Beyond Measure: A Dark Bratva Romance (Ruthless Doms) Read online




  Beyond Measure

  A Dark Bratva Romance (Ruthless Doms)

  Jane Henry

  Copyright © 2019 by Jane Henry

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Photography by Wander Aguiar

  Cover art by PopKitty Designs

  Contents

  Synopsis

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Previews

  About the Author

  Synopsis

  USA Today bestselling author Jane Henry delivers a gritty, impassioned romance of arranged marriage, fearless love, and ultimate triumph over evil.

  I’m the girl no one wants.

  Scarred beyond repair and locked away, I’m tainted and tarnished.

  Unworthy of friendship, love, or hope.

  But I was born into Bratva life, and my life is not my own.

  I’m ripped from my home and forced to marry a man I’ve never met, sight unseen.

  He’s ruthless, possessive, fierce... My husband.

  Chapter 1

  Tomas

  I scowl at the computer screen in front of me. As pakhan, the weight of everything falls onto my shoulders, and today is one day when I wish I could shrug it off.

  A knock comes at my office door.

  “Who is it?” I snap. I don’t want to see or hear anything right now. I’m pissed off, and I haven’t had time to compose myself. As the leader of the Boston Bratva, it’s imperative that I maintain composure.

  “Nicolai.”

  “Come in.”

  Nicolai can withstand my anger and rage. Over the past few months, he’s become my most trusted advisor. My friend.

  The door swings open and Nicolai enters, bowing his head politely to greet me.

  “Brother.”

  I nod. “Welcome. Have a seat.”

  When I first met Nicolai, he wore the face of a much older man. Troubled and anguished, he was in the throes of fighting for his woman. The woman who now bears his name and his baby. But I’ve watched the worry lines around his eyes diminish, his smile become more ready. While every bit as fierce and determined to dutifully fill his role as ever, he’s grown softer because of Marissa, more devoted to her.

  “You look thrilled,” he says, quirking a brow at me. Unlike my other men, who often quake in my presence, having been taught by my father before me that men in authority are to be feared and obeyed, Nicolai is more relaxed. He’s earned the title of brother more readily than even my most trusted allies.

  “Fucking pissed,” I tell him, pushing up from my desk and heading to the sideboard. I pour myself a shot of vodka. It’s eleven o’clock in the fucking morning, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve been up all night. “Drink?”

  He nods silently and takes the proffered shot glass. We raise our drinks and toss them back together. I take in a deep breath and place the glass back on the sideboard before I go back to my desk.

  “Want to tell Uncle Nicolai your troubles?” he asks, his eyes twinkling.

  I roll my eyes at him.

  I made an unconventional decision when I inducted Nicolai into our brotherhood. The son of another pakhan, Nicolai came here under an alias, but I knew he had the integrity of a brother I wanted in my order. I offered him dual enrollment in both groups, under both the authority of his father and me, and he readily agreed. We’ve come to be good friends, and I would trust the man with my life.

  “Uncle Nicolai,” I snort, shaking my head. None of my other brothers take liberties like Nicolai does, but none are as trustworthy and loyal as him, so he gets away with giving me shit unlike anyone else. “It’s fucking Aren Koslov.”

  Nicolai grimaces. “Fucking Aren Koslov,” he mutters in commiseration. “What’d the bastard do now?” He shakes his head. “Give me one good reason to beat his ass and I’ll take the next red-eye to San Diego.”

  He would, too. Nicolai inspires fear in our enemies and respect in our contemporaries. Aren falls into both categories.

  “Owed me a fucking mint a month ago, and hasn’t paid up,” I tell him. I spin my monitor around to show him the number in red. “And you don’t need me to tell you we need that money.” As my most trusted advisor, Nicolai knows we’re right on the cusp of securing the next alliance with the Spanish drug cartel. Our location in Boston, near the wharf and airport, puts us in the perfect position to manage imports, but the buy-in is fucking huge. We have the upfront money, but the payout from San Diego would put us in a moderately better financial position.

  Nicolai leans back in his chair, rubbing his hand across his jawline.

  “And you have meeting after meeting coming up with politicians, leaders, and the like.”

  I eye him warily. Where’s he going with this?

  “It’s easy to say you need money. But that isn’t what you need, brother.”

  I roll my eyes. “I suppose you’re going to tell me what I need.”

  “Of course.”

  “Go on.”

  “You know what you need more than the money?” he asks. I’m growing impatient. He needs to come out with it already.

  I give him a look that says spill.

  “You need a wife,” he says.

  A wife?

  I roll my eyes and shake my head. “Sometimes I think your father dropped you on your head as a child,” I tell him. What bullshit. I look back at the computer screen, but Nicolai presses on.

  “Tomas, listen to me,” he says, insistent. “Money comes and goes, and you know that. Tomorrow you could seal a deal with the arms trade you’ve been working, and you know our investments have been paying off in spades. But a good wife is beyond measure, and Aren has a sister.”

  “You’ve been married, for what, two fucking days and you’re giving me this shit?” I reply, but my mind is already spinning with what he’s saying. I never dismiss Nicolai’s suggestions without really weighing my options. Aren is one of the youngest brigadiers in America and has a reputation that precedes him everywhere he goes. He commands men under him, and I’m grateful he hasn’t risen higher in power.

  He grunts at me and narrows his eyes. “I’ve loved Marissa for a lot longer than we’ve had rings on our fingers.”

  “I know it, brother,” I tell him. “Just giving you shit. Go on.”

  “Aren’s sister is single, lives with him on their compound. Young. I don’t know much about her, and haven’t seen a recent picture, but I met her years ago when I first came to America. And she was a beauty then. I imagine she’s only grown more beautiful.”

  Seconds ago, this idea seemed preposterous, but now that I’m beginning to think about it, I’m warming to the idea.

  “You think he’d let her go to pay off his debt?”

  “With enough persuasion? Hell yeah. And a good leader needs a wife. You’ve seen it yourself. There’s something to be said for having a woman
to come home to. The most powerful men in the brotherhood are all married.”

  He’s right. Just last week, I met with Demyan from Moscow and his wife Larissa. He brings her everywhere with him. The two are inseparable. And he’s risen to be one of the most powerful men the Bratva has ever known.

  “And face it, Tomas. You’re not exactly in the position to meet a pretty girl at church.”

  I huff out a laugh. The men of the Bratva rarely obtain women by traditional means.

  I lift my phone and dial Lev.

  “Boss?”

  “Get me a picture of Aren Kosolov’s sister,” I tell him. Our resident hacker and computer genius, Lev works quickly and efficiently.

  “Give me five minutes,” he says.

  “Done.”

  I hang up the phone and turn to Nicolai. “I want to see her first,” I tell him.

  “Of course.”

  “How’s Marissa?”

  He fills me in about home, his voice growing softer as he talks about Marissa, but I’m only half-listening to him. I’m thinking about the way a woman changes a man, and how he’s changed because of her.

  Do I need a wife?

  The better question is, do I want Aren Kosolov’s sister to be the one?

  My phone buzzes, and Nicolai gestures for me to answer it. A text from Lev with a grainy picture pops up on the screen, followed by a text.

  There are no recent pictures. This was from a few years ago, but it should give you a good idea.

  Still, it’s a full profile picture. I murmur appreciatively. Wavy, unruly chestnut hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, with fetching tendrils curling around her forehead. Haunting hazel colored eyes below dark brows. High cheekbones, her skin flushed pink, and full, pink lips. She’s thin and graceful, though if I’m honest, a little too thin for me. The women I bed tend to be sturdier and curvy, able to withstand the way I like to fuck.

  I don’t want to have this conversation via text. I call him and he answers right away.

  “Background?” I ask.

  “Never went to college. Under her brother’s watchful eye since her father died.”

  “Lovely,” I mutter. He might not give her up easily.

  “Temperament?” I ask, aware that I sound like I’m asking about adopting a puppy, but it fucking matters.

  “Not sure, but she has no record on file at school or legally. Perfect record. Graduated top of her class in high school.” He snorts. “Volunteers in a soup kitchen in San Diego and attends the Orthodox Church on the weekend.”

  Ah. A good girl. Points in her favor. Sometimes the good girls fall hard, and sometimes they’re tougher to break, but they intrigue me.

  “Boyfriend?”

  “None.”

  “Name?”

  “Caroline.”

  “Caroline?” I repeat. “That isn’t a Russian name.”

  “Her mother was American.”

  I nod thoughtfully. Caroline Koslov.

  She would take my name.

  Caroline Dobrynin.

  I drum my fingers on my desk, contemplating. I nod to Nicolai when I instruct Lev. “Get Aren on the phone.”

  Chapter 2

  Caroline

  It’s still dark when I wake, but the black outside my window is already beginning to turn to light. I reach over to shut off the blaring alarm on my phone and it goes skidding to the floor, spinning out.

  “Crap,” I mutter, rubbing my eyes and sitting up in bed. God, I wish I’d woken sooner. I don’t remember my dream, but it was unpleasant, the weight of it still on my chest, my eyes gritty with sleep. Was I crying? I haven’t slept well in years, but I rarely remember what I dream. Maybe I don’t even dream. Maybe I just want to escape into a new life and new place, away from the domineering ways of my brother and the men who obey his orders.

  Yawning, I stumble in the dark, reaching for my phone, until I finally find it. I take my glasses off the bedside table and slide them on my face, blinking into the dark room. I groan out loud when I look at my phone. The damn thing’s shattered. I don’t much care about communicating with anyone. No one texts me, and I deleted all social media off my phone a while ago. But I love to read, I keep my books private on an app, and I hate that the stupid thing is broken. I’ll have to find a way to fix it.

  Aren will give me money if he’s feeling generous, but I don’t like to take handouts from him, and he won’t allow me to get a job. It isn’t for safety reasons, though. He doesn’t much care about my safety or really anything about me at all. If he did, he never would have allowed—but no, I won’t think about that now. I can’t.

  Aren doesn’t want me to share anything about the brotherhood.

  I look at the time. It’s five thirty-three. I stretch and toss the phone back on my bed, then go to throw some clothes on.

  I get up every day before nearly everyone else on the compound except Camila, the resident chef. She’s teaching me how to cook and being in the kitchen with her is the highlight of my day.

  I throw on a pair of black leggings and a black top, oversized, bulky, and unlikely to draw suspicion. I draw my fingers through my unruly wavy hair and quickly brush my teeth. I don’t wear makeup or bother fixing my hair. My clothes are intentionally muted and frumpy. The less the men that I live with notice me, the better. Before, they would sometimes look my way, and occasionally one would even talk to me. But not since what Aren calls “the accident.”

  I make my mind blank as I go downstairs. I focus instead on the huevos rancheros and quiche we’re making today. Camila’s specialty lies in Mexican foods, but my brother insists every morning they have both Mexican and American options.

  “Buenos días, preciosa,” Camila says. She’s a middle-aged woman with dark hair graying around the temples, barely five feet tall. She’s tying an apron around her ample waist.

  “You are literally the only person in the world that would call me that,” I say with a self-deprecating laugh. She knows as well as I do that I’m not beautiful.

  But she only shakes her head and smiles sadly. “Beauty is inside and out, Caroline,” she says. “Never forget that.” I roll my eyes at the cliché but take secret solace in her words. I have never forgotten that, and it’s the one thing that I hold onto. I work hard at not letting myself grow bitter or angry. In a family like mine, it’s an uphill battle.

  The large front door clangs open and shut, and footsteps approach the kitchen. I stare at Camila in surprise. No one ever comes in here this early, and I can’t be seen. My brother would lose his mind if he knew I was in here, doing servant’s work, and if my brother is here to see me, there’s a good chance Andros is with him. And I despise Andros.

  Voices approach. I cover my mouth with my hand, stifling a groan, when I recognize both Aren and Andros’ voices. They’re growing closer. I hate Andros with a fiery passion and don’t want either of them to see me. Camila points wildly to the pantry and silently mouths, Go.

  I run to the pantry just in time, crouching in the corner. God, I wish there was a door on this stupid thing.

  “Good morning, Camila,” Aren says, helping himself to a muffin from a plate she’s already prepared this morning. “By any chance have you seen Caroline?” Politeness is a dead giveaway that he’s about to do something terrible.

  “No, sir,” Camila lies. I cringe. If he finds out she’s lying, he’ll punish her, or worse, fire her. She has a family to support. She lied for me. I’ll remember that.

  “Really?” he says. I freeze at the icy tone of his voice. I know that tone well, and it sends a shiver of fear skating down my spine.

  He knows I’m here.

  I gasp when Camila screams. Oh, God, oh God. He’s hurting her.

  “Tell me where she is,” he growls, and I feel my heartbeat race at the familiar sound of him cocking his gun. I don’t even make a conscious decision but scramble out of the pantry on all fours, shocked to see my brother holding Camila by the hair and Andros pointing a gun at her temple.r />
  “Leave her alone!” I scream. “My God, you two are monsters. Leave her alone!”

  I run to pull him off her, but Andros points the gun at me instead.

  “There she is,” he says with sickening delight. “I told you she’d come running if we threatened the old lady.”

  Camila whimpers.

  “Let her go,” I say through clenched teeth, though my heart pounds in fear when I see Andros’ soulless eyes. “You want me, you have me.”

  Andros snorts. “No one wants you, you stupid bitch.”

  Aren laughs right along with him. I hate these two so much my vision goes temporarily blurry, and even though I know they’re douchebags, their jeering stings. I know no one wants me. Hearing someone say it is another thing altogether.

  I hold my ground and glare at them. “Let her go.”

  It’s obvious both of them are drunk and likely high, their eyes glassy. They haven’t even been to bed, I bet. Andros releases Camila and keeps his gun trained on me as Aren tells Camila to go home.

  “You’re fired,” he says. “Pack your bags. You should have known better than to sneak around behind my back.” He takes out a pack of cigarettes and lights one right there in the kitchen. “You have fifteen minutes before I’ll get you a personal escort. Go.”

  “Aren, you can’t! Don’t fire her!” My heart breaks at the sight of tears falling down Camila’s cheeks. I go to follow her, but Aren grabs me by the arm and yanks me to him.

  “And you will come with me,” he says tightly. “Sneaking around my back, Caroline? Did you not think I’d find out?” He throws his cigarette down and stomps it out on the kitchen floor, leaving an angry black mark on the white tile.