Ilia Porter is Chechen mob boss Mikhail Kadyrov’s greatest treasure. After leaving home at eighteen to escape his verbally abusive father, beautiful, selfish Ilia has lived with Mikhail, proud of his ability to bring such a powerful man to his knees to worship. But when Ilia’s father, a police captain, kills Mikhail in a raid, Ilia’s world falls apart.
Entering to pick up the pieces is Mikhail’s younger brother, Nick—impulsive, power-hungry, and dangerous. When Nick tells Ilia he’s taking everything that belonged to Mikhail—including Ilia—Ilia is too lost in grief to fight. Nick takes Ilia prisoner in the apartment Ilia once shared with Mikhail and grooms him for a very important mission: to kill Ilia’s father and avenge Mikhail’s death.
Ilia wants no part in the plot, but being Nick’s ally is preferable to being Nick’s victim, so he begins to warp himself into the monster Nick wants him to be. Hope arrives when Nick takes another captive: Patrick, a shy massage therapist who’s stronger than he seems. Patrick and Ilia must join forces to escape Nick—and to keep each other whole as Nick does everything in his power to break them.
And here's a sneak peek at the first scene in the book, Ilia getting his corset piercing:
Svvsssh.
A bright sting.
The zip of satin across Ilia’s skin. Pressure on the rings so great that for a
second Ilia thought they’d rip out. Then the pain faded to a throb, and the guy
started threading the ribbon through the next set.
“All right?”
the guy asked.
Ilia nodded.
“I’m pullin’.”
Ilia closed his
eyes.
Svvsssh.
They were past
the middle of Ilia’s back now. Each time the piercer pulled the ribbon taut,
Ilia experienced such a mess of agony that he couldn’t think about anything
else. But in the moments between, he could concentrate on the strangeness of
the sensation. His skin was laced like a corset. A row of steel rings on either
side of his spine. Black satin ribbon crisscrossing his back. He could feel
blood trickle from some of the holes.
“This part
ain’t as bad as the piercing, is it?”
Ilia tried to
remember that pain—only half an hour since the piercer had forced the needle
through his skin for the last time. It had hurt to have the rings put in, worse
than having his nipples done, or his ears. But this, the constant pulling as
he was laced up, might have been worse. “I don’t know.”
“You put on the
Neosporin that’s got the painkiller in it? You’ll be all right. Shit, I
might’ve got these crossed wrong.” The ends of the ribbons drifted across
Ilia’s back. “Nope, I’m all right.”
“You done one
of these before?” Ilia hadn’t asked before they’d started. He’d asked, Do
you know how to do this?
Guy’d said yes,
but since then Ilia had seen him referencing a photo on his phone. Had heard,
briefly, the garbled lines of a video tutorial.
Big difference,
between you know how? and you done it before?
“One time,” the guy said. “Ladies.
Twins. Green ribbons and pink. They was doing some kind of porn thing.”
Svsshhhh.
“Their bodies
was all right. Their faces was kinda old looking, but I guess that’s not what
you’re lookin’ at, huh? When you’re watchin’ that stuff?”
Svsshhhh.
Ilia let out a
long breath. Thought of Mikhail. Arched, flexing the muscles of his back as
blood went to his cock.
“I don’t know
how ladies did it,” the guy said. “Wearing corsets and shit. Back in the old
days.”
“Mmm.” Ilia
clenched his jaw against another wave of pain.
The piercer
seemed young to be doing this. Maybe younger than Ilia. Nineteen, twenty? He
had gobs of metal in his eyebrows and a spiked labret ring, but without the
piercings, he’d have looked scruffy and average. A country boy. Short tawny
hair, slightly mussed. A scraggly goatee, pimples on his neck.
Ilia sat up straighter
and pushed out his jaw slightly to emphasize the clean line of it. Shook his
head so that the tips of his long earrings brushed his jaw. Glanced down at the
two braided metal pendants that dangled on black cords between his pecs, making
sure they were centered, and imagined the picture he made—dark-haired, pale,
beautiful.
He felt a
private satisfaction whenever he met anyone unattractive. Didn’t matter whether
the other person actually envied him. Like now, it didn’t matter whether the
piercer was admiring the smooth skin of his back and his hard, lean muscles.
Whether his gaze was drawn to the mascara Ilia clumped thick on his lashes, or
the way Ilia kept his lips slightly parted because he could pull it off—made
him look slightly dazed and sensual, instead of brick-dumb or Abercrombie.
Didn’t matter, because Ilia felt enviable.
The guy tugged
the ribbon through one of the rings on the left side of Ilia’s lower back. They
weren’t really rings—they were little barbells with rings attached, to keep the
piercing from healing. “Took me nine hours to do ’em both. Those girls.”
Ilia had been
here four.
“You said you
just want this for fun?” the piercer asked.
“I’ve got
someone who’s gonna like it,” Ilia replied. “I think.”
“They’d better.
All the trouble you gone through for it.”
He will.
The guy sang
along with the radio—one of those mellow indie songs that was all quirky
rhymes. Supposed to be poetic, but just sounded like the girl singing was half
asleep and murmuring whatever stupid shit came into her brain.
“Little red
painted soldier,
I’m gonna make
you mine.
Take you back
to my back porch;
We’ll share the
stars; we’ll share the wine.
The world is
old and colder,
But my little
house is fine.
Oh red painted
soldier,
The wounds you
feel are mine.
The wounds you
feel, the wounds you heal,
The words you
steal from a quiet mind;
Yeah little red
painted soldier,
Don’t let the
blind mislead the blind.”
The guy didn’t
know most of the lyrics. He crooned nonsense as he got up to replace a latex
glove. Shucked the broken glove into the trash—Ilia glimpsed a few red
stains—and pulled on the new one, then came back around behind Ilia.
“What’s your
name?” Ilia didn’t care, but after four hours together, seemed right to know.
“Kris with a K.
One more set.”
Ilia tensed,
and Kris pulled—through the ring, across his back. Through the opposite ring,
and then the ribbon dangled just above Ilia’s ass on the right side. As Ilia
swallowed nausea from the sting, Kris situated the left hand ribbon. Ilia
tipped his head up, pursed his lips, and blew out the breath he’d been holding.
“Fuck.”
“Oh, you’re
good, man.”
Ilia shifted
cautiously and felt the soreness climbing his skin like a curse of thorns
growing up around a tower in a fairy tale. “I’m done?”
“You want it
tied...how?” Kris asked. “In a bow?
“Yeah.”
Ilia waited as
Kris tied the laces. Kris’s knuckles were warm on his back. “Feel all right?
I’m keepin’ it loose for now. You can tighten it when it stops hurting.”
This was
loose? Ilia couldn’t move without the pressure becoming pain. “Sure.”
“Just be
careful. You’re bleeding some.”
“I’ve bled
before.”
“A lotta people
who get extreme piercings, they don’t think the blood’s gonna be much, and it
is. Lotta people don’t think to put old sheets on the bed.”
“I’ll be all
right.”
“Wow, man.”
Kris shook his head, staring at his handiwork. “You want a mirror?”
“Yeah.”
Kris gave him a
hand mirror. Ilia stood, wincing, and followed Kris over to the full-length
mirror near the register. Searched for the angle he needed to see his back.
Fuck. Yeah, the
laces looked amazing, but the blood made it kind of a horror show. He laughed.
“Gross.”
“Sorry.” Kris
grabbed a roll of paper towels. “I shoulda done this first.”
He went to the
sink by the piercing chair and wet a wad of the towels. Returned and started
wiping Ilia’s back. The water was cold. “It’s good,” Ilia said. “I fucking love
it.”
“It’s gonna
hurt for a while,” Kris said. “But that Neosporin with the painkiller. I’m
telling you.”
“I’ll get
some.”
“And I got some
gauze I’ll give you. Did you bring a different shirt?”
Ilia shook his
head. Expensive T-shirt. Gonna get bloody, and Ilia didn’t mind. Driving would
be a bitch, though.
“You want a
towel? Or, uh, if you wanna buy one of our shirts...”
Ilia glanced at
the Twysted Imyge shirts by the register. A dragon with a barbell through its
nose. “It’s all right. I’ll wear mine.”
“Hope whoever
you did this for likes it,” Kris said.
Yeah. Yeah,
Ilia hoped so too. He hoped Mikhail’s fingers shook when they undid the laces,
because Ilia was so fucking beautiful, and because Mikhail knew Ilia would do
anything for him. Hoped when they fucked, Mikhail pulled on the ribbons. Ilia
imagined panting into the pillow, shaking and sweat-drenched, and Mikhail’s big
hand passing over skin barbed with nerves. His voice soft in Ilia’s ear. “Eaaaasyyyy,
Ilie.”
“He will.” Ilia
said.
He got out his
wallet.
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