Ruthless Bratva King (New York Russian Mafia Kings #1)

14. Elena

14

ELENA

Three days later…

T he soft hum of my favorite library is welcome after the chaos of the last few days.

In front of me, the application for the architecture course sits half-completed, its pages begging for my full attention.

I keep getting distracted, wondering whether or not Dmitri will come looking for me.

Three days since I ran from him and nothing has happened. No SUVs outside my building, no breaking into my place with lock-picks, nothing.

I chew on the end of my pen, staring at the section that asks for a personal statement.

What do I put? I came into the world as a mistake and have been reminded of that fact regularly since? I turned to drawing buildings to connect with a grandfather I hardly knew?

How do I summarize a lifetime of feeling like I wasn’t good enough? Of being told I should leave the dreaming to others with bigger brains than mine?

The doubts creep in, uninvited as always. Maybe I’m not good enough. My father might be right.

No. I shake my head, forcing the thoughts away. I’m doing this for me. For the part of me that still believes I can create something better, even if no one else ever believes in me.

“Elena,” a voice says, deep and smooth.

I freeze. My heart stutters in my chest. I don’t need to look up to know who it is. He’s found me.

Dmitri.

Slowly, as if drawn against my will, I lift my gaze. He’s standing on the other side of the table, his dark eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my pulse thunder in my ears. He looks as out of place in the library as a lion in a petting zoo.

“What are you doing here?” My voice comes out sharper than I intend, but I don’t care.

I don’t like the way he’s looking at me, like he knows every secret I’ve ever tried to keep hidden from the world.

“I’m curious,” he replies, his lips curling into a faint, almost mocking smile. “Did you think I wouldn’t come after you?”

My jaw tightens. “I’m working on something. If you’ll excuse me?—”

He pulls out the chair across from me and sits down, uninvited. Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on the table and steeples his fingers, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Tell me, Elena. What is it that holds your focus so well I could have shot you twice before you noticed me?”

I grit my teeth, my fingers curling into fists beneath the table. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“No,” he agrees, his smile widening, “but I’ll take one anyway.”

There’s something about the way he says it, the confidence in his tone, that makes my blood boil. “If you must know, I’m applying for a college course in architecture. Happy now?”

His brow lifts, and he tilts his head, studying me. “Glad you took my advice,” he says at last.

“Shouldn’t you be out chopping people up?” I reply stiffly, hating how small his scrutiny makes me feel. “Or beating up cops?”

He leans back in his chair, his movements deliberate, calculated. “Do you know what your father stole?”

His words are a slap to the face, and I recoil as if physically struck. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “When he gets in touch, tell him Peter Ivanov wants it back.”

“Stop stalking me, Dmitri.”

He gives a low chuckle. “I’m insulted, moya lisitsa. If I was stalking you, you’d have no idea. This is just basic stuff.”

What does the Russian mean? What is he calling me?

I get to my feet and turn away. “I’m going now,” I manage, my voice small.

“Miss Carlton.” His tone cuts through the quiet like a whip, low and controlled but laced with something dark.

I jolt, spinning around to find him standing directly behind me. How did he move so silently? The forms I’ve been working on are in his hand, the edges of the paper pinched between his long, strong fingers.

“You forgot these,” he says, his gaze locking onto mine. His voice is calm, but there’s a smoldering intensity in his eyes that makes my throat go dry.

I snatch the papers from him. For the briefest second, our fingers touch and I shudder at the frisson of energy that passes between us.

I clutch the papers to my chest. “Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask as he continues to stare without blinking.

He steps closer, so close I can smell the faint hint of cologne and something distinctly him. My pulse races as he leans down, his voice a dark whisper. “Because I want to fuck you.”

I gasp, my cheeks flushing.

What? What did he say? This can’t be real. Things like this don’t happen to unloved, plain-looking girls.

“Have you ever been fucked before, Elena?” he continues. “Ever wondered what it’s like to be with a man like me? Someone who knows exactly what he would do with that gorgeous body of yours?”

I shake my head, trying to regain control of the situation, of myself. “You need to leave.”

“I thought you were the one leaving,” he says, straightening but not stepping back. “But we both know you don’t want to. Not anymore.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want to pull that hideous sweater off you and play with those hard little nipples of yours.”

Holy shit. His eyes sear me like a brand, and I struggle to speak, shock stealing my breath.

“You can’t say that,” I hiss, trying to keep my voice down so the librarian doesn’t throw us out. “I could have you arrested for this.”

“Me?” he murmurs. “No, you couldn’t, and you know it. And let’s be honest—you want my fingers plunging into your pussy while you moan my name. You want me to taste how wet you get while I lick your swollen clit, don’t you?”

My face burns, my heart hammering so hard it feels like it might break free of my ribcage. No one ever said things like this to me, let alone a dangerous, problematic creature like Dmitri.

“You can’t talk to me that way,” I say, my voice weak.

“Why not?” he challenges, his eyes dark and dangerous. “You wanted the truth. I want you, Elena. But the more important question is, do you want me?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. He takes a slow step toward me, his movements fluid, and I freeze.

“Do you know what your problem is, Elena?” he asks, his mouth beside my ear.

“My problem?” I snap, trying to ignore the way my body reacts to the sound of my name on his lips. “ You’re my problem. You won’t leave me alone.”

He chuckles, a low, dangerous sound that sends shivers down my spine. “Your problem,” he continues, ignoring my outburst, “is that you keep running from the things you want.”

My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He’s close now, too close, the clean, woodsy scent of him teasing my senses.

“You don’t know me,” I whisper.

“Don’t I?” He steps closer still, until there’s barely an inch between us. His voice drops to a low rumble, for my ears only. “You run from your talent. You run from your desire. It must be exhausting, being you.”

I’m trembling, every nerve ending alight, but I refuse to let him see how much his words affect me. “You’re delusional.”

He smirks, his eyes raking over me. “Am I?”

I try to move past him, but his hand shoots out, gripping my wrist—not hard, but firm enough to make me stop.

“Let go of me,” I say.

He loosens his grip, and I stagger back from him, my breath shallow.

“Leave me alone,” I say, walking backwards toward the door. “I’m nobody. Don’t do this to me.”

“No can do, I’m afraid,” he murmurs, his smile laced with promise. “And when we meet again, I’ll make you admit you want me.”