Silken Chains (Bond by Morozov Bratva Book 1) (Bond by Morozov Bratva Series)

BREAKFAST IS an extravagant affair straight out of a glossy magazine, all thanks to Naomi, the young redhead who brought it in.

I’m digging into a fluffy omelet, rich with herbs and cheese, and some perfectly salty bacon on the side. Then there are these pancakes, soaking in maple syrup, topped with a melting butter blob—insanely delicious.

I chomp down on a heart-shaped melon slice.

“Mmm…” I can’t help but moan, the taste so fresh, it’s like it was just picked off the vine this morning.

I look around the room, my head still spinning from last night. What the hell was I thinking? The luxury around me feels surreal, like I’ve stepped into someone else’s life. Wrapped in this soft hotel robe, I feel out of place yet oddly regal.

No, not regal—more like Julia Roberts in “Pretty Woman,” but without the hooker part.

I check the time. It’s still early, not as early as when Victor left after washing me up, drying my hair—something no one’s ever done for me—and tucking me into bed.

Then he gets a call, his face tightening up, all serious. Next thing I know, he’s hastily throwing on his clothes, clearly annoyed.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Victor’s whisper echoes in my ears. “If I don’t see you here when I get back, you’ll get your punishment.”

“You can’t keep me here; that is called kidnapping,” I remember protesting, feeling his hands over my neck, his breath against my lips.

“Do as I say, Laura,” he demands, his teeth grazing my nipple before he sucks it into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud.

“No,” I gasp, my hands tangling in his hair as he sucks and licks at my nipple, sending jolts of pleasure straight to my core. I try to push him away, but my body betrays me, arching into his touch.

“You, little firecracker, are mine,” he growls, his hands gripping my waist, pulling me closer.

“It’s creepy when you keep saying that,” I shoot back, rolling my eyes. But I’m clenching my pussy, responding to his touch with a maddening mix of frustration and desire. “And I’m not yours,” I manage, my voice breathy and unconvincing even to my own ears.

He doesn’t laugh. His stare is intense, unwavering. “Be a good girl, little firecracker,” he warns, his fingers digging into my skin.

I meet his gaze head-on, defiant. “Not happening.” The words are out before I can stop them, tumbling from my lips in a rush. “I’ll never see you again, Mr. Victor Morozov.”

Even as I say it, my heart sinks, a hollow ache settling in my chest. But I can’t take it back now. I won’t.

His eyes flash, something dangerous and possessive swirling in their depths. He leans in close, his lips brushing against my ear.

“We’ll see about that, won’t we, Laura?” His voice is a low rumble, a promise and a threat all in one.

I shiver, my pulse racing. I know I should push him away, should run as far and as fast as I can. But some traitorous part of me wants to stay, wants to see just how far this dangerous game will go.

God help me, but I’m not sure I’m strong enough to resist him. Not when he looks at me like that, touches me like that.

Like I’m his for the taking, and nothing in the world can stop him.

Stop it, Laur. Stop this.

Yeah, it’s been wild and crazy. But it’s time to dive back into my own chaos.

Then, suddenly, he flips me over. His hand comes down on my ass with a sharp smack that echoes in the room. It stings, burns even, and I can’t help but let out a gasp, a mix of shock and something else, something heated.

“Don’t think of leaving without my permission,” he taunts, his voice low and dangerous.

I try to wriggle away, but he’s too strong. “You can’t just spank me into staying, you know.”

Victor moves in close, his breath hot on my ear. “Perhaps I can, Laura.”

And then he just stops.

He stands up straight, gives me one more heated look that makes my insides twist. Without a word, he storms out the door, leaving me a jumbled mess of anger, confusion, and a burning desire that I can’t fucking ignore.

Damn him.

How long does he expect me to wait? A day? A year? Forever?

I decide to test my boundaries, to see if I’m actually free to leave. I walk to the balcony, taking cautious steps, half-expecting someone to stop me or a drone to buzz overhead with guns blazing. But nothing happens. The sky is clear, the sun warm on my skin.

Staring down at the city below, I’m hit with a sudden resolve.

“Screw this,” I mutter to myself. “Who does he think he is?” I can’t just stick around waiting for a hot, sexy, ass-spanking hotel owner, no matter how tempting that idea is.

I storm back into the room, ditching any lingering fantasies.

With a sharp thwack, I smack my face, jolting myself back to reality. No more getting lost in thoughts about that stranger’s touch.

Naked, with only a hotel robe for cover. My phone’s as dead as my bank account.

Who cares if I look like a spa escapee?

“Not happening again,” I quietly assure myself, pretty sure that was the final chapter with him.

Stupid.

So fucking stupid.

Broken condom, hot dangerous stranger, and the best sex ever still don’t justify this madness.

What the hell was I thinking?

Hauling the Hotel V robe back to my cramped apartment, I give it a long, hard stare. The soft fabric, emblazoned with that damn “V,” taunts me. My heart skips a beat. V for Victor.

His cologne still clings to it, a faint but distinct reminder of him threading through my senses. Damn him.

Get a grip, Laura.

After a quick, squeaky shower, I’m back in my jeans and sweater—the usual Laura. Stepping out into the brisk air, I head for the nearest pharmacy.

The bell above the pharmacy door jingles as I enter. Behind the counter, there’s Linda, with her ever-present knowing smile.

“Plan… Plan-B, please,” I request, avoiding her gaze.

Linda’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but she quickly masks it with a professional smile. “Here you go,” she says, handing over the pill.

I just nod, slapping down the cash without another word. A hot wave of shame and guilt surges in my chest.

“Have a lovely day,” I mumble, mustering every ounce of politeness before bolting out the door.

Back in my apartment, I throw the pharmacy bag on the table and glare at it. “Nice job, Laura,” I grumble to myself.

Grabbing the morning-after pill, I gulp it down with a swig of water.

It’s done.

My chest clenches, a raw, nagging ache. Three years and two days with David, and every damn time I brought up kids, he shut me down cold. Just like that.

Sometimes, I envy watching Ser and James. They’ve got it all—love, laughter, and little Lucas toddling around, tying them together in the cutest way possible. They’re like a beacon of what true love and family should be, a stark contrast to the emptiness I feel with David.

I should’ve seen it coming. That deceitful, backstabbing bastard.

Shaking off thoughts of David, I pull my phone from its charger, the screen dark and lifeless until I power it up. The moment it comes to life, it’s like opening a floodgate.

Correction. More like a hell’s gate of digital chaos.

Messages and missed calls swarm the screen.

God, what a mess.

Missed calls from UNKNOWN NUMBER at 8.15 a.m., then again at 9.37 a.m., and 9.48 a.m. Who the hell is that persistent?

My fingers hover over the delete button, but curiosity wins. I leave them be for now.

Then, Mr. Henderson’s name blinks back at me from the screen, a glaring reminder of the headache I’m about to face.

Sixteen missed calls from 6:35 a.m. to 10.55 a.m. from my landlord is not odd at all, the guy’s got the patience of a toddler, but this time, I get why he’s freaking out.

In my mind’s eye, I see his face: mid-50s, skin like leather from too many years of scowling under the sun, and eyes that don’t miss a trick. He’s the kind of guy who’d charge you for breathing if he could. No love for late rent or fresh ideas to spruce up his decaying two-story monument to the past. He must’ve caught wind of the bookstore looking like a set piece from a ghost story.

Sorry, but I just can’t handle his drama right now. I’ll deal with him later. More missed calls and messages flood my screen. I let out a dry laugh.

Laura Anne Thompson, girl, you’re more popular than a celebrity in a scandal.

I tap on Dad’s texts, my fingers trembling with dread.

Dad (7:24 a.m.): “Laura, what have you screwed up now?”

Dad (7:27 a.m.): “This is on you. Don’t expect me to bail you out again.”

His words sting like a slap. I grit my teeth, feeling that familiar wave of resentment.

Dad (7:31 a.m.): “Can’t you do anything right? The bookstore was fine before you took over.”

Dad (7:35 a.m.): “You’re just like your mother, making a mess of things. I won’t fix your blunders forever.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out his harsh words. My breathing is ragged, each text a reminder of his constant criticism.

No, not now. I can’t deal with this now.

I switch to Serena’s messages, desperate for a shred of sanity.

Gothic Goddess Ser (8.55 a.m.): “Lulu, where are you? Haven’t heard from you since last night. Are you okay??”

Gothic Goddess Ser (9:12 a.m.): “Seriously, I’m starting to freak out here. *Worried face emoji Please just text me back.”

Missed call from Gothic Goddess Ser at 9.13 a.m.

Gothic Goddess Ser (9:35 a.m.): “Okay, now I’m imagining all sorts of terrible scenarios. Are you safe? *Anxious face emoji”

Gothic Goddess Ser (10:03 a.m.): “Hey, if you hooked up with some hot billionaire and ran off to Paris, at least send a postcard! *Laughing face emoji”

If only, Ser. If only my life was that kind of mess.

Gothic Goddess Ser (10:07 a.m.): “Lulu, if you don’t text me back soon, I’m calling the cops. *Angry face emoji”

I glance at the clock. It’s nearly 11:00 a.m.

Gothic Goddess Ser (10:19 a.m.): “Alright, that’s it. I’m coming over. *Angry face with steam from nose emoji. And you better not be in Paris!”

Missed call from Gothic Goddess Ser at 10.32 a.m.

I tap the screen to call Serena, and at the first ring, her voice blasts through both my phone and from just outside my door.

“Laura!” she yells, her voice a mix of concern and a drill sergeant’s command. “Laura Anne Thompson!” The second call-out is even louder, accompanied by a series of frantic knocks that sound like a SWAT team’s about to breach.

I can’t help but crack a smile. I open the door, still clutching my phone.

There stands Serena, phone pressed to her ear, her other hand raised mid-knock like she’s ready to break down the door.

“I’m right here, Ser,” I say, half-laughing.

Her eyes widen in mock horror. “Thank God! I was about to call in a search party! Or worse, your dad!”

She barges in, still on the phone, now eyeing my apartment like she’s expecting to find a secret passage or a hidden hostage.

“Ser, you can hang up now,” I say, ending the call on my phone.

She dramatically presses “end call” and then turns to me, eyebrows raised. “You go MIA, miss calls and texts. What was I supposed to think? That you’d run off to Vegas to marry a Chippendale?”

“Sorry, I…” I pause.

Still in high gear, Serena strides over to my kitchen. She grabs a glass, filling it with water, her movements exaggerated, almost theatrical.

“Or worse, what if you got nabbed by a horny werewolf looking for his moonlit soulmate?” she quips, a mischievous glint in her eye, no doubt a spark from her latest paranormal romance.

Forcing a weak laugh, I shake my head. “Yeah, because my life’s just a page out of one of your novels, right?”

Serena takes a dramatic sip of water, then places the glass down with a flourish. “With the way your luck runs? I wouldn’t be surprised. So, spill it. What kind of trouble did you dive into this time?”

I shake my head, amused yet grateful for her concern. “Nothing so exciting, Ser. I just got drunk…”

Sorry, Ser, but I’m not about to spill the beans on my fling with one of the sexiest humans I’ve met.

Trying to change the subject. “How’s Lucas?” I ask.

Serena gulps down the rest of the water as if she’s just trekked through the Sahara. She switches to mom mode effortlessly. “Oh, the little guy’s got the sniffles. James is doing the whole ‘Daddy to the rescue’ bit, playing astronauts. They’re probably on a mission to Mars as we speak.”

Now she’s rummaging through my fridge, on the hunt for something edible. She pulls out an old pack of cheese slices, peeling one off, and popping it into her mouth like it’s gourmet.

“I’m really sorry for bailing on you last night… Lucas was being super cl-clingy and…” Her voice trails off as her eyes lock onto my table. The cheese slice hangs forgotten from her fingers.

Serena’s smile vanishes, replaced by shock. “Hang on… Lulu, is that what I think it is?” She points, mouth wide open.

“Oh, my God, is that a morning-after pill?”