my footsteps echoing in the empty gym.

The elevator dings again, doors sliding open to reveal the mansion's opulent foyer. I step out, straightening my tie. Time to be Dimitri Volkov, Vor of the Ivankov Bratva. Not some horny mudak obsessing over a woman he can't have.

My hand's on the doorknob when my phone buzzes. Probably Erik, finally waking up to give me an update on last night's shipments.

I fish it out of my pocket, unlocking the screen.

Not from Erik. It's from Alina, our head of tech. The message reads:

Boss, we've got a problem. Someone's been asking questions about the Orphan Camp. And they're looking for you specifically.

My jaw clenches so hard I hear my teeth grind.

Suka . But there's a twisted part of me that's glad for this shit. Finally, something to sink my teeth into besides thoughts of that suka and her fucking smart mouth.

I'm done with Wren Davis.

Done wondering about the dead look in her eyes, the heat of her skin. She's Sophia's friend, which makes her poison. End of fucking story.

A snarl twists my lips, my eyes turning to ice. This? This I can handle. Threats, violence, blood—it's what I'm made for. Not drooling after some stripper like a bitch in heat.

I'll never see her again. And that's fan-fucking-tastic.