Caitlyn's POV

"Ease up for me slut. Your mouth is fucking small for my dick," and with those words, I submit, opening my mouth wide, my jaws fucking hurt, my panties grow warm with my juices that drip more with those dirty words, which I surprisingly like and enjoy more by being treated like a filthy whore.

"I'm gonna cum down this goddamn throat. I want to stuff your throat with my cum," He jerks a few powerful strokes, and I feel his cock swell inside my mouth, and a salty taste explodes in my mouth, and I gulp it down my throat.

Once he is done emptying himself into me, he releases my hair and gathers the mixture of his cum and my saliva that was dripping from the side of my lips using his middle and ring finger before jamming it back into my mouth.

His fingers choke me, forcing me to swallow the very last drop of his cum, "I want you to swallow every drop of my cum."

He pulls his fingers from my mouth and then uses them to tuck my hair behind my ear while his free hand runs its finger on my lips in a slow motion.

"You might want to fix your lipstick and hair, babochka."

He then pulls away from me and moves to the edge of his metal bed that has a thin mattress on it, and watches as I wipe the remainder of his cum from my tongue.

At first, he stares with a blank expression, but a low, sadistic chuckle comes from his mouth, and some light whiffs through his eyes-just for a second, one you wouldn't catch if you looked away.

After riding from my mini-orgasm high, I suddenly come to my senses when the guard bangs the door, signaling that we should be winding down our session- if he only knew what had transpired between us!

I scramble to my feet, picking up what is left of my dignity and my bag before rushing to the wrought steel door, and as if the guard hears my footsteps, he swings it open.

My heart pounds as I slip out of the dimly lit prison cell, the heavy door creaking as it settles back into place. I tag at my wrinkled dress, smoothing it down in a desperate attempt to look less noticeable.

The last thing I need is to draw attention to myself, but there is no hiding the state I am in: smudged lipstick, hair in a mess, and the faint scent of orgasm and regret clinging to my skin.

I keep my head down, forcing my steps to be steady and controlled.

Act normal.

But the sharp gazes of the guards slice through my composure. The guy who opened for me leans against the wall, arms crossed, except for the flicker of amusement that dances through his eyes. Another one gives me a slow once-over, his mouth twitching like he wants to smirk but knows better.

I tighten my hold on my bag's straps and walk faster, the click of my footsteps deafening against the cold concrete floor. Someone clears their throat behind me, a gesture that carries the weight of the words he can't dare speak to my face.

Heat crawls up my neck, but I am determined to finish my Cersei walk of shame to the restroom sign that gleams like a beacon of salvation, where I would get a chance to salvage the last shred of my dignity left.

I shove the door open and exhale sharply, gripping the sink for balance. The huge floor-length mirror confirms what I already know- I look precisely like someone sneaking out of a mistake, one that I already enjoyed.

"Jesus Christ, Caitlyn..." I whisper to myself, voice trembling.

What the hell is wrong with you?

What kind of therapist does that? What kind of woman lets herself be used like that?

With a groan, I splash cold water on my face, hoping it would wash away more than just the evidence.

A while later, my car's engine hums softly as I sit there, fingers gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly. The dim glow of the dashboard cast eerie shadows across my lap, but my mind is elsewhere, stuck in the tangled mess of not more than half an hour ago.

But this man, he didn't look at me like I was broken.

He looked at me like I was his to break.

And I let him.

"Who the hell is he?" I whisper to the silence.

I reach for my phone, my hands slightly trembling as I type his name on the search bar. Vladislav Mikhailov. The name alone seems familiar; it sends a flicker of unease through me. Something feels... oddly familiar.

With a deep breath, I tap search.

And then the world shifts.

There he is-broad-shouldered, effortlessly commanding, standing beside another man-a younger version of him except for the warm ocean-blue eyes.

One I know too well.

My stomach twists violently as I stare at the screen.

"No. No, no, this can't be true!"

Vladislav Mikhailov isn't some mistake I would easily pretend to forget. He isn't just my new patient.

He is my ex-boyfriend's father!!!

A cold, nauseating wave crashes over me, my body locking in place. My brain scrambles to process the sheer weight of what I have done, but all I can hear is the blood pounding in my ears.

I groan, banging my forehead lightly against the steering wheel as I risk another glance at the man whose cock I had rolled my tongue over and begged him to fill my mouth. The man who had said obscene words to me and my pussy clamped wet was my ex-boyfriend's father!!!

What the hell have I just done?

Vladislav pov

The heavy clang of the metallic prison doors, followed by the brutal clank of the lock into place, reverberates through the corridor-a sound that reminds me of the cage that I called home for the past three months. Long enough that I had started to lose my shit.

But I knew better; I had to make my enemies think that they had won this time, but they were wrong.

I have men everywhere, even in the fucking government, men loyal to me, bound by their royal hearts to me. And, of course, some are not loyal to me; many want to take me down and take my place as the pakhan, but for them to succeed, they will have to eliminate each and every one of my men first.

And this....this was just a facade I had put on as my men hunted the rat that dared infiltrate my Bratva.

I run my hands through my dark hair; my jaw clenches as I roll my shoulders, feeling the tension crack down my spine as I step forward with the pristine Italian shoes that I have paired with my black suit-custom-tailored, freshly pressed.

My look is completed by my Cartier limited edition gold watch that sits on my wrist with a familiar yet nostalgic feel. The rings on my fingers feel just as familiar.

A thick silver band on my right hand, engraved with a double-headed eagle-my family crest, and another, a heavier one, gold, with a dark sapphire-on my left, passed down through the Mikhailov bloodline.

"Your ride will be here in a few," the guard who had escorted me out here mutters in a stiff voice, avoiding my gaze.

Yes, fear is what I exude, and he knows better than to look me in the eye. One wrong move-one mistaken word-and his family will be collecting ashes instead of his corpse.

Outside, the night air is cold, but the faint scent of rain smells more like victory. A familiar blacked-out Mercedes-Benz pulls over, and Leonid, my right-hand man, my brother in everything but blood, pops his head out.

"About fucking time!" he yells out loud, to which I flash him with one of my signature smirks as I slide into the car.

"Anything for me?"

"No. How is my brother doing when I was away?" Leo asks, dramatically clutching his chest before mashing his foot on the gas pedal like he was in a Fast & Furious movie.

"I believe you wouldn't dare show your damned face to me if you didn't have the information I asked you," I ask in a more calm, businesslike tone that doesn't match the chaos brewing deep inside me.

"Fine, fine," he retorts, and immediately he hands me, more like tosses me, a thick black binder like it is nothing but a dinner menu in some cheap restaurants down the Street.

I flip it open, my eyes zeroing in on the name at the top.

Caitlyn Clark.

She who came to clear me for my release-not that my freedom depended on it that much, and instead, she left that cell wrecked for me.

Even after giving me a mind-blowing release from her amateur blowjob, I couldn't bring myself to erase her from my fucking mind. She proved to be an enigma shrouded in mystery and intrigue, and I made it my mission to unravel it.

I skimmed over the page quickly, my eyes devouring the details about her-Caitlyn Mae Clark is a boring, typical. She comes from a boring middle-class family in Florida with a single stepdad and a mother who took the L before she could hit her early teen years- sad, but I did not care.

She is a licensed psychological therapist in a small but struggling mental clinic. She has a dull, meticulous routine that she repeats every damn day like a fucking clock. That includes the coffee shop she visits every morning and those early morning runs she indulges in daily.

That's why I trust Leo; he is competent and always comes through with any needed information.

Leonid chuckles beside me, shaking his head as he pulls a cigarette from his coat.

"You're fucking obsessed," he mutters, lighting a cigarette, exhaling a slow drag of smoke. "Three months in a cell, and the first thing you want isn't revenge, isn't your empire-it's some random girl you met... Remind me again where you saw her?"

He's right. I should be torturing the mole who dared to infiltrate my organization, tearing through my enemies like I always have. Instead, I'm here, thinking about her-about relishing in memories of her jasmine scent and a mouth that ruined me in ways I don't want to admit.

I should let it go. It was a mistake. A distraction. A fucking amateur blowjob, and yet-I want more than I can admit.

I'll find her. I'll drag her back into my world and make her wish she had never met me. And once I've had my fill, once I've fed this obsession clawing through my veins'll forget her.

Go back to being who I was before she touched me.

The ruthless Pakhan of the American Bratva. Untouchable. Feared. The man no one dares to cross.

Caitlyn's pov

The ringing of my phone slices through the silence of my apartment. My gaze flickers to the screen. My step dad's name glows against the dark background.

"Hey, Dad."

"Caitlyn," his voice is warm, grounding me in the middle of the chaos swirling in my head. "How's my favorite munchkin doing?"

"I'm good," I lie, my eyes locked on the untouched dinner in front of me.

He exhales heavily, the doubt in his voice unmistakable. "You sure? You sound off."

I almost laugh at the absurdity of the question. Am I okay? No. I haven't been okay for a while. Not since that night. Not since him.

A part of me wants to tell him. Wants to unload everything onto the one person who has never turned his back on me. But the words lodge in my throat, suffocating me.

"I'm fine, Dad. Just the usual work, life." The words feel like an empty reassurance meant more for myself than for him.

"I-" I swallow hard, glancing at the TV where a random Korean drama flickers across the screen. The voices blur into the background, drowned out by my own thoughts. Actually, I'm not. The confession teeters on the edge of my tongue, but I don't say it out loud.

Dad sighs. "When are you and Mia coming to visit your old man again? It's been a while." He tries to keep his tone light, but the worry is there, woven into every syllable.

"I have a work report to finish up, Dad. I'll call you back." The excuse feels flimsy even to me.

"Mmh." He doesn't believe me. "Alright. Just... don't shut everyone out, okay?"

"Okay," I whisper before hanging up.

I feel like a damn spoiled brat to the only person who took care of me, loved me unconditionally after my mom left even when I was not his biological kid.

I settle in an obscenely strained silence that swells pressing against my chest. My heart pounds, heavy and erratic. I inhale trying to will the suffocating weight away, but it clings to me, a dark thing wrapping around my ribs.

My ruthless thoughts drag me back to that evening -the prison cell..to him.

I cringe at the memory of how my body betrayed me, the way heat coiled low in my stomach just from the ghost of his warm touch lingered on my body as he belittled me. The way his voice-low, rich, knowing-wrapped around filthy words, sinking into my bones.

I should loathe him.

But what I hate more is how easily my pulse still races at the thought of him.

The wag my heart flutters remembering that scent-bergamot and cedarwood clings to my senses, as familiar as my own skin. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the memories away.

But it's too late. He's already ingrained to my bones.

The front door swings open, shattering my spiraling thoughts.

Mia stands there, smirking like she just won a battle. "I knew it."

I arch a brow. "Knew what?"

She tosses her purse onto the couch and strides in like she owns the place. "That you're spiraling again."

I roll my eyes. "Mia, I-"

"Nope. No arguments." She disappears into my bedroom, returning seconds later with a tiny black dress that screams trouble. "Put this on. We're going out."

I groan. "I don't think-"

"Again. Nope." She waves the dress in front of me. "We're going to Bespredal. "

A Russian club. The kind of place people go to lose themselves-to drown in flashing lights and music that vibrates in their bones. A place filled with men who look at women like they're prey.

But maybe that's what I need.

Half an hour later, I sit in front of Mia as she paints my lips a deep red. My dress clings to me like a second skin, the neckline plunging just enough to make me self-conscious. My makeup is dramatic-seductive-definitely not me.

But maybe that's what I need.

To be someone else for a night.

By the time we step into Bespredal , the music is deafening, the lights flashing in chaotic patterns that match the storm in my head. Mia drags me to the bar, ordering drinks faster than I can keep up with.

I down one, then another, ignoring the burn, chasing numbness.

Mia laughs, already swaying to the music. "You're drinking like you're on a mission."

"Maybe I am." I give her a lazy smile, the alcohol warming my veins.

"Well, my mission involves dancing with that guy." She winks, nodding toward a dark-haired man making his way toward her. Within seconds, they vanish into the crowd, leaving me alone at the bar.

"You look like you could use another drink."

The voice pulls me from my daze. I turn to see a man standing beside me-late twenties, sharp suit, the floppy hair of a nerdy banker. Not the creepy kind. Harmless.

I force a smile taking the apple martini in his hand "You might be right."

"I'm Jared." He extends his hand.

Typical banker.

"Caitlyn."

We talk-well, he talks. About his job, his bank, some project he's excited about. I nod and laugh in all the right places, sip my drink, try to seem interested. But my mind drifts, and the alcohol is hitting harder than I expected.

When I finally decide I need to leave, I slide off the barstool-only for my ankle to give out. Jared catches my arm, steadying me. "You alright?"

"Yeah, just... had too much to drink." I chuckle at myself.

"Let me call you a cab. Or, if you're free this weekend, we could grab coffee?"

I hesitate. And then...

The scent hits me first. Dark, rich, utterly intoxicating and familiar. A firm hand presses against my lower back, sending a jolt through my body.

"She's not free," a voice murmurs. Low. Unmistakable.

Jared stiffens, eyes darting between me and the man now standing behind me.

"I... who are you?" Jared asks cautiously.

"The man taking her home."

My breath catches. A slow, creeping dread coils in my stomach as I turn.

He's here. Vladislav Mikhailov.

Jared glances between us before stepping back. "Right. Well... nice meeting you, Caitlyn."

I clench my jaw as he disappears into the crowd before whirling around. "Are you serious? What the hell are you doing here? Were you following me?"

My patient turned stalker tilts his head, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. "That's a question I should be asking you, considering you're in my premises."

I scoff. "I don't even know you. Why the hell would I stalk you?"

The moment the words leave my mouth, I cringe at how untrue they sound. For God's sake, he is-was my patient, so I have his basic details, and I know he is my ex-boyfriend's dad.

His smirk deepens. Fingers trail up my spine, slow, deliberate, before settling on my shoulder and leaning too close to my lips that I can taste the whiskey, "Then let's change that."

Before I can argue, he's leading me toward the dance floor.

"Ask me anything, babochka. Desires. Needs. I can take care of all of it. Just. Request. For. It."