Cruel Paradise (Oryolov Bratva Book 1)

I wake up feeling like I’ve been swallowed by a cloud.

I stretch against the velvety soft sheets and moan into my pillow. This pillow might just have superpowers. Which is good timing, too, because when I roll onto my side, I realize with a grimace that everything hurts.

My thighs? Agony. My ass? Like I got branded with a cattle prod. Between my legs—

My eyes fly open. “Oh my God,” I gasp, looking around the massive, sleek, bachelor pad that I should have been out of a long time ago. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.”

I jerk out of bed so fast that I trip on my own panic, collapse in half like a folding chair, and end up with my face smack dab in the carpet. Luckily, like everything else in this apartment, it cushions my fall with its plush luxuriousness.

“My clothes!” I stammer, running naked around the room like a headless chicken. “Where the hell are my clothes?”

And where is Ruslan?

I imagine his deep, gravelly voice booming through the penthouse. Fee, fi, fo, fum—I smell the blood of a lazy bum. I cringe at my own rhyme. I’m blaming Jack and the Beanstalk for that one. I read it to the girls a couple of weeks ago.

“Focus, Emma!” I snap at myself.

I’m very well aware that I’m dissociating so I don’t focus on the terrifying fact that I’m awake in the penthouse, all by myself, after breaking the contract and potentially ruining everything. If I spend even a nanosecond dwelling on that, I’ll have a full-on meltdown, so I just concentrate on the immediate next step.

First up: getting dressed.

Since my clothes are nowhere to be found, I grab the fluffy white bathrobe in the bathroom and scramble into it as I sneak into the living room. I move gingerly, terrified that he’s going to be lurking behind every corner, every closed door, ready to bellow at me for overstaying my welcome.

But honestly, why would he let me sleep in? Hell, why would he let me sleep at all?

Wasn’t he the one who insisted the contract needed to be upheld? Wasn’t he the one who had insisted on the ‘no sleepovers’ rule? All of that was fine with me! I don’t exactly have the time to languish around my fuck buddy’s palace like a kept woman. I have a life. A job. Kids.

Oh my God, the kids!

He doesn’t seem to be around but I do spot my clothes. They’ve been folded up neatly and left on the white sofa.

I can’t find the green blouse he ripped off me but I do see a small white note sitting on top of the pile of clothes, right next to my phone. Ruslan’s handwriting matches his personality. Confident, powerful, surprisingly elegant.

Be at the office at noon. There are coffee vouchers on the kitchen table if you’re interested. And since I ripped your blouse, feel free to borrow whatever you need from my closet. The driver will be waiting for you outside when you’re ready to leave. –Ruslan.

I’m genuinely stunned. He’s giving me the morning off? Not just that—he’s giving me permission to go into his closet and take one of his shirts?

I have officially checked out of reality.

I sit down next to my stack of clothes and take a deep breath. Then I fold the letter up and grab my phone. I’ve got a bunch of texts and calls from Amelia.

AMELIA: Hey Emma. Just wanted to check if you needed me to spend the night with the kids. It’s eleven now and neither you nor Ben are home.

AMELIA: I’ll take your silence as an affirmative.

AMELIA: I’m gonna have to charge you an extra 10% for the last-minute notice. I hope that’s okay.

AMELIA: Anyway. Goodnight. :smiley face:

I groan, feeling like a complete moron. Amelia probably thinks I’m the world’s worst guardian. And who can blame her? She might be right.

Quickly, I dial her number. “God, Amelia, I’m so, so, so sorry!” I blurt as soon as she answers. “It was just a crazy night. I was working late and then I—” Got fucked into literal unconsciousness by my sex god boss— “… ended up falling asleep at my desk.”

“It’s okay,” she says with an unfazed laugh. “I didn’t actually have plans last night, so it’s all good. I won’t even charge you that extra ten percent.”

“No. Not a chance. You are getting every last cent of that extra ten. You deserve it. I’m so sorry about the terrible communication.”

“You fell asleep. It happens.”

I grimace. She’s being way nicer than I deserve. “Is Ben around?”

Just like that, her politeness vanishes. She’d never say a cross word about anyone, but even she can’t seem to muster up anything nice to say about my brother-in-law. “He didn’t show up last night.”

Ah. That explains her good mood.

“Uh, okay. Copy that. Weird. I’m actually coming back home now. I’ll be there within the hour. Are you okay to stay with the kids ‘til then?”

“No problem, Emma.”

I thank her again and hang up. Grabbing my clothes, I duck back into the master bathroom. The giant tub beckons but I already feel guilty enough for forcing Amelia to pull an all-nighter without notice. So I settle for a quick shower and then step into Ruslan’s walk-in closet, which is double the size of my bedroom.

Man, does it smell good in here.

When I start pressing each shirt to my nose, breathing in that deep, oaky scent, I start to catch creepy stalker vibes—from myself.

Get out now, Emma!

Quickly, I pick out a simple white button-down. It’s about four sizes too big but after I roll up the cuffs and tuck in the front, it actually looks sorta chic. I spend a minute longer than necessary in front of the wall-mounted mirror, trying to avoid all the juvenile thoughts circling around in my head about the fact that I’m wearing Ruslan Oryolov’s shirt on my way to do the world’s boujiest walk of shame.

When I slide into the back seat of the tinted SUV parked out front, my legs bump against a large leather duffel with a note written on a piece of cardstock pinned to the handle.

“Um, hey, Boris?” I ask the driver, who’d introduced himself in a monotone, accented grunt when I stepped out of the penthouse building. “Do you know what this is?”

Boris glances at me over his shoulder. “Boss told me give to you.”

Frowning, I unzip the bag and peek inside. There are three brand new shoeboxes staring back at me, each marked with a name across the front.

Josh.

Caroline.

Reagan.

Could it be…?

I open Josh’s package first to find the most amazing pair of green and black basketball sneakers. Caroline’s pair of leather sneakers are pink and silver. Reagan’s are sequined and multicolored. And the sizes are all perfect.

I have a billion questions I’d like to ask, starting with, How did he know?

But I’m too dumbfounded to bother asking, not that I think Boris was about to be particularly forthcoming with additional details. I spend most of the drive back home just gawking at the shoes. The Debbie downer in me keeps wondering how I’m going to explain such expensive purchases to Ben.

But the optimist in me—the stupid, naive, ever-hopeful optimist—just can’t stop smiling long enough to care.