Prisoner (Russian Tattoos Book 2) by Kat Shehata Page A

pretend-stabbed him in the eye, like, ten times with one hand, and with the other I whacked him in the leg with a stick Goosey had dropped at my feet when he came to check on me after I feigned a panic attack. Vladimir held up his hands in surrender and grinned, impressed with my fighting—or acting—skills. Dmitri clapped his hands and doubled over he was laughing so hard.
    “Never underestimate your opponent, boss.”
    Vladimir’s eyes shone with admiration. “Well played, angel. I’m glad you’re on my team.”
    “Step aside, boys, make room for the champ.” I flexed my muscles and growled. About time Team Ivanov added a kickass female to the lineup. I was a runt compared to the guys, but my brains against their brawn was a winning game plan.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 12
     
     
    Whipped
     
    When we got back to the dacha, Boris was in the back yard puffing on a stogie while he grilled kabobs. He had changed out of his dark suit and into a pair of faded jeans and a white undershirt. His chest hair poked out over the top of the shirt, and a thick cross pendant attached to a gold chain hung around his neck. Seeing the Russians in their outdoorsy, domesticated state was going to take some getting used to.
    Their property was set up like a real, working farm. There was a barn with animals, freshly tilled earth with little green plants sticking up, and a chicken coop behind the house. I wondered if the guys tended to the daily chores themselves. I couldn’t imagine they did, but then again, they were full of surprises.
    Dmitri lit a smoke and gathered wood for a bonfire, and Vladimir left to attend to business before dinner. It felt fantastic to be outside, free to breathe all the fresh air I wanted. In the dungeon, I’d felt like a wild animal living in a shoebox with air holes punched in the lid. I was curious about the animals and was on my way to explore the barn when Pasha called to me from the kitchen.
    I went inside to see if he needed help. He poured me a cup of iced tea and told me to rest. I didn’t argue. The pain meds Boris had given me were wearing off, and my shoulder started throbbing again. While Pasha stirred a big pot of steamy bean soup, we chit-chatted about America, specifically about things Vladimir had told him about me, like my tennis training, my love of football, and all my favorite Russian foods Vladimir had introduced me to.
    Pasha laughed when I reminisced about how Vladimir had pretended to be a vegetarian so I wouldn’t feel uncomfortable around him because I didn’t eat meat. He had hired me to work at his private estate, and one of my duties was to serve as his personal chef, even though my culinary skills were limited to microwaving burritos, heating up spaghetti sauce from a jar, and opening up a bag of tortilla chips and dumping them into a bowl.
    Pasha beamed as I described the kinds of food I’d prepared, imagining his high-rolling big brother settling for a can of microwaved beans for dinner just so he could spend time with me. “Vladimir told me about your inexperience in the kitchen. He said he had higher-quality food rations in Siberia.” His endearing grin and admiration for Vladimir made me smile.
    “Yeah, he dropped a few pounds when I became his personal chef, but he never complained. He choked down my disastrous dinners like a champ. What about you? Married, got a girlfriend?”
    “Girlfriends, no wife.” He set out a spread of marinated veggies, caviar, bread, butter, and a flaky spinach pie.
    I picked up a couple dishes to carry them outside, but he wouldn’t let me lift anything heavy. Instead, I brought out some cloth napkins and candles, and Pasha followed with an armload of zakuski platters and three bottles of homemade vodka.
    Were they going to down all that alcohol in front of Vladimir?
    I admired his willpower. In his position at the top of the Bratva food chain, I couldn’t imagine how he was able to pull it off. Back home, Boris and