“You didn’t even know what those were a second ago.”

I took the clipboard from the driver, scrawled my signature, and handed it back.

“I do now,” Vadim returned stubbornly. “And I realize I have them.”

“So you would definitely protest if Nadia Smirnova wanted you to fuck her when Andrei’s finished.”

Vadim’s expression was torn, which made everyone laugh.

“Don’t think about it too hard,” Kostya said. “It’ll never happen. You don’t have a single thing a woman would want.”

“What do women want?”

Listening to their conversation, I bummed a cigarette from the driver and leaned against the truck.

“Money,” his brother told him.

This was apparently bad news for Vadim, who glanced at his scuffed boots before asking, “What else?”

“A big dick.”

The kid raised a brow. “So you don’t have what women want either.”

I blew out of a breath of smoke with a chuckle.

“You little shit.” Kostya dropped his crate and took off for Vadim, who hightailed it down the alley, hurling insults about his brother’s small dick the whole way.

I inhaled on my cigarette and thought about what women wanted and how my view had changed when Mila entered the equation.

“Get lost, kid,” the driver snapped, closing up the back of the truck and latching it with a click. The exchange was only background noise; my thoughts were centered on the girl I held captive in my home.

“I’m starving, sir.”

Mila wanted candles, world peace, and most likely a lot of household pets.

“Talk to your momma about that.”

“I don’t got one!”

“Not my problem.”

Mila would probably even like me more if I had a small dick. I bet it would remind her of a baby bird she needed to nurture.

“Hey, let me go, fatso!”

An uncomfortable edge slid through me when I realized Mila wouldn’t care if I was penniless.

“Your momma’s probably a whore!” the boy yelled. “And she’s so fat and ugly, she gets paid to keep her clothes on!”

That finally brought my attention to the scuffle happening in my alley. I pushed off the truck to see the driver dragging a young boy away while the kid punched him in the stomach, struggling to get free. So this was the starving boy deprived of a momma. And with a creatively dirty mouth. He bit the driver, who dropped him to the pavement with a harsh curse. The driver moved to hit him, but my “Nyet” froze his fist mid-air.

“Snot-nosed little brat,” he muttered to the kid before heading back to the truck.

“Hey, mister!” the boy hollered at me and got to his feet. “Can you spare a few coins?”

He appeared to only be nine or ten and small for his age, but it was the way he edged closer with his hands cupped like a cinema-inspired orphan that made me narrow my eyes. I knew what was coming before it happened, though it was too late to react.

He pulled a pistol on me, fired, and ran like a bat out of hell. Pain cut through my arm, making me drop my cigarette. I stared at the wasted nicotine with annoyance, then at the boy running down the alley.

“You’re a poor shot, kid,” I growled after him.

He turned and gave me two middle fingers.

The little fucker.

Andrei flew out the back door, pants unbuttoned and gun already drawn. Seeing the retreating kid, he started to go after him, but he stilled when I said, “Let him go.”

It wasn’t the boy who shot me. That was on Alexei. Contempt flared in my chest knowing I’d be busy with more of his shit all day.

zemlyanika

(n.) wild strawberries

A tap to the cheek pulled me out of a deep sleep.

I didn’t need to open my eyes to know who woke me. She smelled like strawberries. I’d never been a fan of the fruit before her, but now, the scent made me hungry. And hard. Her hair caressed my bare chest. I was about to wrap a few strands around my fist and pull her mouth to mine, though I didn’t get the chance.

She slapped me hard.

“What the fuck, Mila?” I growled, waking fully.

I was lying on the drawing room couch, a throbbing arm hanging off the side. Awkwardly, I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten here. When I’d said I would be busy with Alexei’s shit today, I meant it. The last thing I remembered was dealing with one of my train cars that derailed, crashed, and then exploded when I arrived. Little white pills had fallen from the sky like snow.

With a distressed noise, Mila shoved at my chest. I clenched my teeth. Apparently, I wasn’t waking to her sweet side tonight. She tried to push away from me, but I grabbed her wrist.

“I couldn’t get you to wake up!” she cried breathlessly. “I thought—I . . .”

The sight of tears streaming down her cheeks tightened my throat. She’d thought I was dead. No way I’d go down half-naked lying on a loveseat. The idea would almost be amusing if seeing Mila cry didn’t make me feel like shit. Though the fact those tears were for me sent a warm sensation to my chest I could only associate with Christmas cheer. I didn’t even like Christmas.

“I thought you believed I couldn’t die, kotyonok,” I said roughly.

She swallowed. “There’s so much blood . . .”

A full moon lit the room almost as well as the overhead light. Blood dripped down my arm, coating my chest and her hands. She must have taken off my shirt to check the damage. I was surprised I didn’t wake up, though I hadn’t taken care of the gunshot wound as well as I should have. Alexei’s games made that impossible.

Albert had dug the bullet out and wrapped up my arm, but it seemed to be bleeding decently now by the small puddle on the floor. The fact I could move my arm fine told me it looked a lot worse than it was.

“It’s not all mine.” The blood on my chest wasn’t.

“Whose?” Her voice wavered. She probably thought it was her papa’s. It should be. Would be.

“A priest’s.” As blasphemous as it sounded, he was a really shitty priest on Alexei’s payroll.

She sawed her lip between her teeth. “Oh.”

I was sure she’d have something more to say once the statement sank in, but she remained silent, sitting on the edge of the couch in nothing but one of my T-shirts. She looked like Michelangelo’s wet dream. As usual, she wasn’t wearing a bra, her nipples visible beneath the white fabric. Apparently, I still had some blood left in me, and it rushed to my groin.

Tear-stained cheeks. Glistening eyes. Legs I would die for. She was so beautiful, the sight punched me in the gut. A train car had exploded like a scene in an action movie, but when pills dropped from the sky, all I saw was the memory of Mila dressed in yellow, standing on cracked pavement catching snowflakes in her hand.

Greedier men than me were out there—her papa included—but I suddenly knew I had them beat as the impatient, covetous heat erupted inside for this girl who cried for me.

Pulling her lip free from her teeth, I ran an inked thumb across her mouth. “Nothing to say about my blackened soul?”

Her soft eyes lifted to mine. “No.”

My gaze hardened, her response sending an irrational lash of annoyance through me. The knowledge was difficult to admit to myself, but I liked this girl an indecent amount. I liked her in my home—even with all the mud she dragged in. I liked her full attention and smart mouth. But what I really liked was her heart—the pliable organ in her chest I could mold to fit my hand like Play-Doh.