Page 54 of The Bratva's Nanny

No, I was a lot older now, much wiser, too.

Wise enough to distinguish right from wrong. Wise enough to know the difference between a politician, a security officer, a wealthy businessman, and a mobster. Wise enough to know that any man who possessed those four personalities had to be the most corrupt, vicious, and dangerous man on Earth.

Roman Varkov was that man, and he was no Noah Jepton.

Men like Roman didn’t break hearts. They snuffed out souls, crushed spirits, and were joyful harbingers of destruction and death. Where he was, darkness was. The heights he reached had blood spilled and evil written all over it. I could say this with certainty; I’d seen him take a man’s life—twice.

When moral leaders spoke of men who committed despicable acts, they spoke of Roman Varkov.

Tossing, I squeezed the pillow to my chest and kicked the sheets in frustration.

I was older now, and I was more experienced in the field, so I knew that I couldn’t use a man like him for target practice. It didn’t matter how many techniques I’d mastered; if I did, the only person who would leave with a bruised face and busted ego would be me.

But yet….

Yet….

None of these thoughts deterred me. None of them swayed me. Every factor screamed, “Run! Run as fast as you can, away from him.”

But my heart whispered, “Stay.”

Stupid.

I repeated the dangers to myself so often that it almost became a mantra. But my heart didn’t budge. The more I remembered why he was bad for me, the more my body craved his touch. I remembered the feel of his finger inside me, his voice in my ear, whispering, “I’m going to rewrite everything that fucking bastard did to you. By the time I’m done with you, you will only remember me.”

And I did.

I only saw his eyes, the intense pleasure and lust in them when he kissed me, fucked me, teased me, and made me moan his name. I trembled at his touch and quivered when he showed me sides he only ever reserved for Polly.

Then, he went ahead and made me melt like butter in a heated oven.

“You’re worth a lot more, Solnishko.”

“Solinishko. It means ‘Little Sun’.”

I turned to mush at the roll of the words delivered in his rich baritone. My insides squeezed like sweet, ripened oranges, and I might have hit hard on another orgasm if he hadn’t already pulled out.

His constant switch, from hard to soft and hard again, made me want to scream, and yet, I still whetted an appetite to explore every side of him till I knew him like the back of my hand.

Roman Varkov was everything.

Mysterious and simple.

Beautiful and scarred.

When he’d paid off what was left of my father’s debt, I became indebted to him, surrendering my control to him for as long as he was willing to keep me.

That was the sad part: battling with unanswered questions about what his next actions would be after he grew weary of me and our sexual escapades.

As much as I wanted to regain my freedom, the reality left me feeling hollow, with a sense of loss.

Crazy.

How could I lose something that wasn’t mine?

Groaning, I got off the bed and went over to the window. It didn’t even help that I missed the feeling of lying on his bed, naked, with his heavy, muscled leg strewn over me. Watching the starry ceiling as he hovered above and claimed every inch of me.

Oh, Maria.