Owned by the Badman (Russian Bratva Book 1)

Author:Faiman, Hayley [Faiman, Hayley]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: novel
Published: 2016-01-27T16:00:00+00:00

I am a bastard of the worst kind. I fucked my friend’s wife and I fucking liked it. None of these men can know that I am friends with Maxim. I must continue to make them believe I am only around him to keep tabs on him for them.

I am under no illusion that when Maxim finds out he will shake my hand and thank me for protecting his wife. No, he will kill me. This has escalated my plan. I am not ready to execute it yet, but I cannot continue to fuck Haleigh. I cannot allow her to give birth in this shithole. I cannot allow my friend’s child to be taken from him. Too much has already been taken from him. For the first time in my life, I feel an emotion. It must be guilt. I have never felt it before.

“Was she as tight as her body promised?” Boris asks, taking a drag from his cigarette. I glare at him a moment.

“She is mine. You’ll not sell her to another while she is here,” I demand. This is rare for me, but not unheard of.

Many a time there has been a girl, too young or too innocent for whoring, and I have taken them as mine. I tell myself it is for protection, but maybe I am just as evil as the men running this group because I always fuck them. I always enjoy it too. Their tight pussies, their tighter assholes, and their unsure mouths. Teaching them how to fuck a man, I fucking love it.

I am just as sick as these fucks.

“I have a list for her, Gregori,” Boris growls. I pull my gun out and point it at his face.

“You are nobody. You are nothing, and I tell you what to do. Am I clear?” He gulps and nods.

“If you hurt her, if she is not properly cared for, I will torture you,” I threaten, my eyes meeting his, never wavering. I am in control, I am in charge, and I fucking despise how much I love it.

“I have a new debt to collect. I will be gone a few days. This fucker thought he could hide in Los Angeles, like the city would swallow him and his little daughter up,” he announces. I nod, business as usual.

“How old is the daughter?”

“Seventeen. Sweet little thing.” He flops the file down on my desk, and I open it.

I almost gasp at the beauty staring back at me. The photo was taken from afar, but our photographer is good and it looks as though he is just mere inches from her round face. I can see her golden skin with light freckles on her nose, her sun-streaked blonde hair, and her golden eyes staring into my soul, seeing all of the black I try to hide inside.

The next photo is one of her on the beach with her girlfriends. Though her face is young and still round like that of a child, her body is anything but childish.

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