Silken Chains (Bond by Morozov Bratva Book 1) (Bond by Morozov Bratva Series)
Silken Chains: Prologue

“GET YOUR fucking hands off my woman,” thunders a voice from the depths of somewhere between hell and here. Its resounding echo resonates within the scant distance between Mr. Grabby Hands and me.

I, along with Mr. Grabby Hands, snap our heads around toward the voice that threatens to pull the earth from under our feet. Standing before us is a man with eyes so stormy, they could put the gray clouds above to shame. He towers over everyone else, a clear head and shoulders above the rest, dressed in a sleek dark suit that clings just right to his muscled frame. The top button of his crisp white shirt is undone, teasing with a hint of bronzed skin and the beginnings of ink creeping toward his throat. Dark hair frames a face that’s all sharp angles, with a jaw that’s enhanced by just the right amount of stubble.

Good lord. If my pussy could pack a suitcase, it’d be straddling his face by now.

He is the cliche alpha male from every over-spiced romance novel. With eyes that drill holes right through your conscience. The sort I read about while sipping lukewarm coffee, wrapped up in my below-average life. This can’t be real, but here he is, hotter than the flames that consumed my store. Except, this isn’t a book; this is my catastrophic, now seemingly fictional reality.

He steps forward, and with each step, the ground seems to resonate with authority. Or perhaps it’s just my wildly beating heart echoing in my ears. There’s an air of danger about him—and not the kind that comes with not wearing a helmet while riding a bike. No, this is the “I-can-snap-your-neck-if-I-wanted-to” kind of danger.

“F-fuck off!” Mr. Grabby Hands manages to croak out, but he already looks defeated, shrinking two sizes down. Even in my distracted state, I can’t miss the ironic humor of the situation. My would-be assailant is now seeking an exit strategy.

“Back off before I make sure those dirty hands can’t touch another damn thing. Specially not my woman,” he growls.

The world halts—or is that just my brain short-circuiting?

His woman? Is he referring to me?

Mr. Stormy-Eyes strides up and now stands right beside me, the distance between us alarmingly minimal. In one fluid motion, he pulls me closer by my waist. Is this guy trying out for some romance novel audition or what? I could shove him away, but then I’d be robbing myself of the closeness to all that well-tailored charm. Maybe I’ll let this slide. Because if my pussy had a vote, it’d be a unanimous, “Yes, please, and thank you.”

Damnit! Get a grip, Laura. There’s no way this is happening to me, right? 

You see, my life’s a blank page waiting for a story that never really starts.

Thirty-two, with an average face, average body, and average existence, dipped in a lackluster marriage. I guess my excitement peaked and plateaued at the spicy love stories that once lined the shelves of my now-charred bookstore. Yup, I am that girl, living vicariously through fictional characters.

But here’s the kicker: the newest thief in my life isn’t some masked intruder or a conniving husband. Nope. It’s fire, with a capital F, yanking away every semblance of normalcy I had.

Flashback to earlier today, when the axis of my painfully ordinary world is tipping completely off its hinge. My day begins with the gut-wrenching realization that my cherished haven of books, a sanctuary built through generations of my family, has turned into nothing but ashes and burned remnants of literary worlds once vivid and alive between their covers.

The realization crashes into me: everything is gone, swallowed by ruthless flames that consumed years of hard work and cherished memories.

How do I tell Dad?

The image of his condescending sneer pops into my mind. The same face that always looked at me as if I were the consolation prize because the universe denied him a son. He won’t even need to say it… I know.

Laura, you’ve screwed up. Again.

In the middle of this, I catch the distant jingle of the ice cream truck that usually parks right outside during summer. “Tropical Delight,” it advertises in bold, multicolored letters. The jingle sounds almost mocking, given my current predicament. The smell of burned wood assaults my nostrils, a harsh departure from the comforting scent of old books and dust that used to embrace me. I’ve been robbed of that, too.

I replace myself getting robbed quite a lot lately.

Yups.

Robbed. Swindled. Betrayed—all the dramatic verbs you can replace in a dictionary—all happening to good old Laura. Hell, if my life were a book right now, it would be a tragicomedy with a sprinkle of crime mystery, and guess who would be the unwitting protagonist?

But let’s refocus on Mr. Stormy Eyes, suddenly right next to me, all up in my space. That look he’s giving me? It’s like he’s trying to claim me with just a glare. Which, okay, shouldn’t be as hot as it is. But as he tugs me closer, a nagging thought hits. Hold on… Have I met this dangerously handsome stranger before?

Why does he seem so… familiar?