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

I’M REELING, backpedaling on heels that seem to have a vendetta against my balance. The corridor offers a getaway, its EXIT sign winking at me like an accomplice in a heist.

Great, just great.

Standing as tall as my wobbling stance allows, I pull in my stomach, cursing the too-tight dress that’s now an enemy of my breathing.

Maybe Mr. Tall, Dark, Stormy-eyes, and Rude had a point.

Bad choice, Laura.

But then again, when have I ever made the right ones?

I risk a glance back at him; there’s no mistaking it. Mr. Stormy Eyes is still devouring me with that gaze like I’m his last supper or something.

Wrong move, Laura.

His eyes spark with a kind of wild thrill that nearly has me doing the unthinkable—turning my G-string into a water park.

I would like to breathe in his gorgeous roguish five o’clock shadow and dazzlingly white teeth a bit more, but I’d just end up boosting his already big head.

“Stay with me, Kiska.” he commands.

Oh. God.

I clench my pussy tight.

Come on, feet, don’t fail me. March on, and don’t you dare stop.

But I do not march on.

The raw power behind those three words leaves me momentarily dazed. Has anyone ever commanded my attention—my body—with such implicit force?

“Wh-why?” I barely recognize the whisper as my own, my nipples tightening painfully against my dress.

Damnit, Laura, tear your eyes off him.

But his gaze intensifies, his gray eyes turning dark, narrowing just slightly, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. A rush of warmth floods my cheeks.

His eyes lock on mine, nailing me to the spot.

“Let’s just say you owe me…” He stops. “Stay for a drink with me. Or are you hurrying back to your… husband?”

“I… I don’t have a husband. I mean, I had a husband, but… but now he is gone,” I blurt out.

Great, Laura, just air your dirty laundry to Mr. High-and-Mighty with a stormy gaze.

Technically, I’ve got a husband, but he took off—ran off with Polly and my cash. So, yeah, married, but… not really.

Before I can answer myself, Mr. Stormy Eyes sidles up close, and his cologne just about knocks me sideways.

His stare is locked in, like he’s trying to crack a safe that is my brain.

With a casual flick of his fingers, he summons over a waitress who scrambles to hand him a glass filled with something that looks suspiciously like it could strip paint.

He offers it to me. “Drink.”

I balk. “No. I don’t even know your name,” I say, trying to sound uninterested, though curiosity is nibbling at me.

He leans in, his lips brushing my ear as he shouts over the pulsing beat. “Victor,” he says, and something in his accent makes it sound like he’s not just saying his name but casting a spell—Vik-torr.

My G-string is so wet it feels like a flood between my legs. Heat radiates from my core, and I can feel his gaze on my skin.

Ohmygod.

Ohmyfuckinggod.

What is he doing to me?

I pretend to stifle a laugh. “What was that? Vodka?” I shout back because it sounds like he’s straight out of a Russian spy novel.

I want to run my hands all over him, feel the heat radiating from his body.

Stop it. Laura.

Go home. Laura.

“Stay, Laura,” he purrs. He looks like he’s used to getting his way, muscles bulging like he bench-presses boulders for fun, clearing the room with just a stare.

For a split second, my brain stops working.

“Wait, how do you even know my name?” My insides are in tumult, and there’s a strong urge to just surrender.

“I know everything, Laura,” he retorts, a dark promise in his voice.

Summoning all the sass I can muster, I fire back, “Including about the pathetic husband who ditched me for my so-called friend and took all my savings?” I confess before I can catch myself.

Why are you acting like this?

I don’t know why I’m telling him this. Maybe I’m just tired of holding it all in.

He remains unfazed. Those intense eyes never waver, making me want to squirm.

“Guess what? I don’t care who you are and what you know. I am leaving.” Without another word, I make my exit.

It’s a shame this is the last time I’ll see Mr. Cocky Alpha.

Stumbling slightly, I beeline for the elevator, cursing that, in my quick exit, I left my sweater behind. The street’s chill lashes at me, a sobering slap after the club’s heat. Desperate, I wave for a cab with numbing fingers.

Luck isn’t on my side tonight. It never is. They just rush past me like I’m invisible.

My vision’s a blurry mess, each streetlight stretching into streaks. Since 3 a.m., my world’s been burning down, literally, and now my body’s joining my mind in the rebellion.

Another cab comes into sight. I urge the approaching lights, “C’mon, give a break to a girl who’s down on her luck.”

I make a wild dash for it, arms flailing like I’m signaling a plane. My heart jumps as the cab slows down, the squeal of brakes sounding like hallelujah. “About time,” I say to myself.

But who am I kidding?

As if sensing that my life’s a mess, it guns the engine and takes off, leaving me in a cloud of dust.

“Seriously?!” My frustration boils over. “Fuck. You!” My voice echoes down the street.

Then, out of nowhere, warmth drapes over me—a coat, heavy and scented with that unmistakable musk… his musk.