Inked Adonis (Litvinov Bratva Book 1)

Katerina slithers away, which already makes this the best moment of my day.

Then Rufus’s ears perk up, his tail doing that slow-build wag that means trouble.

I follow his gaze and⁠—

Holy.

Hell.

I thought Samuil looked devastating in a suit. But watching him run, all rippling abs and sweat-slicked muscles? Pure torture. His golden-brown hair is wind-tousled, his sculpted legs eating up the ground like he owns every inch of Chicago soil he treads on.

Which, let’s be honest, he probably does.

I wave before I can stop myself, grinning like an idiot.

Then I remember I’m currently in charge of a horny Great Dane with impulse control issues.

I whirl around to face Rufus. “No. Humping.”

He cocks his head, and I swear I can hear the two brain cells in his skull bouncing around like a Windows screensaver. He’s my favorite being on earth, but Einstein he is not.

“Rufus.” I raise my fist in what’s supposed to be the hand signal for “sit,” but usually triggers something closer to twerking. He gets so excited that he can’t physically keep his butt on the ground.

Lady Luck has me in her sights today because, miracle upon miracle, Rufus sits. All the way down! Praise be to the heavens above!

I resist the urge to clap so I don’t rile Rufus up again. If the trend continues, he’ll tangle Samuil and me in his leash and scale the nearest tree like a grizzly bear. Instead, I offer him a steady stream of training treats. “Good boy, Ru-Ru. Good boy. Who is the goodest boy?”

His tail thumps harder and harder, letting me know Samuil is close. I turn with a smile, ready to showcase my latest training success⁠—

Until I see Samuil’s face.

I’ve never seen him like this before. Not in real life or any of the thousands of Google images I scrolled through.

The man striding toward us isn’t the same one who fucked me senseless yesterday. This isn’t the guy who made me laugh with dry observations about Rufus’s humping habits.

This is someone else entirely.

Someone dangerous.

I know that look. I grew up with that look. It’s been seared into my bones since childhood, encoded in my DNA: the expression of a man about to unleash hell.

Samuil isn’t just angry.

He’s murderous.

I take one step back and then another. I fumble for my phone even though I have no idea who I’d call to report this to—or what I’d even report. “Help, the billionaire who rearranged my insides yesterday now looks ready to bury me in his private cemetery’?

Rufus rises in front of me like a furry shield, his huge body uncoiling inch by inch as Samuil stalks closer.

Without taking his gaze off of me, Samuil holds out a hand to Rufus. “Sit.”

The traitor drops his ass to the ground instantly. If I wasn’t about to piss myself in terror, I’d be taking notes.

“Samuil? What’s⁠—”

“You’re coming with me.” In one fluid motion that speaks of way too much practice, he relieves me of both my phone and Rufus’s leash. He tucks the phone into his pocket while his other hand locks around my wrist.

Run, my brain screams. Fight. Scream. Do something.

Samuil is big, but we’re surrounded by witnesses. Bird nerds with their binoculars pointed skyward. LARPers swinging foam swords in the meadow like discount Knights of the Round Table.

Scream, that voice begs again. For God’s sake, scream.

But I can’t.

I’m fourteen again, frozen in place while my father’s rage fills every atom of air in the room. My body knows this dance.

Stay still. Stay quiet. Survive.

Samuil doesn’t even seem to notice as he drags me forward like I weigh nothing.

I trip along behind him, struggling to keep up with the pace he’s setting. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t acknowledge my existence beyond the bruising grip on my wrist.

I want to breathe, but I can’t. We’re moving too fast. My head is too fuzzy. The world spins like a kaleidoscope of terror, all fractured light and twisted shadows.

I stumble over my own feet again, and a pathetic sob escapes my parched lips. Finally, Samuil peers back.

I know what he’s seeing. The same face I’ve seen in my bathroom mirror countless times.

Ashen face. Bloodless lips. Angry hives trailing my arms and neck.

His molten rage seems to thaw. Not enough for him to become the Samuil I thought I knew, but just enough that he changes course and leads me to a bench.

He forces me down into the seat and squats down in front of me. The hand he places on my thigh is surprisingly light.

“P-panic attack,” I croak. It’s the most he’s going to get from me right now. Honestly, it’s about three and a half more syllables than I thought I was capable of.

My heart is pounding so fast I’m positive it’s going to explode. I’ll die right here on this bench. They’ll name it after me, maybe. A nice little plaque to commemorate how I spontaneously combusted from trauma and pheromones.

“Breathe, Nova.” His hands work up and down my thighs, the steady rhythm at odds with the fury boiling in his eyes.

Slowly, I can feel my own skin again. I’m in my body—still sweat-damp and shaky, but here.

Samuil takes my hand and places it on Rufus’s neck. He forces my fingers through his soft fur until I’m able to do it myself.

“Look at the white spot on Rufus’s neck. Focus on it.”

It’s my favorite spot: a little heart-shaped patch of white fur.

So I focus on it.

And I’ll be damned: it helps.

Everything narrows to that one spot of white fur. My fingers trace its edges, counting the strokes, memorizing the shape. One… two… three… Until the static in my head quiets to a dull roar.

But peace is a luxury I apparently don’t deserve today.

Because the millisecond my breathing is approaching something close to normal, Samuil hauls me back to my feet and shepherds me towards the west side of Lincoln Park. At least he’s slowed his pace. I don’t have to trip over my feet trying to keep up, and I’m able to focus on my breathing. In and out, in and out. Easy as pie. It’s almost like I’ve been doing it my whole life or something.

Then we round a corner. A black SUV idles along the curb, two huge men flanking the open back door.

Just like that, breathing is hard again.

One of the men takes Rufus’s leash, and I don’t know what it says about me that that is when I finally find my voice.

“No. You can’t…!”

But they can.

They do.

An extremely confused Rufus is loaded into the back of the car, and I’m lifted into the backseat. I watch Samuil’s hands buckle me in and tighten the strap.

Yesterday, his hands were on my skin—gentle and warm and incredible.

Now, they might as well be closing around my throat.

The door booms shut, and I don’t understand anything. Is this some kind of trafficking operation? Was yesterday my trial to see if I had what it takes? Are my kidneys worth a good amount on the black market?

My stomach roils and my lunch is threatening to make a reappearance.

Samuil slides into the seat next to me and punches the ceiling twice. The vehicle pulls away from the curb and merges into traffic.

Any hope of screaming for help evaporates. We’re alone in this rolling tomb, he has my phone, and my voice is playing possum somewhere in my chest.

Think, Nova. If this were a scary movie, what would you be yelling at the heroine to do? I try to see where we’re going, to track the turns, but the windows are blacked out. It feels like we’re moving west, but that means exactly nothing to me.

Samuil finally turns to face me. His expression could freeze hell itself.

“How long have you been working for Katerina Alekseeva?”