Raw Bloody Power

Chapter 12

12

WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?

Rio

My nostrils flare, knuckles bleaching over from the strength of my grip on the wheel as I listen to Koshka laying it on Ivory thick. It’s been almost an hour of this shit.

The worst part?

She’s feeling it.

I can tell by the flirtatious lilt to her laugh and the way her voice takes on this seductive edge after he compliments her. They’re going on drink number three and she has his full, undivided attention. Hell, he has hers, too. The latter was not part of the plan.

Who gives a flying fuck if she’s into it? Better she be his problem than yours…

“I’d be interested to see if you could pull off making Medovik,” Koshka throws out, earning him an intrigued hum .

“Never heard of it. What’s in it?” she queries.

“It’s a popular dessert in Russia made with honey and either condensed milk, buttermilk, custard, or the traditional sour cream. Thin layers of honeyed cake are layered with the sweetened cream, and then the reserved bits of the pastry are blitzed into crumbs and used to coat the confection.”

“Mmm. Sounds delicious,” Ivory purrs, not only irking me further but kicking my cock beneath my slacks, too.

Fucking Christ.

Koshka makes a similar sound, and regardless of the fact I can’t see him, I can hear the sly grin stretch his lips. “It is, trust me. Legend has it that Tsar Alexander’s wife adored it and indulged in it quite often, despite her well-known dislike for honey.”

“You’ll have to get me the recipe. Sounds easy enough… and now I want some.” Again with the purring.

My grip tightens impossibly more, teeth grinding as I force myself to breathe.

What the hell is wrong with you? This is what you wanted, remember? You begged for her help, knowing she could pull this off. This is her pulling it off.

“A little cocky, are you?” Benedikt chuckles.

“Confident, Mr. Koshka, not cocky. I might not have gone to some fancy pastry school, but my skills rival the best.”

“I bet they can.” He sounds much closer to the mic this time, stirring images of him invading her breathing space within the suddenly too tight confines of my mind. “And please, let’s keep it to Benedikt, malish . Mr. Koshka was my father.”

Malish. I’ve heard that before. Nadia’s said it in passing here and there, mostly after I’ve made her come. I never asked what it meant because frankly, I don’t give a shit, but I’m curious now…

Ripping my phone from the cup holder, I type the word into Google, and the search results do nothing to calm the already thundering beat of my pulse.

Baby. It means baby in fucking Russian—as in the term of endearment.

“Was?” Ivory’s query refocuses my attention.

Koshka hums, ice cubes clinking against glass resounding immediately after. “He passed almost a year ago.” An alerting whistle follows in what I can only assume is to flag down the bartender for yet another drink. Pretty sure he’s far past Ivory’s third.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ivory laments, and it’s genuine, not remotely forced in any capacity.

I wish it was.

“I appreciate it. Given I’m in one of the best bars in Jersey with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, though, I’m gonna go ahead and say he’s still with me. My good luck charm.”

Do not laugh. Do not fucking ? —

She does just that, low and deep in her throat, a sexy as sin cadence my cock reacts to yet again. “There’s no need to flatter me, you know? You’ve already bought me, what? Two drinks.”

“Three, and I’d like to do much more than that if I’m being completely honest,” he states smoothly. “But I’m nothing if not a gentleman, so drinks with one hell of a view is perfect for tonight.”

“And what view might that be ‘cause all I’m seeing is a wall of liquor bottles.”

“I was talking about you, Ivory.”

She blushes, I know she does. It’s distinct in the bout of silence between them, rising my hackles in ways I can’t explain. Unreasonable, ridiculous, unwarranted— immature. I don’t understand it. Feels like I’m eighteen again, glaring at every motherfucker who so much as dares to look her way.

She’s not mine anymore, and I sure as fuck don’t want her to be. So why? Why is this bothering me so much? Why is it affecting me like this?

Ivory goes on to laugh, a cheeky little tsk in tow, but I don’t catch the actual reply as my phone buzzes is my hand, dragging my attention down to the screen.

Zeb

Loaded up and heading out. You’re good to go.

Fucking finally.

Me

No issues?

None whatsoever.

Perfect.

Hastily opening my newly formed thread with Ivory, I smash my thumbs against the keypad and type out a quick message.

Me

It’s done. Start wrapping it up. I’ll be out front.

She did it, pulled this shit off like it was just another’s day work. Deep down, I had no doubts. I wouldn’t’ve asked for her help otherwise, and yet at the same time, I’m always prepared for the worst. Always expecting the worst. It comes with the territory sometimes.

“…should really get going. I have a long day tomorrow, early start,” Ivory states, her tone saccrine and uttely sweet. There’s a gulp, followed by the clink of her martini glass on the bar top. Apparently, espresso martinis are her thing.

Unsurprising. She’s always been a coffee addict.

“Are you driving?” Benedikt questions, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he sounds slightly concerned, curving my brow in question.

Where are you going with this, Koshka?

“Oh, no. I knew I’d be drinking tonight.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re walking home,” he presses, luring a full-on cackle out of Ivory.

“In these heels? I think not. It’s too far of a walk, anyway. I’ll catch a taxi or an Uber.”

“Can I offer you a ride instead?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely- not,” I growl, ripping my phone out of the cupholder a second time with such speed, it nearly fumbles out of my grasp.

Me

NO .

The buzz of her phone is audible through the connection, her brief silence a tell she’s reading the singular word I just sent. Humming in what sounds like amusement, she rises onto her feet, the click of her heels meeting the floor. “Hold that thought,” she coos, their close proximity undeniable. “I’m just gonna run to the little girl’s room real quick.”

“I’m not going anywhere, malish,” he replies, and then she’s moving, chatter, laughter, and music louder now that her voice isn’t at the forefront.

The squeak of the bathroom door eventually comes through, then a similar squeal likely for every single stall as she combs through the restroom to ensure she’s alone. There’s a rustling seconds later, too.

“What do you mean no?” she asks me, the mic clearly millimeters away from her mouth now.

Exactly what you think it means. You’re not leaving with him.

Ivory snorts a laugh and I swear I can all but see her eyes rolling. “You don’t own me, Rio. Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?”

Right now? Your ticket to getting your dad’s shit back.

“Be so fucking for real right now. Clearly, your plan worked as intended, which means I held up my end of the deal. Pay up,” she grinds out.

Her demand means nothing to me in this moment. I’m heated, streams of proverbial smoke billowing from my ears. It takes nothing more than a mere blink and I’ve typed out my response, sending it with a slam of my thumb.

Are you telling me you WANT to leave with him?

“Yes, I think I do, actually,” she retorts.

Has she lost her goddamn mind?

Clearly, you’ve had too much to drink and have lost any sense of self-preservation. You’re not leaving with him—end of story. Walk back out there, tell him you ordered an Uber, and I’ll be out front in ten minutes.

Ivory full-on guffaws, slamming a hand down onto whatever surface is closest to her. “The fact you think I’m following any singular command that comes out of your mouth is honestly hysterical. Get fucked, Rio. I’m not leaving with you and I expect my dad’s shipment to be at the port by tomorrow morning at the latest. Have a wonderful rest of your evening,” she sneers, and then it’s clear she’s tossed the mic into the trash, her heels tapping further and further away until only the lingering squeal of the door opening and closing remains.

Me

You did not just throw that thing into the trash.

Ivory

I did, yes.

Are you seriously this stupid? He’s bad news.

Worse than you? Highly doubt that.

Ivory, I’m serious. Do NOT get in the car with him.

Too late.

Why are you like this?

My dad’s shipment. The port. Tomorrow morning. GOOD NIGHT, RIO.

I type out a bible-sized reply through clenched teeth, the blood racing through my veins on pure fire, and hit send. Only the ‘delivered’ notification never appears beneath it. I wait a moment, thinking it’s a simple delay, but it never comes.

She fucking blocked my number.