CLAIMED BY THE RUSSIAN TYRANT

3

Alexei Morozov bolted upright, his skin slick with sweat.

It was one of those nightmares that he could almost taste. But this one, came with so much clarity that he felt every stab, slap, burns… he felt it like history was repeating itself again.

“You’re up early,” A voice startled him. Nearly sending him to the ground on protective instinct.

A beautiful woman was on his sheets. For a second he almost asked who she was and how she got herself on his bed before the memories of last night clicked. The club, drugs, heavy drinking that ended with an italian model in his men’s arm. Not excluding himself.

“How was your sleep, Sofia?”

“It’s Sonia, Amore mio,” the woman corrected in perfect Russian.

She reached for his chest, but he turned away. He seriously couldn’t care less about her name. He needed a shower. And he needed her to leave.

A knock at the door interrupted him. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but you have a visitor,” Ambrose, his butler, called.

“Who’s that?”

“It’s… An Anastasia Sokolov, sir.”

Alexei’s frown deepened. There was only one Sokolov he knew and they were not friends. “Where is this… Sokolov person?” He asked, after emerging from the shower towards his study.

“It seems Maximo’s second daughter just arrived from New York,” Ambrose replied. Alexei frowned even more. He remembered a green-eyed girl in braces and a ponytail, a delicate ballet dancer. What could she possibly want? To talk crayon colors with him?

“And she came here? Alone? Because...?”

“My father sent me here, sir,” A feminine voice cut through the air in English.

Alexei stopped short. Standing in his dim study was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And he’d certainly seen alot of beautiful women but this one…A wild mane of red hair tumbled down her back, and her gown clung to curves that were definitely not those of a little girl.

He recovered quickly though, forcing his expression into bored confusion. “I don't speak English, sweetheart,” he said in Russian. “Ambrose, translate to the little girl.”

Irritation flashed across her face. She opened her mouth and spoke in neat Russian. “I don't need a translator, sir. I am well-versed in my native tongue.”

Oh beauty and brains it seems.

Alexei was impressed. “Oh. Well then, take a seat.” He watched sit. Even her posture was graceful. Disciplined. Sexy.

“Mr. Morozov…”

“Please, call me Alexei sweet girl,” he interrupted with his signature smirk.

“This isn’t a social call, sir,” she glared.

He circled his desk. “Perhaps. But I see no need for formalities with the daughter of… an old acquaintance. Ambrose, get the girl a coffee or something without sugar—”

“I’m good, thanks! And i’m not a little girl!”

There’s a pause. “Indeed you are not. Very well.” Alexei folded his hands, waiting.

She had really distracting breasts he noted, and that dress wasn’t helping matters with her n*****s almost visible through the silk fabric. He felt a sudden, involuntary stirring in his groin. It shocked him; she was the daughter of his enemy. He should feel nothing but disgust. What game was Maximo playing sending her to him dressed like that?

“My father needs money.”

“Pardon?”

She blushed under his gaze. “My father—he— believes you might be able to help him.”

.

“Why me? Why not the bank? Or the Mirov’s? Weren't you betrothed to their son?”

A strange expression crossed her face, quickly masked. “The banks aren’t letting us borrow, and the Mirovs have... cut ties. My father believes you are his only hope.”

Alexei saw the desperation she was trying so hard to hide and nearly laughed. What made her think he would ever help her bastard of a father?

“He should come to me himself,” Alexei said finally.

“He’s hospitalized.”

“Very well,” he leaned back, stretching his legs over the table. “Do send my condolences.”

“He’s not dead yet!” She snapped.

“Your father wouldn’t come to me for help if the world was on fire and he was already burning. So the fact that he is now? That’s not desperation. That’s a man knocking on death’s door.” Alexei mused, loving the fury in her lovely eyes.

“Look, i know you don’t care and i know how much you hate my father—“

“Not without a cause…”

She glared at him. “My father has never done anything to you!”

“That’s what you think? That this whole rivalry thing just started from my… what’s the world again… jealousy?” Alexei asked.

God She really was naive.

“Yes!”

He chuckled, leaning forward. “Nice try sweetheart. But as the saying goes, a beggar is supposed to be humble. So My answer is NO.”

~~

Did he seriously just refer to her as a beggar?

Anastasia couldn’t believe her ears. Nor her eyes for that matter.

Alexei was exactly how the rumors portrayed him to be. A primitive brute who had obviously never heard of the word ‘shaving stick.’ Or learned a grasp of English.

An uncultured beast, who didn’t have the decency to dress properly in front of a guest. Clad in nothing but a silk robe that exposed too much of his tattooed chest. It was almost as if he didn’t care.

She stared at his feet on the desk for a beat, hairy muscled and undeniably clean to her surprise.

He was without doubt the ugliest man she had ever met.

She swallowed her pride, voice low. “Please, I beg you. My father… he really needs your help. I’ll do anything…”

Anastasia shouldn’t have said that. Because a strange gleam entered Alexei’s eyes almost immediately.

“Anything?” He mused.

She swallowed. “Anything.”

“Hmm. There could be another solution.”

“Which is?” she asked eyes narrowed.

A long silence stretched between them, where his blue eyes raked over her, lingering on the rise and fall of her chest until she nearly squirmed.

She flushed, heart racing. The embarrassment of it all was overwhelming. She folded her hands in her lap, trying to maintain her dignity.

“That you become my whore.”