Wicked Intentions (The Bobrov Bratva #1) Read Online Shandi Boyes

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Erotic, Mafia Tags Authors: Series: The Bobrov Bratva Series by Shandi Boyes

Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106541 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)

I’m a ghost.
A monster.
A man without a soul.

Then I saw her. Again.
Katie Bryne had been missing for four years, presumed dead until she was paraded for sale at an auction days after her eighteenth birthday.
Her endeavor to escape caused the bids to come in hard and fast, so the last thing anyone expected was for her to be held captive in a windowless room for an additional four years.
When freedom finally presented itself, it wasn’t as either of us expected. I bought her for myself, but after lowering her to her knees, I was once again forced to alter my wants.
A Bobrov heir is more vital than my wish to bed the red hair beauty, so no matter how long I’ve craved her, I can’t touch her.
Until the temptation proves too much…

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************


Fourteen years old…

An annoying ‘woo, woo, woo’ drags me from my unconscious state. I’m groggy, my head is pounding, and my mouth feels like it is stuffed with cotton wool. I can’t remember the last time I was this thirsty. I drank at some point today, I’m sure of it, but you wouldn’t know that with how dry and scratchy my throat feels. My eyes are also burning, but there’s no chance to lubricate them since they’re covered so firmly with a rough, itchy material that blinking seems impossible.

“He-hello,” I call out, my voice as weak and pitiful as I feel.

I’ve had the same group of friends forever, so my life experiences are limited, but even with me attending an all-girls school, there’s no missing the scent surrounding me. Their deep, husky breaths are telling enough, not to mention the grubby, mannish aroma in the air. They smell like my older cousins when they leave the track after an event—stinky and sweaty.

“Wh-where are you taking me?”

I cower when my question is answered by a painful backhand to the head. With how much my skull rings in the aftermath of their assault, I can’t say I wasn’t struck with a fist. The throb of bulging knuckles against my temples announces I was hit with the back part of their hand. I’m just unsure if they had their hand closed or open.

“Замолчи,” snarls a deep, heavily accented voice.

When I bob my head again, ducking out of the firing zone before I’m hit for the second time, the sleeve of my shirt drags up the material hindering my vision. It isn’t enough to announce to the men surrounding me that my blindfold is slipping, but enough to disclose that I’m lying on the floor of what appears to be a van of some type. The metal floor is scuffed free of paint, dotted with blood and housing over a dozen pairs of boots.

Oh God.

My stomach gurgles when my eyes land on my bound feet. The fact I’m tied like an animal isn’t the shocking part. It is recalling why I’m wearing the hip-hop sneakers my mother gifted me for my birthday. I’m not meant to wear them out so they won’t get wrecked before my dance concert at the end of the year, but I snuck them out today so I wouldn’t look like a dork who attends a girls’ school while walking to the local store with Blaire, my best friend.

Oh my God, Blaire!

I sit up so fast, there’s no chance the return of my vision won’t be announced.

Quicker than I can be pulled down by a brute with an ugly face tattoo, I scan the cab of the van, seeking Blaire. We were walking to get an ice cream, not a rare occurrence for girls our age who don’t live in a town that’s seen a surge in gang-related activities over the past two years, but something new for us. My father works in insurance, and along with increased premiums came a stringent set of rules.

No boys.

No non-school activities.

And definitely no wandering the streets alone.

I thought my father was being ridiculous.

I’m almost an adult, but now I feel like a fool.

The matching neck tattoos of the men surrounding me warrant his worry, not to mention the memories that flood my head when a white cloth is placed over my mouth and nose for the second time today.

I’ve been kidnapped by men with foreign accents, and I have no clue if my best friend escaped the carnage or if she is in one of the seedy white vans following us.

By the time I wake, the ‘wooing’ rotation of tires over asphalt is replaced by a much sterner and more deafening roar. It reminds me of the trip my family took to Cabo last year, except I’m in the cargo carrier with our dog, Pebbles, instead of in the main hull of the plane with my family.

Not wanting to be drugged again, I keep my head slumped while pricking my ears. We’re definitely in a plane. My ears have the same weighted feeling they get every time I forget to chew gum during takeoff, and there’s a cold, too-high-in-the-sky briskness in the air.

I was out longer than I thought, or we’ve stayed on the East Coast because before I can roll up the bottom of my blindfold with the sleeve of my shirt, a familiar giddiness hits my stomach as the plane commences its descent.

I love the rush of takeoff, but landing makes me queasy.

It is fortunate my stomach is empty, meaning nothing but ghastly-tasting air bubbles escape my mouth during the quick descent.

Worry burns my esophagus when our landing is quickly followed by me being yanked onto my feet by an abrupt tug on my arm. Black military boots aren’t the only shoes peeking out the bottom of my blindfold. There are several pairs of running shoes, high heels, and one lady is wearing a pair of red- bottom stilettoes. I would assume she was a ringleader if her knees and shoes weren’t as scuffed as mine.