His Queen of Clubs

Chapter 2-3

Alessia

“This?” The Russian picks up the tester kit. I blink, getting a better look at him now that I can focus. He has sandy blond hair, piercing blue eyes and multiple scars on his stubbled jaw. He’s wearing a plain white t-shirt that stretches over his bulging muscles and his arms and fingers are covered in tattoos.

Unfortunately, I find his look sexy. He’s the modern James Dean bad boy. Or the street version of actor Jeremy Renner.

I’m both terrified and turned on by him at the same time. Maybe it was just feeling all that raw masculine strength when he grabbed me. Maybe my hormones are on full blast after watching two of my siblings tie the knot.

My captor c***s his head and raises a stern brow.

“Yes, that. Untie me.”

“Oh, zaika. Let’s get one thing straight right now. You’re not giving the orders here.”

I shouldn’t find his thick accent sexy, either, but I do.

I give it right back to him, arching my own brow. “You need me alive. That means keeping my blood sugar stable. So untie my hands and let me test my glucose.”

“Nyet.”

Such a final-sounding word, the Russian no.

He examines the glucose meter, figuring out how it works while I watch without offering any help. He’s not a dumb man, though. He picks up the lancet. “From your finger, I presume?”

I don’t answer.

He grips my bound wrists and tugs one of the fingers away from the rest. His touch isn’t cruel, but I choose this moment to make my dissatisfaction known, and I use both hands to punch him in the nose.

Well, punch is a loose description. I can’t really punch with my wrists bound, nor can I wind up to make it effective. I sort of knew that before I tried, but figured it was still worth it as an act of defiance.

A signal of war.

I don’t break his nose. I don’t even make it bleed. Cristo, I’m not even sure I hurt him, but he reacts quickly, swiping my hands down and pinning them to the mattress, effectively dropping me to my side. He looms over me, eyes glittering.

Oh f**k.

Is he excited?

Too late, I remember his warning that he was turned on by wrestling me.

And my foolish body reacts, heat pooling between my legs as if this is some kind of mating ritual, and not a brutal k********g.

All right, maybe not that brutal.

“Don’t hit, zaika. You won’t like the punishment.”

Why does the word punishment get my feminine parts tingly?

I lick my lips. “What is it?” I shouldn’t give him the satisfaction of asking, but I do.

His smile is wicked. He removes one of my pink pumps and tosses it to the floor. “Strike me again, and you lose your clothing privileges. The dress comes off, printsessa.” He removes the other shoe. I become distinctly aware of my damp panties and the fact that there’s only a thin piece of fabric between my p***y and those rough hands.

A slow throb starts between my legs, my n*****s tighten. Fearing a hard blush come on, I speak quickly to distract myself and him. “What is zaika?”

His feral smile returns. “Bunny. Now give me your finger like a good girl.”

I lift my middle finger.

His eyes glitter, like he loves my challenge. A ripple of s****l tension hits me full blast when he holds it and jabs the tip with the lancet, then squeezes a drop of blood onto the test strip. He inserts it into the meter and turns the screen to show me the readout.

“Still too low,” I tell him. “I don’t need insulin.”

He examines a hypodermic needle and a bottle of insulin. “When you do need it, where do you take the shot?”

This time I definitely flush. “You can give it in my arm.”

His eyes narrow as he recognizes my discomfort. “Where do you usually take it?”

I lift my chin. “None of your business.”

One corner of his mouth lifts. “Your a*s?” he guesses.

“My belly!” I snap.

His eyes gleam and he reaches for the hem of my dress. “What, zaika? You’re afraid I’ll see your pink panties?”

Heat flushes up my neck to my ears as he slowly drags the hem up, exposing my thighs, then my panties, to my belly button.

He runs the back of one knuckle across the front of my panties, sending tremors down my inner thighs. “You think I didn’t already see these pretty things when you were in my trunk? Or tied up on my bed?”

My stomach flips. Oh Santa Maria. This is his bed? I am so screwed.

Maybe the full reality of my situation finally hits me. Maybe good sense returns and fear sets in, but for whatever reason, my eyes suddenly fill with tears. I look away, blinking. Pissed that he saw he got to me.

He cups my jaw. “Don’t cry. It you behave, you won’t get hurt. It’s your brothers I want to punish, not you.”

I meet his eyes, surprised at the sudden change in his demeanor.

He drops my chin and walks away, giving me his back.

I close my eyes, blocking out the sight of him. Of this room.

Of my new prison.