Stolen Heir: An Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance (Brutal Birthright Book 2)
Stolen Heir: Chapter 16

NESSA

I wake in the morning, sticky and sweaty and flooded with shame.

The memories swirling around in my brain are just nightmares. They have to be.

There’s no way on god’s green earth that my very first kiss was with my kidnapper.

I could not possibly be that stupid.

And then to touch myself afterward!

My face is burning with humiliation, remembering it. I ran back to my room, intending to hide. But I was flustered, throbbing, aching for something. And when I put my hand there just for a second, it felt meltingly good. It felt like pleasure and relief and a desperate need to keep going, all at once.

And that orgasm . . .

Oh my god. You could take every time I touched myself before, grind it up in a blender, crank it up by a factor of ten, and it wouldn’t even approach what I just experienced.

It’s insane and impossible, so there’s no way it actually happened.

I keep telling myself that while I stumble into the shower, stripping off my nasty bodysuit and soaping myself for what feels like an hour. I scrub every inch of my skin, trying to rid myself of the sensations that keep popping up—the way his hands felt, yanking my hair. The way his mouth tasted, like salt and cigarettes and citrus and blood. The surprising warmth of his lips. And the way his tongue slid up my neck, igniting each neuron in my brain like a string of firecrackers.

No, no, NO!

I hated that. I didn’t like any of it. It was awful and crazy and it’s never happening again.

I step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my body and swiping my palm across the foggy mirror. My own startled face looks back at me, lips swollen and eyes guilty.

I grab my toothbrush and scrub my mouth viciously, trying to remove the taste of him.

When I come out of the bathroom, Klara is standing by my bed. I give a little shriek.

“Dzień dobry!” she says cheerfully.

“Hey,” I say dully, too depressed to respond in kind.

She purses her lips, looking me over. After we created the perfect little dance studio just yesterday, she expected to find me cheerful.

“Popatrz!” she says, pointing to the bed. Look!

She’s already made the bed, pulling the covers tight and tucking them in as always. Then she’s spread out a dozen pieces of dancewear, including leotards, tights, warmups, socks, and two pairs of brand new pointe shoes.

This isn’t just any dancewear—it’s Yumiko bodysuits and Grishko shoes. The warmups are some of the newest pieces from Eleve. It’s better than what I have in my own closet at home. Picking up the pointe shoes, I see they’re the exact right size.

“Where did this come from?” I ask Klara weakly. “Did you buy this?”

She just shrugs, smiling.

She might have picked it up, but I don’t think she paid for it. Not that I’d want her to—I doubt she makes much money. But the alternative is worse. Did Mikolaj tell her to get all this? Because I let him kiss me?

It makes me shudder.

I want to pull it all off the bed and throw it in the trash.

I can’t do that, though. Klara looks too pleased, too hopeful.

She thought I’d be thrilled to have something better to wear than my one, increasingly tattered, bodysuit.

“Thanks, Klara,” I say, trying to force a smile.

Meanwhile, my stomach is clenched up in a knot.

I’m so confused. One minute I think the Beast is going to kill me, and the next he’s buying me gifts. I don’t know which is worse.

Klara gestures for me to put one of the outfits on.

God, I really don’t want to.

“Tutaj,” she says, picking one out for me.

It’s a backless lavender leotard, with knitted gray legwarmers and a matching crop-top. It’s really lovely. And just the right size.

I pull it on, appreciating the fine, stretchy material, how new and well-fitting it all is.

Klara stands back, smiling with satisfaction.

“Thank you,” I tell her again, more sincerely this time.

“Oczywiście,” she says. Of course.

She’s brought me breakfast—oatmeal, strawberries, and Greek yogurt. Coffee and tea as well. When I’m done eating, I head straight to my studio to get back to work.

I’ve never felt so compelled to work on a project before. Far from ruining it with his interruption, Mikolaj has given me more ideas than ever. I don’t want to say that he inspired me, but he certainly stirred up some emotions that I can pour into my work. Fear, confusion, angst, and maybe . . . a little arousal.

I’m not attracted to him. I’m absolutely not. He’s a monster, and not in the way of a normal gangster. My family might be criminals, but they’re not violent, not unless they have to be. We do what we do to get ahead in the world, not to hurt people. Mikolaj takes pleasure in making me suffer. He’s bitter and vengeful. He wants to kill everyone I love.

I could never be attracted to a man like that.

What happened last night was just the result of being locked up for weeks at a time. It was some sort of twisted Stockholm Syndrome.

When I get a boyfriend someday—when I have time, when I meet somebody nice—he’ll be sweet and complimentary. He’ll bring me flowers and hold the door for me. He won’t scare the wits out of me and attack me with a kiss that makes me feel like I’m being eaten alive.

That’s what I’m thinking as I put the record back on the turntable and set the needle in place.

But as soon as that eerie, gothic music starts up again, my mind starts drifting off in a different direction.

I picture a girl, wandering in the forest. She comes to a castle. She opens the door and creeps inside.

She’s very, very hungry. So when she finds a dining room with the table all set, she sits down to eat.

But she’s not alone at the table.

She’s sitting across from a creature.

A creature with dark, patterned skin. Sharp teeth and claws. And pale eyes, like chips of arctic ice . . .

He’s a wolf and a man all at once. And he’s horribly hungry. But not for anything on the table . . .

I work all morning, and straight through lunch. Klara sets a tray down inside my new studio. I forget to look at it until the chicken soup is stone cold.

After lunch, I spend some time studying my copy of Lalka, then I plan to take a walk around the garden. As I cross the main level of the house, I hear the unmistakable sound of Mikolaj’s voice.

It sends a current through my body.

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m slowing down to listen. He’s walking down the hallway toward me, but he hasn’t spotted me yet. It’s Mikolaj and the dark-haired one with the pleasant smile—Marcel.

I’m understanding more and more of what they say. In fact, their next sentences are so simple that understand them perfectly:

“Rosjanie są szczęśliwi,” Marcel says. The Russians are happy.

“Oczywiście że są,” Mikolaj replies. “Dwie rzeczy sprawiają, że Rosjanie są szczęśliwi. Pieniądze i wódka.” Of course they are. Two things make Russians happy—money and vodka.

Mikolaj spots me and stops short. His eyes sweep over my new clothes. I think I see the hint of a smile on his lips. I dislike it immensely.

“Finished your work for the day?” he says politely.

“Yes,” I reply.

“Now let me guess . . . a walk in the garden.”

I’m annoyed that he thinks I’m so predictable. He thinks he knows me.

I’d like to ask him what money he gave the Russians, just to see the look on his face. I want to show him he doesn’t know everything inside my head.

But that would be very foolish. Learning their language in secret is one of the only weapons I have. I can’t squander it like that. I have to use it at the right moment, when it counts.

So I force a smile onto my face. I say, “That’s right.”

Then, as the two men are about to pass me, I add, “Thank you for the new clothes, Mikolaj.”

I see the flicker of surprise on Marcel’s face. He’s just as shocked as I was that my captor is buying me presents.

The Beast doesn’t give a damn what either of us thinks.

He just shrugs and says, “Your old ones were filthy.”

Then he sweeps past me, like I don’t even exist.

Good. I don’t care if he ignores me.

Just as long as he keeps his hands to himself.

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