Raze & Reap by Tillie Cole

had to reassure him, to assuage his concerns. Had to make him think it was all about him. Just him and me … no Luka and definitely no hooded rescuer.
    â€œNo, baby,” I whispered, my eyes rolling back as pressure from my approaching orgasm built between my legs. “Only you. Only ever you. I belong to you. You’ll have me forever soon.” My voice was frantic as I begged, strived to think of anything that would calm his jealous rage.
    A crazed but satisfied hiss slipped through his lips, his thrusts picking up speed. “I own you, Kisa. There’ll never be anyone else for you but me. I fucking own these tits.” He squeezed on the plump flesh, ripping a cry from my throat. “I own this ass.” He continued as he slipped his hand under my ass and pushed his finger inside. I gripped his shoulders and dug my fingernails in deep at the unwanted sensation. Alik suddenly stilled and squeezed his hand tighter on my cheeks until the pain made tears well from my eyes. “And this cunt, this tight, wet cunt … Who owns it, Myshka? Who. Owns. It?”
    I stilled, all actions suspended by this threat-laden question. Alik’s dick lay in wait at my entrance. His fingers built an almost unbearable pressure on my jaw, his unwavering stare boring, until I said, “You, Alik. You own it.”
    His stern expression softened, allowing the softer Alik a brief moment of play before he slammed into my pussy, his finger searching my clit, unrelenting in its movement. My legs stiffened, my back arched, and I came, my channel choking Alik’s cock. I hated that he knew how to make my body react to his touch. I didn’t want such pleasure when he was like this, but I knew fighting the inevitable was pointless.
    Alik’s thrusts became furious and he gripped my thighs so tightly that it would definitely leave a bruise. “Fuck, Myshka … FUCK!” he called out and spilled into me. His eyes were crazed with possession … with inert possession.
    Alik pressed a consuming kiss to my quivering lips, then abruptly pulled out of me, righting his training shorts as if nothing had happened.
    â€œGet dressed. Our fathers will be here soon,” Alik ordered coldly. Panicking, I jumped from the table, pulled on my skirt, and fastened my shirt just as a loud double knock sounded on the door.
    My father. I knew that distinctive double knock.
    Alik smirked and dropped down to casually drape onto a chair as I flustered, straightening my long brown hair. A couple of seconds later, the door opened and my father walked through, followed by Abram Durov—Alik’s father. Ivan Tolstoi—Talia and Luka’s father—came through last. He was the quietest out of the group, kept to himself. I always thought it was because of the shame he carried over Luka. For his son to kill the Pakhan’s son, then for him to die too, was like a sentence in itself. Ivan was the finance man, the one who handled the mob’s money. He had little to do with The Dungeon. He handled the books from his home office along with Talia, attended the matches through duty. But he rarely came to the gym, never really took an interest in the fighters. In fact, I was surprised he had even showed today.
    Alik stood and greeted each of the infamous Bratva bosses with a triple kiss. Then my father’s—Kirill “The Silencer” Volkov—gaze fell on me and a wide smile spread on his lips.
    â€œKisa!” he greeted. Smiling at the happy face of my father, I walked around the table and he pulled me to his chest.
    â€œPapa,” I greeted in reply, then moved to greet Abram and finally Ivan, whose hug always squeezed me just that little bit too hard and lasted just that second too long. I had always loved Ivan like a father. He was a kind man, the conscience, the calm of the Red bosses; Luka had been just the same in nature.
    But Abram, no, there was always something off about the