Caught by the Sinner (Russian Torpedo

Book 3) Hayley Faiman

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CAUGHT BY THE SINNER
A RUSSIAN TORPEDO NOVEL
HAYLEY FAIMAN
HAYLEY FAIMAN BOOKS, LLC
 C O NT E NT S

Also by Hayley Faiman

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RUSSIAN BRATVA STRUCTURE

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
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue

About the Author

Also by Hayley Faiman
Caught by the Sinner

Copyright © 2022 by Hayley Faiman

All rights reserved.
Editor: My Brother’s Editor. Ellie McLove. http://www.mybrotherseditor.net
Proofreading: My Brothers Editor. Rosa Sharon. http://www.mybrotherseditor.net

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief
quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Visit my website at: http://hayleyfaiman.com
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A L S O B Y H AY LEY FA I M A N

Men of Baseball Series—

Pitching for Amalie
Catching Maggie
Forced Play for Libby
Sweet Spot for Victoria

Russian Bratva Series —

Owned by the Badman
Seducing the Badman
Dancing for the Badman
Living for the Badman
Tempting the Badman
Protected by the Badman
Forever my Badman
Betrothed to the Badman
Chosen by the Badman
Bought by the Badman
Collared by the Badman

Notorious Devils MC —
Rough & Rowdy
Rough & Raw
Rough & Rugged
Rough & Ruthless
Rough & Ready
Rough & Rich
Rough & Real

Cash Bar Series —

Laced with Fear
Chased with Strength
Flamed with Courage
Blended with Pain
Twisted with Chaos
Mixed with trouble

SAVAGE BEAST MC —
 UnScrew Me
UnBreak Me
UnChain Me
UnLeash Me
UnTouch Me
UnHinge Me
UnWreck Me
UnCage Me

Unfit Hero Series —

CONVICT
HERO
FRAUD
KILLER
COWBOY

Zanetti Famiglia Series —

Becoming the Boss
Becoming his Mistress
Becoming his Possession
Becoming the Street Boss
Becoming the Hitman
Becoming his Wife
Becoming her Salvation

Prophecy Sisters Series —

Bride of the Traitor
Bride of the Sea
Bride of the Frontier
Bride of the Emperor

Astor Family Series —

Hypocritically Yours
Egotistically Yours
Matrimonially Yours
Occasionally Yours

Nasty Bastards MC —
Ruin My Life
Tame My Life
Start My Life
Dance into My Life
 Shake Up My Life
Repair My Life
Sweeten My Life

Russian Torpedo—
Stolen by the Sinner
Bound to the Sinner
Caught by the Sinner
F*cked by the Sinner
Stripped by the Sinner
Rejecting the Sinner
Loved by the Sinner

Offspring Legends—
Between Flaming Stars
Beautiful Unwanted Wildflower

Esquire Black Duet Series –

DISCOVERY
APPEAL

Forbidden Love Series —

Personal Foul
Kinetic Energy

Standalone Titles
Royally Relinquished: A Modern Day Fairy Tale
 S TAY C O N N E C T E D

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Love is a friendship that has caught fire. It is quiet understanding, mutual confidence, sharing
and forgiving. It is loyalty through good and bad times. It settles for less than perfection and
makes allowances for human weakness.
— ANN L ANDERS
 RU S S I A N B R AT VA S T RU C T U R E

Pakhan – The Boss: Controls everything.

Sovietnik – Councilor: Adviser and most close trusted individuals to the Pakhan.
Obshchak – The Bookmaker: Collects all money from Brigadiers and bribes from the government.
Brigadier – Authority: Captain in charge of a small group of men.
Boyevik – Warrior: Soldier, works for a Brigadier.
Kryshas – Covers: Extremely violent enforcers.
Torpedo – Contract Killers
Byki – Bulls: Bodyguards
Shestyorka – Associate: Errand boys. Lowest rank in the Russian Mafia.
 C HAPTER 1

KAZIMIR

C ontrol.
I pride myself on it, especially as a Pakhan for the Russian Bratva. But that doesn’t mean that
I have a grip on it at all times. I’ve been known to lose a handle on it for short periods of time.
Specifically, Natasha Morozova.
That is one person that I have a feeling I will never have my control over, no matter how many
times I’ve been with her or how many times I see her. She isn’t anywhere near like the other women
I’ve been in relationships with.
I remember being enamored by women in the past, obsessed with them even, but the way I felt
about them doesn’t hold a candle to the way I feel about Natasha. It’s different with her… bigger. The
intensity is beyond compare. I can understand why men do outrageous things for their women.
Natasha and her long blonde hair, her longer legs, her fucking perfect goddamn body. Natasha
with her attitude. Natasha with zero connections. We have no business being anything except fuck
buddies. But somewhere along the way, that’s been muddied.
I lose my control around her, and I certainly should not. She is no person I should lose anything
around. By all intents and purposes, she is nothing and nobody. My employee. A woman who was
born in Russia to a man who happened to be in the Bratva but not holding any rank at all, she is
useless to me.
Except, she’s come to mean everything to me.
She is a liability now, and I need to ensure that she is one no longer. This needs to end, or at least
shift. She has too much power over me, and I need to take that away.
Walking into the club, I see her standing behind the main bar, her workstation.
She’s wearing a skintight spaghetti-strapped top that is cut so low I can almost see her nipples. I
know that her skirt is probably so short that I could almost see her ass too if she were standing out
from behind the bar. Thankfully, she’s behind it, keeping my control in check for at least a minute or
two longer.
Natasha’s blonde hair is pulled up into a high ponytail and she has her face painted to perfection.
She doesn’t even look like a real person. She looks like a Russian doll. A perfect one at that.
This is her mask.
 When she’s not here, when she’s lying in bed or just hanging around her apartment, she doesn’t
wear any makeup. In those moments, she’s even more beautiful than she is right now. Though it
wouldn’t seem possible, but it’s the truth.
As if she feels me staring at her, slowly, she lifts her gaze, and her eyes meet mine. We stare at
one another for a moment, but it’s me who breaks contact first. Jerking my chin up, I turn and head
toward my office.
It’s late, the club is in full swing, and she won’t have time to follow me here, not that her pride
would let her. I’ve made it clear to her that she is nothing but a fuck, that she’ll never be anything but
a fuck. Taking another woman to a Bratva wedding, one that both Tasha and I were invited to, was
cruel but necessary.
I am a Pakhan. She is nothing. She cannot be anything other than a kept whore. That is all that I
can offer her. If that hurts her, then I cannot help it. That is the way of the organization, the way of my
world. She knows this, too. Even if she does not want to admit it, she understands it better than
anyone.
She has been part of this world since she was a child, born into it like so many of us.
Sinking down in my office chair, I turn on my monitor and look at all the angles of my club, of
Vecherinka. Maybe I should allow someone else to take over the day-to-day operations of the club.
I’m a Pakhan, I shouldn’t be worrying myself with a nightclub, but I built this from the ground up.
This club has always been my constant. My life. This club is the front for some serious money
laundering, some drug dealing, skin trade, and whatever else you could possibly think of, but that’s
not why I love it. I love it because this club is me—it’s mine.
Digging out some ledgers, I start working, the cameras playing in the background as I continue to
focus on work and not Natasha. I’m pretty shit at it though, because I constantly flick my gaze to the
camera behind the bar, the one that shows the back view of her.
Yeah, her skirt barely covers her ass.
Fucking gorgeous.
But also something she should not be wearing in public, even at a nightclub. There are a few
losers at the end of the bar, obviously watching her, leaning over the counter to try to get a look at her
pussy when she bends down to get something from a low shelf.
They’re laughing and no doubt belligerent. They are trouble.
With a growl, I stare at them, waiting for them to cross the line. And as men like them always do,
they cross it. When she walks over to check on them, one of the men reaches out, taking her forearm in
his grip. The other one reaches his hand over the bar, and I slam my palm on the desk as I stand up
and head toward her.
I can’t even think straight enough to call one of my men working security to help her. To beat the
shit out of them, to kick them out. I can’t think straight because they’re touching what is clearly not
theirs to touch, but mine, only mine.

NATASHA

IT SHOULD NOT BOTHER me every single time my boss walks by me and pretends I don’t exist, but it
does. I know that wounds take time to heal, and this is the biggest wound I’ve ever had in my life.
This is the man that I fell in love with, who obviously does not feel the same about me.
 This is the man who told me that I could be his whore and nothing else. The offer was tempting, a
free place to live, all the clothes, handbags, and jewelry that I wanted. And even, if he decides,
children.
Hell, I would be a liar if I wasn’t tempted by it every single time that my gaze lands anywhere on
his body. I couldn’t do it though. I could not do that. And at the end of the day, the reason wasn’t
because of how I felt for him, because I’ve completely fallen head over heels in love with him, it was
because I refuse to be that. It has to do with me and only me.
Being a Pakhan’s kept whore is actually above my station. He was offering me so much more than
I could ever be on my own, or that I should be. I’m nobody. My father was nobody in the Bratva,
therefore I’m nothing.
I’ve been lucky that I became friends with Danill and Grisha when I was a child. That I was
allowed to come with them to the United States, to Los Angeles with Ksenia and them. They’ve
protected me my entire life and I’m grateful for that.
If it wasn’t for Danill and Grisha, I don’t know where I would be. Still in Russia, without a doubt,
probably the one thing I do not want to be—a whore. Though I wouldn’t be a Pakhan’s whore, I
would probably just be one of dozens making money for the Bratva and trying to get some food in my
belly, nothing more, nothing less.
Perhaps being taken care of by Danill and Grisha is the reason I feel as if I deserve more than
being a whore. They’ve never treated me like that. They’ve always treated me as if I were a little
sister to them. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter, because it’s just how I feel.
I want more. I deserve more. I am more.
There is something in the air tonight. It’s almost vibrating. Something makes me look over my
shoulder, an air of danger fills the room.
It does that sometimes, being a Bratva-owned club with lots of members in and out at all times,
things can get dicey. But this feels different, I can’t put my finger on it, but something is brewing.
Shaking off the feeling and seeing Kazimir, I work. I focus on my bar, on my orders, and on the
customers. I especially pay close attention to these two assholes who have parked their asses at the
end of the bar.
It’s clear they’re trying to get a look up my very short skirt. They keep leaning over every time I
get something from one of the lower shelves. I don’t know how they even got in here. Their suits are
cheap, and they order the lowest shelf, then they nurse it.
Hoping to get them out of here, I walk over to check on them. I’m all business, nothing but
professionalism. Well, as professional as I can be in a skirt that’s beyond decently short and a top that
is beyond decently low cut.
“Can I get you guys anything else to drink?” I ask with an easy smile, leaning across the bar
slightly.
One of them reaches for my arm, wrapping his fingers around me tightly, while the other leans
over and his arm moves between me and the bar, going for my skirt, no doubt to touch between my
legs.
Fuck that.
And fuck him.
I move the lower half of my body out of the way. I’m struggling, but the hand on my forearm
tightens and then the other man grabs the outside of my thigh with one hand while the other one starts
to move between my legs.
“Please, don’t,” I whisper.
 Flashbacks come back to me. Ones that I thought I had hidden in a deep dark place, never to come
forward again. They do. They’re here and tears start to stream down my cheeks. I don’t see anything
in front of me. It’s as if everything else has completely faded away.
My vision turns bright white, and I stop struggling.
My entire body jerks when a hand slaps across my face. Closing my eyes, I blink hard once, then
again, then again. Shaking my head, I open my eyes, finally seeing the dark club around me, and look
straight ahead. I’m met with Kazimir’s angry glare.
“Go the fuck to my office,” he growls.
“I’m okay,” I exhale.
He leans forward, his face just centimeters from mine. “Go the fuck to my office, now,” he barks.
His tone is so sharp that my entire body jerks backward. I take a step back, stumbling on my high
heels. Kazimir turns his head, jerks his chin, and I watch as Eriks wraps his hand around my elbow,
the other he places in the middle of my back and guides me toward Kazimir’s office.
My legs are shaky as we walk to the back of the club, down the hidden hallways toward the office
door. There is a moment of silence as he opens the door. Then I walk into the room. Eriks doesn’t say
anything as he guides me over to the sofa.
He lets my arm go as soon as I’m sitting. Then he walks over to the door and locks it, but he stays
in the room, which surprises me. He doesn’t say anything. Looking at my lap, I press my palms
together and stare at my hands.
“I’m not going to ask you if you’re okay. It’s clear that you aren’t,” he announces.
Turning my head, I look over at him. “I am now,” I lie. “I’d like to go home.”
He tilts his head to the side, his eyes searching mine for a moment, then he shakes his head slowly,
his eyes never leaving mine. He watches me for far too long, and it becomes a bit uncomfortable. I
shift in my seat, wringing my hands together, when he finally says something.
“No, you aren’t. Seen that look before, know what it means. You stay here until Kazimir says you
leave.”
 C HAPTER 2

KAZIMIR

I watch Eriks take Natasha to my office, knowing that she will be safe there. Then I turn my attention
to one of my other men. I had the two men taken away, discreetly and swiftly. Now that I know
Natasha is safe, I can deal with them.
“You have them?”
Ruslan nods his head. He’s my newest Torpedo, but he’s not completely on his own yet, so he
helps me out here when I need him. He’s good, especially in a situation like this. Jerking my chin
toward him, I give him a grin.
“Let’s handle them, then.”
He chuckles. “Yes, let’s.”
Together, we make our way toward the back of the club where those fucks were taken. I own the
building next door, and I use it for various things. Teaching assholes lessons is one of them.
The men are both hanging from hooks that I have strategically placed in the ceiling when I make
my way into the lesson-teaching room.
The building is kept dark until we’re in here working. Turning on the light to the room, I look
around to ensure that the windows are still covered.
Nobody knows we’re here. Nobody will hear these assholes scream either. The club is too loud
for that, not to mention that this room is at the very back of the building, isolated from anything else.
“Who are you?” I demand.
The men lift their heads, their eyes wide with what I can only describe as crippling fear as they
watch me, unspeaking, unmoving.
“Who are you?” I ask again, keeping my voice calm and smooth.
The one who boldly had his hand between my woman’s legs whimpers, then tears stream down
his cheeks. I would maybe feel pity for him, except he made Natasha cry as well, so I feel less than
nothing.
“I’m Rodger,” he whimpers.
“Do you know who I am?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“I own Vecherinka,” I inform him.
 They nod their heads simultaneously, their eyes becoming even wider. “We’re so sorry. We heard
that the women were open to whatever there. We just thought…” Rodger rambles until he stops, no
doubt seeing the anger from his words rise in my face.
Ruslan clears his throat behind me, but he wisely doesn’t say anything.
“You thought that you could grab and touch any woman in that club simply because she was under
my employ?” I ask.
They don’t say anything, so I turn my head slightly. “Ruslan?” I call out.
“Pakhan,” he rumbles, taking a step forward to stand beside me.
“Have you heard such rumors?” I ask. “That any woman working at the club is as they say, up for
grabs?”
There is a moment of silence as if Ruslan is thinking, though I know that he has his answer
already, it’s comical almost to see these assholes sweat. Licking my lips, I take my phone out of my
pocket and send Eriks a text, checking on Natasha.

ERIKS: She is on the couch. Says she’s fine.

IS SHE?

ERIKS: Not even close.

BE THERE SOON.

“No, Pakhan, I’ve never heard that before.”

I do have women that offer their services for extra money, that don’t mind being paid for their
time. Some are waitresses, some are just entertainment for the club. None of them are, or have ever
been, Natasha. And none of them are just up for grabs.
“Seems you’ve taken these rumors out of context. Though, none of that really matters,” I say.
“Why?” Rodger asks, tears streaming down his cheeks again.
Pathetic.
“Because you’ll never get the chance to make the mistake again.”
What I want to do is cut his fucking hand off for daring to touch Natasha, but since he’s hanging
from a hook, I don’t get the opportunity. Holding out my palm, I wriggle my fingers and Ruslan places
a knife in my hand.
Gripping the handle of the field knife, I press the tip against Rodger’s chest right below his rib
cage. He cries out for help, then he whimpers as I press the point against his skin. The first drop of
blood forms and I smile, tilting my face up to look at him.
“Touching women that do not belong to you is an unwise decision. You never know who they truly
belong to. I hope that you realize that now, though it doesn’t really matter since you won’t survive
this,” I murmur before I slam the knife into him and drag it all the way down his torso to his pelvis.
Taking a step back, I watch the inside of his body spill out and land on the floor with a splatter.
It smells.
He’s fucking disgusting.
The goddamn asshole that he is.
The man next to him, the one who hasn’t said a word, the one who held Natasha’s arm down,
screams bloody fucking murder. My lips curl up into a grin and I jerk my chin toward him.
“You’re next.”

NATASHA

I STAY SITTING on the couch, Eriks watching me as if I could burst into flame, or poof, vanish in front
of his eyes. Neither happens. Tilting my head to the side, I arch a brow and ask him if he can go and
get my purse from the locker beneath the bar. If I had my phone, at least I could text someone or play a
game, or something.
Eriks doesn’t even verbally answer me. Instead, he just shakes his head slowly from side to side.
“Pakhan will be here soon,” he says, his voice a deep rumble.
“It wasn’t even a big deal. I don’t understand the fuss,” I say.
It was a big deal. My mind went totally freaking blank. I don’t even know what really happened,
and honestly, I’d like to keep it that way. I’m good never knowing. I’m good just going on with my sad
existence, never thinking about this night ever again.
I open my mouth to say just that when there is a knock on the door and Kazimir announces his
presence. Eriks takes a step toward me, then turns around and flips the lock. I notice that his hand is
resting loosely, but actively on his gun at his hip, ready to start shit, if shit should arrive.
This should make me feel safe, but this only reminds me that I am not safe.
Kazimir walks into the room, I shift my attention back to my hands in my lap as Eriks slips out. I
hear the door close behind him, then it clicks, and I hear the lock behind shift into place. I’m here
alone with Kazimir, the one place that I really don’t want to be.
There is a moment of silence, I expect him to sit down next to me, but he doesn’t. He clears his
throat, then he demands, albeit gently, for me to look up at him. Slowly, I lift my head, my eyes sliding
up his body, but pausing on his chest.
“You’re covered in blood,” I whisper.
He hums, “I am.”
Two words should not seem so simple. He offers me no explanation, but I don’t need one, do I? I
already know whose blood this is. I know everything and yet, at the same time, I know nothing.
Shifting my gaze up the rest of his body, I stop when my eyes connect with his. “Kazi,” I breathe.
He doesn’t say anything. His ass is leaning against the front of his desk in that way that men do
that is so extremely sexy. He’s covered in blood, his beautiful suit no doubt ruined, but he looks
completely unbothered.
“You went somewhere else tonight. You stopped fighting, and you went somewhere else. What
haven’t you told me?” he asks.
I almost laugh. His question is kind of funny. I haven’t told him a hell of a lot, he hasn’t asked
either. Not that I would even offer it up. I’m not ashamed of what happened to me, but I thought that I
had moved past it.
Turns out maybe I haven’t. But I also don’t want to revisit it in a conversation with Kazimir. A
conversation with a man who doesn’t want me for anything other than what is between my legs.
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll be fine. May I go home for the night?” I ask.
“Are you so angry with me that you can’t talk to me?”
My eyes don’t leave his. I hold them for a few breaths before I speak. “I’m not angry with you,
Kazi. We want different things, that’s all. You want your wife that will be on your arm for the public
and a woman who will give you what you need in private. That’s fine, a lot of men in your position
want and have that. But I can’t be her.”
“Can’t you? What do you want, Natasha?”
I hate the way he says my name. I prefer he call me pchelka. His little bee. But I don’t say that. If I
said that then it would just reaffirm that I want to be his.
“I want a man to love only me, Kazimir. I want to be the queen to his king. Not the whore.”
Standing to my feet, I start to walk toward him. Lifting my hand, I place my palm in the center of
his chest. I know that I’m touching another man’s blood, but I don’t mind. He avenged me. It’s sexy as
shit. No man has ever cared enough for me to do that before. I know that if I told him about all of my
demons that he would slay them as well.
“Tell me where you went tonight?” he demands.
Shaking my head, I suck in a breath. I don’t want to tell him anything. I don’t want him to feel
sorry for me, to pity me. So what if I was raped as a teenager? A million other women have had the
same thing happen to them. I am not special. I am not different. In fact, I thought that I had moved on
from that, until tonight.
“I think I need to find a new job,” I breathe.
“Nyet,” he barks. “You need to tell me what the fuck happened to you.” His voice is a roar, it’s so
loud that it vibrates throughout my entire body.
“I was raped before I came to the United States. One of my mother’s men.”
The words tumble out and I don’t realize that tears are streaming down my cheeks until he lifts his
hand and wipes them away with the backs of his fingers. “It was a long time ago,” I breathe.
He doesn’t say anything right away. His eyes hold mine. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but he
shakes his head once.
“You got a name for me?” he asks.
My lips curve up into a small smile and I shake my head. “Some customer of hers, far away, in
Russia, in another lifetime.”
He grunts, leaning forward and then I feel his lips press against mine. He doesn’t deepen the kiss,
but he does speak.
“I ever find out who did that to you. I’ll tear him apart piece by piece. Anyone ever touches you
again and they’ll meet the fate of those pieces of shit tonight.”
God, his words should not be as sexy as they are. They definitely should not turn me on, and I
should not allow him to kiss me covered in other men’s blood. But I’ve never been a normal girl, I’ve
never claimed to be.
“I need to find a new job,” I breathe, trying not to respond to his sexy as shit declaration. If I do,
then I’ll no doubt find myself riding him in just a few seconds flat. I can’t do that anymore, not with
him. It hurts too bad when it’s finished.
“You will work here where I can watch you.”
Tears fill my eyes, but they don’t fall, I can’t let them. “That hurts too badly.”
Admitting it, saying it out loud is better therapy than anything else. Because it’s true. It crushes me
a little more each time I see him. Each time that he walks away from me. It just hurts.
Dropping my hand, I turn and walk away.
I hesitate at the door, hoping that he’ll call out to me, but he doesn’t. He lets me walk out of his
office, and as the door closes behind me, softly clicking into place, that is when my heart officially
shatters.
 Eriks is waiting for me. Wordlessly, he takes my elbow and guides me toward the bar, then he
guides me toward my car, and without a second thought, he takes my car keys, and drives me home.
I close my eyes, breathing in and out, trying to take calming breaths as Eriks drives me to my
apartment. I don’t ask him how he’s going to get home.
It doesn’t matter.
Nothing matters right now.
The man that I love, he doesn’t want me for anything other than sex and it hurts, because I want
him for everything. He would kill for me. He has killed for me. But he won’t love me, won’t keep me,
and that is heartbreaking.
 C HAPTER 3

NATASHA

O nce Eriks reluctantly leaves my apartment, I sit on the floor in my bedroom staring at the empty
space on the wall. I stare at that spot all night long. I go through the events of earlier, but there are
a few things that I can’t get out of my head.
Kazimir only wants me as his whore, but he’s the one who ran down to the club floor, to the bar,
to protect me. He’s the one who was covered in the blood of the men who touched me, who violated
me. He’s the one who demanded to know what had happened to me, who is ready to kill that man who
hurt me as a girl.
It was him.
He could have very easily called one of his men to do that. Eriks looked pissed enough, I think he
would have killed those men just the same. Kazimir could have had Eriks take care of those men, ban
them from the club, rough them up a little. But that’s not what he did. He’s completely confused me.
For someone who just wants to use me for sex, he sure did a whole lot to these men tonight for
me. I should probably feel disgusted by his actions, appalled even. But I’m not like the regular girls,
like the regular people who walk down the street to their good, clean jobs.
I was born and raised in the underbelly of society. The Bratva. What I consider normal, nobody
else does and vice versa. But what Kazimir did tonight, that’s something you do for your woman, your
wife, not some girl you used to fuck that you don’t care about.
Forcing myself up off of the floor, I stand and walk over to my bathroom. Starting the shower, I let
out a heavy sigh.
I need to wash the night off of me.
I need to wash the sensation of their fingers on my body away. I need it like I need to breathe. I’m
no longer sitting in shock. Now I feel disgusted. But not disgusting, because it was not me who acted
vile, and I refuse to bear the weight of that shit.
But I do need to wash them off of me.
Every freaking part of them.
Stepping into the shower, I let the hot water cascade over me. I scrub every square inch of my
body until it’s bright red, then I scrub a little more. Once the hot water runs cold, only then do I turn it
off and grab a towel.
 Wrapping the fluffy white towel around me, I step out of the steamy bathroom and into the
bedroom. I already know he’s here. I don’t even have to look up to see him. But when I do, I’m taken
aback by how sexy he is.
Kazimir is sitting on the end of my bed wearing suit pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled
up his forearms. He’s clean of any trace of blood and his dark-blond hair is combed back and still
damp as if he’s just come from a shower.
“Kazimir,” I whisper.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he says, his voice low and sexy.
Why? Why does he have to be sweet right now? I need to get the fuck out of here. He needs to get
the fuck out of here—desperately.
Nodding, I pull my towel tighter across my chest. “I’m okay.”
I answer him, hoping that it will get him to leave sooner. His gaze holds mine. He watches me for
a moment but doesn’t say anything. Then he stands. I assume that he’s going to leave now that he’s
seen that I’m okay, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he walks directly up to me. He lifts his hand, wrapping his fingers around the side of my
throat, and he pauses before he dips his chin, his mouth just inches from mine. Sucking in a breath, I
hold it for a moment, but he doesn’t say anything. He just stays there and it’s too much.
“Kazimir,” I exhale.
He hums but still doesn’t say anything right away. I can smell him. His scent is almost better than
sex, it’s so good. Closing my eyes, I allow myself to have this moment, this last smell, this last bit of
closeness. This last everything.
“I don’t want you to quit your job at the club. If you’re not there, I won’t know you’re safe.”
“It doesn’t matter, Kazi,” I breathe. “I can’t move on with my life if I see you every single night. If
that wound continues to be opened, night after night, I won’t be able to try to move on. And when you
find your bride, it will hurt far too badly.”
“There will be no bride,” he grunts. “Not anytime soon. I thought that I had love once. That was
enough.”
Another nail in my coffin. Kazimir has already had love, past tense and spoiler alert, it wasn’t me.
I’ve asked him about this woman before, but he refuses to talk to me about her. All he says is that it
was many years ago. That it didn’t work out, but there are no details. I don’t mind it. It was a lifetime
ago and has nothing to do with me. Plus, I am clearly not his woman.
Considering he’s twenty years older than me, he has somehow decided that anything in his past is
not relevant to us. Though, I understand that sentiment a bit better now, as he never really thought of
us… as an us anyway. I also did not tell him every detail about my past, something that I was acutely
reminded of tonight.
“I want love, Kazimir,” I murmur.
He doesn’t say anything, instead, his lips touch mine with just a light brush before he takes a step
backward. His eyes focus on mine. He watches me for a moment, as if attempting to memorize me.
“I’ve deposited some money into your account until you find another job. Don’t do anything risky.
I’ll be watching you, pchelka.”
And with that promise, or warning, I’m not sure which, he walks past me and out of my apartment.
It’s so late, or rather early, that the sun is beginning to rise. Walking to my bed, I crawl inside, and my
eyes close the moment my head hits the pillow.
I’m too exhausted to realize this moment for what it is.
The end.
 The absolute end.

KAZIMIR

WALKING AWAY FROM HER, away from what I want, is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It’s probably
the most selfless, too. I haven’t been selfless in the past, in fact, I don’t think I ever have been before
this moment.
The woman I loved as a boy ruined me from being anything other than selfish, but then thirty years
later, Natasha comes along and does the opposite. I should not have fallen for Natasha. Nobody else
has ever even been able to break through my surface, but she did—instantly.
I’m an almost fifty-year-old man and I haven’t felt anything for so long that I almost forgot how to
feel. Until Natasha, and now I have to let her go, so that she can find what she needs in life. What she
fucking deserves, which is no doubt not me, even though I want to keep her.
Starting my car, I shift it into drive and head out of here. Away from her. If I don’t, I’ll stay. She
doesn’t need that, doesn’t need me. Guiding my car toward my house, I wonder what she’ll do with
her newfound wealth.
I’m curious if she’ll buy a small house or condo, maybe invest it, or spend it on all the things she
loves so much, designer everything. It will be interesting to watch, that’s for sure. If she runs out, I
can’t pretend or lie to myself, that I won’t give her more.
Nobody is home when I pull into the driveway. Nobody is ever home. That’s what happens when
you refuse to have a staff of any kind. I should have guards twenty-four seven.
I should probably have a driver who doubles as a guard for protection reasons and I no doubt
should have a cook of some kind, but I don’t really feel it’s necessary. I do have a cleaning service
that comes in once a week to clean, but I always supervise.
If someone wants to kill me, and they can get me before I take care of them, I probably deserve to
die at that point. One of my other men can take my place. A Brigadier can move up or something, the
way that I did in my younger days.
Climbing out of my car, I touch the arm button and make my way into the house. Turning off the
house alarm, I close and lock my front door before I set it again. I’m not going outside, and I don’t
plan on anyone coming over, so I secure my doors.
Just because I’m not necessarily scared, doesn’t mean I’m not cautious.
The house is quiet as I walk into the kitchen to grab a lowball glass from the cabinet and a bottle
of vodka from the freezer.
Pouring myself a glass to the fucking top, I look at it and decide that it will not be enough. Picking
up the glass in one hand, I grab the neck of the bottle with the other and walk over to my chair in my
library.
I’m not sure that anyone aside from Natasha knows that I enjoy reading, but I do. It’s how I relax
after a long day at work, or if I want to take my mind off of life for a while. However, I don’t even
think one of my comfort reads could help me now.
I think about calling someone, but I’m not sure who would be up at this hour. Typically, in a
situation like this, I would call Natasha to fill the void. To fill the quiet. To calm my head and get rid
of the white noise that seems to be getting louder by the second.
Finishing the vodka in record time, I pour myself another glass. I shouldn’t. This shit is expensive
as fuck, but tonight that doesn’t matter. Not at all. I drink a second glass, then a third.
Thankfully, the alcohol starts to take over and my mind begins to calm or get fuzzy. I’m not sure
which one happens first.
Doesn’t matter.
Closing my eyes, my hands hang over the arms of the chair and the glass and bottle tumble to the
floor, but I can’t be bothered to pick them up. I make a mental note to maybe smoke a little weed
before I just drink my sorrow away for a faster high. For a faster sleep.
Doesn’t matter.
Tomorrow, things will change. I don’t know what, but something surely will. I’ll move on.
Natasha is young, and she’ll move on. Something will happen in the Bratva that will consume my
time. Another crisis will no doubt come crashing into my world, the way it always does.
Natasha will be a bittersweet memory of what could have been and nothing more. And for her, I
will be someone that she once loved and nothing more.
 C HAPTER 4

NATASHA

R eaching for my phone on my nightstand, I look at the time and whimper. I’ve only been asleep for
two hours. Thankfully, those two hours felt like twenty, but that doesn’t mean that I won’t be
completely exhausted and probably end up with a migraine by the end of the day, I no doubt will.
But none of that matters, because I’m meeting with my friends for brunch today. Slipping out of
bed, I walk into the bathroom and debate taking a shower or not. I showered just a little over two
hours ago, but I decide that the water may wake me up, so I start it anyway.
After a quick rinse down, I plug in my hair waver and begin my makeup process. It takes me a
while to get ready to go anywhere, especially if people are going to see me. And this is a celebration
lunch.
Ksenia is back from her short honeymoon. She’s got some big news to share, and she wants me
and Holland there. I can only imagine what she’s going to announce. I hope it’s another baby. I love
babies and judging by the way my life is going, I’ll forever be the cool tetya, never a mom.
Once my face is on, my lips painted a nude color instead of bright red like last night, I smooth
down my blonde hair with some delicious-smelling balm and head toward my closet to pick a dress
out. Nothing too sexy, but nothing old lady either, at least not yet.
I choose a bright-robin’s-egg-blue wrap dress that hugs my body perfectly and shows off
everything I want it to. On my feet, nude sky-high heels that match my lips. My purse, I choose a
bright-yellow Dolce & Gabbana medium bag with a top handle.
I don’t know why it’s so important to me to look a certain way, to dress a certain way. Maybe
because these women are special, they’re who I wish I could be. They’re married to respected men of
the Bratva, the best men aside from Kazimir that I know.
Switching the contents of my bag, I try not to think about Kazimir anymore, although I have a
feeling that he’s going to continue to slip into my mind. I reach for my phone and start to toss it inside
when I remember something that Kazimir said to me last night.
Money.
He said that he put money into my account. When we were an item, he asked for access to my
accounts, though he already had that through the club, but he wanted my permission. That was cute and
sexy, just like him.
 So I, of course, gave him all of my information, hoping that it meant something else, that it meant
that I would be his woman or something.
It’s not like he ever really gave me much, a few thousand here or there if he knew I was going out
with Holland and Ksenia shopping or to brunch like today. He told me that it was for no other reason
than he wanted me to buy something sexy for his eyes.
Touching the app icon to my bank account, I wait for the facial recognition to work. I drop my
phone when I take in the number that appears in front of me. Kazimir didn’t just put a little money in
my account to make sure that I could pay my bills until I find a new job.
Kazimir dropped a million dollars.
One million dollars.
If I had time to lose my shit, I would. I would lose it all over the place, then I would march over
to Kazimir and demand that he take it the fuck out. But I don’t have the time, at least not right now.
Later, I’ll demand it.
After brunch.
I need sustenance to think about and process those commas.
Running out of the apartment, now I feel completely and totally frazzled. I miss my turn three times
before I finally make it to the restaurant. Shaking, I grab my purse and phone, then exit the car.
I hate that we’re meeting at Pozhaluysta. I wish that it were anywhere else. I know why we’re
here though. It’s the safest place for them, for Holland and Ksenia. But for me, it’s just a reminder that
I am nobody. That I am nothing.
With my head held high and my designer purse in my hand, I walk into the restaurant. Vera is
behind the counter as I approach the podium.
“I’m here to meet Holland and Ksenia,” I announce.
She nods her head, taking a menu out of the holder, then jerks her chin and turns her back to me
before she walks away. She says nothing, and it’s probably better that way. I know she’s slept with
half of this restaurant in hopes of climbing to the top. I can’t blame her. If I thought that I could do the
same, I would without a doubt.
Although, I skipped the ladder and just slept with the man at the top and I didn’t get what I
wanted, but in the end, the title didn’t matter anyway. All I wanted was him, the man, Kazimir.
Pathetically, he only wanted one thing from me, what I was giving him. Nothing more, nothing
less.
Just my body.
This girl has to learn on her own how the world really works, the same way that I have and it will
fucking hurt. I had Danill and Grisha warning me, telling me not to expect anything from Kazimir, but I
was too blinded by hope to believe them. I do now.
I believe them, even though it hurts like hell, I had to learn it all for myself.
Holland and Ksenia stand up as I approach. They throw their arms around me in unison, and it’s
exactly the medicine that I need for my broken heart. It won’t mend it, but it will help me for the
moment. And that’s what I’ve decided. I’m going to live by the moment.

KAZIMIR

MY HEAD ACHES . Not just a little, but to the point where I don’t think I’ll be able to function. I drank
too much last night, and I didn’t eat. I’ve been far too fucking consumed with Natasha, with those
fucking assholes who touched her, with her quitting the club.
Standing, I stumble my way toward the bathroom to piss and then shower. In that exact fucking
order. Once I’ve pissed, I turn on the hot water and step inside. The water washes over my skin, it
burns my flesh, but it also makes me feel fucking alive.
Once I’m finished, I grab a towel and wrap it around my waist before I stand in front of the
mirror. Staring at my reflection, I wonder what the fuck I’m doing.
Jesus fucking shit.
Scrubbing my palm down my face, I shake my head a couple of times, then I take a step back and
head into the bedroom, then the closet, to get dressed for the day. I don’t think too much about my
clothes. They’re all the same anyway. Suit pants, button-down shirt, tie, and shoes. My normal
uniform.
Quickly, I run a comb through my hair, slip on my shoes, and brush my teeth before I head out.
Grabbing my keys and my phone, I head toward my car.
Pozhaluysta comes into view, and I can practically taste my Golubtsy, my perfect hangover cure.
Walking into the restaurant, I see Vera as she lifts her gaze to meet mine. Her eyes widen, then her lips
curve up into a grin.
I’ve fucked her before.
Everyone here has.
She’s honestly too damn young for me, even younger than Natasha. I don’t know what she’s
thinking, but if it’s a Bratva husband she wants, she won’t find it by fucking everyone who looks at
her. Not in our world anyway.
“Hello, Pakhan Kazimir,” she purrs.
“Table for one,” I grunt, keeping my aviator glasses on my face.
I’m not sure I can handle the light of the day or the restaurant. At least not until I’ve had some food
in my belly. Vera thankfully doesn’t ask me any more questions or flirt with me any longer, instead she
turns and walks away.
Following behind her, I make my way to the table that is known as mine. It’s at the back corner of
the restaurant. Nobody can walk behind me at all. I’m against a wall, and it’s exactly where I want to
be. Nobody can approach me without me seeing either, which is very important for a man in my
position.
I hear the voice before I see her. It carries across the entire fucking restaurant. Turning my head to
the side, I keep my glasses on as I look at her. She’s smiling as she reaches across the table, taking
Ksenia’s hands in hers.
Fuck, but she looks absolutely stunning. Her blonde hair shines in the sunlight, her lips are curved
up, and she’s not wearing extremely heavy makeup. I can see her true face.
How am I going to stay away from her? I want her right here. I want to fuck her in front of this
whole place so that every man in this room knows that she’s mine. That they can’t have her, they have
no chance with her.
They need to know that I fucking own her.
The waiter brings my Golubtsy, blocking my view of Natasha for a moment. He also fills my
water and I thank him. Turning to my meal, I eat. There is a moment of silence. The restaurant goes
quiet or maybe it’s just me welcoming the deliciousness of my favorite meal.
I focus on my food, deciding that I should not spend the entire afternoon staring at what I cannot
have and focus on what I can. When I’m finished, I finally force myself to look over to her, or rather, I
give myself permission.
Natasha is still there, but she’s alone. The other women have left her, and I wonder why. I don’t
have to continue to wonder for much longer, instead, I watch as she stands, then makes her way
toward me.
Wordlessly, she sinks down in the chair across from mine, her silent gaze focused on mine and an
expression that I cannot read on her face. Then, as if she has finally decided what she is going to say,
she opens her mouth and begins to speak.
“I thought about the money all through brunch. Initially, I was angry that you gave it to me, then I
was selfishly excited because I can do so much with it. But I don’t want it, Kazi. I don’t want anything
to do with it.”
“It’s free and clear,” I state.
“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “I don’t want it.”
“Don’t be stupid, Natasha. That money can change your life.”
She nods, standing slowly. Then she puts her hands flat on the table in front of me and leans over.
Her gaze is intense, and she’s beautiful right now. Absolutely fucking gorgeous. But she’s being
defiant as fuck, which makes me want to grab her by her throat and fuck her until she does what I
demand.
“I’m not stupid,” she grinds out.
“Then keep the money,” I say with a shrug of my shoulder.
She shakes her head. “You are frustrating.”
My lips curve up into a grin. “Yeah, I know I am. But you’re just as bad. I don’t need that money. I
don’t want that money. I don’t want anything.”
Reaching out, I wrap my hand around her wrist and hold her still. She doesn’t move right away,
her eyes focused on mine. Smiling, I stand up and lift my other hand across the table, wrapping my
fingers around the side of her neck, I jerk her across the table.
I want to mess her the fuck up. She looks so perfect, I want to remind her who she belongs to, and
if I could get away with doing everything that I want to her, she would never leave my side because I
wouldn’t let her. But the way that I want to keep her, she doesn’t want that, so I can’t do it to her.
“Keep the fucking money, pchelka. You deserve it. Not earned it. But you deserve it for the shit
that I put you through.”
“You didn’t put me through anything,” she says on a whisper.
Smirking, I look at her straight in the eye, I do not break my gaze from hers. I hold her attention,
her focus, her connection. Then I squeeze her neck gently. I want to bury my hand in her blonde hair. I
want to fucking consume her.
“Yeah, pchelka, I fucking did. You wanted to be my kept woman, you’d be getting a lot more than
that. Don’t even think twice. Use it for whatever you want. Hell, blow it if that’s what you want to
do.”
“Kazi,” she murmurs.
The way she says my nickname, my pet name, it’s in a way where I know she won’t ever say it
again and I welcome it this last time. So, instead of pushing her away, I keep her right where she is
for a moment and just stare at her. I take in all of her beauty.
“Live a beautiful life, Natasha. Find love.”
She takes a step back from me, then uses her hands to wipe them down her dress to gather herself
before her gaze finds mine again.
“I already did,” she breathes before she turns around and walks out of the restaurant and
effectively out of my life.
I watch her go. I watch every single fucking second of it until she completely disappears. Fuck
me, but the woman is stunning.
 C HAPTER 5

NATASHA

I haven’t left my apartment in a week. It’s been a week since Kazimir sent a million dollars to my
account and refused to take it back. I should write him a check and just mail it to him, but the way
he said that I deserved it, I think it would be offensive if I did that. I don’t know why I’m worrying
about his personal feelings like that, if he’s offended or not.
So, I think the best thing to do would be to make something of it and myself, but I don’t even know
what I would do. I didn’t go to college. I don’t have any desire in life other than to be the queen of a
Bratva group, to be married to a Pakhan or even a Brigadier.
Then when I met Kazimir, I thought that my dream had come true, though I lost sight of it because
him, the man, he turned out to be so much more than just a Pakhan. I fell in love with him and all of
those ambitions of being queen, they just vanished.
Even if I knew that it was a pipe dream, I still had it as my plan and never settled for anything
else. Besides, my job at the club paid for my apartment, and anything extra I wanted, Danill and
Grisha would give me little odd jobs for.
But now, I’m stuck.
I could call Holland or Ksenia and they would have advice for me, lots of advice I’m sure, but I
don’t think that I want to hear it, which sounds shitty since they’re supposed to be my best friends.
So, again, I’m stuck.
Stuck in my own head with my own shit. Licking my lips, I decide that there are two other people
that I could call, two people that know me better than those women, than my best friends.
I find the first name in my phone and I make the call.
“Danill.” His voice comes out on a grunt, as if he’s busy.
“Can you and Grisha meet with me? I need advice, and only the two of you can help me,” I say.
Admitting this is big. I typically do not ask them for anything, ever. At least I haven’t in a really
long time. I’ve tried to make a life for myself, by myself, but this is bigger than me. This is a million
dollars and my future.
“Where do you want to meet?” Danill asks with zero hesitation.
I know that he’s going to suggest Pozhaluysta, but that is the last place that I want to go.
“Anywhere but Pozhaluysta,” I announce.
 He clears his throat, then lets out a quiet chuckle. “Okay, coffee?” he asks. “You know the café.”
“I do,” I say, even though he wasn’t really asking me a question, more like making a statement.
“Fifteen minutes?”
He hums, then says that he will text Grisha. I thank him and end the call. Glancing at myself in the
mirror, I press my lips together. This morning, I am not wearing my mask and I don’t have time to put
it on either. It’s an odd sensation, gathering my things to walk out the door, my mask not firmly in
place or at least some semblance of it.
Instead, I wear an oversized pair of sunglasses, throw my hair up in a perfect high bun, and run
out of the door in a pair of jeans and a tank top. Nobody would recognize me anyway, not even if they
tried.
It doesn’t take me long to get to the café. Danill is nice, and the café we’ve met at for exchanges,
usually of handbags and shoes when I do something for him, is within walking distance of my place.
I see them before they realize I’m here. Both of them are sitting at the back of the café, facing the
door, their backs to a wall. As all men in their positions seem to enjoy sitting. Probably because they
spend most of their lives looking over their shoulders, they would at least like to eat in peace. I can’t
blame them on that.
Walking up to them, I watch as their eyes lift to meet mine and they both smirk as I sink down in
the chair across from them.
“I have an issue,” I announce.
They dip their chins in a nod, but don’t say anything. The waiter arrives and asks if I want
anything. I order a coffee, the way that I like it, knowing that neither of these men know my order and I
wouldn’t expect them to either, then I add a bowl of fruit.
“Your issue being?” Danill asks once the waiter has walked away.
Licking my lips, I inhale a deep breath before I let it out slowly. Lifting my eyes up, I flick my
gaze between them, and I speak.
“I quit my job at the club last night and Kazimir gave me a million dollars in cash to do with as I
wish.”
They both clear their throats, and shift in their seats, but they don’t say anything right away. Then
it’s Grisha who speaks for the first time since I arrived.
“What do you want to do, Tasha?”
“I don’t know. I could buy a house in cash, maybe a small one. I could invest it, but I could also
go to school.”
“What do you want?” Danill asks.
Tears fill my eyes and I shake my head. “I don’t know,” I whisper. “I’m lost, but if I wait around,
it will slowly vanish right before my eyes, and I’ll have nothing.”
They nod, then the waiter appears with our drinks and my fruit. Nobody says a word as he checks
on us, then he leaves and I’m left alone with Danill and Grisha again, with their attention focused
solely on me and only me.
“Have you thought about school, maybe something to do with hair and makeup? Seems to be your
thing,” Grisha suggests.
I shrug a shoulder, looking off to the side, my gaze searching around the café. I love hair and
makeup, but I don’t think I’m nice enough to do it for other people, if they complained about
something I did… I think that’s something that’s better left to my own self-criticism.
Wrinkling my nose, I shake my head. “I didn’t think that I would have the freedom to do anything
other than work for the club, then be a wife to someone. I’ve never really thought about a career. And
when we were kids… careers didn’t really seem possible anyway.”
“I know,” Danill murmurs. “They didn’t.”
“So, I’m stuck.”
There is a long moment of silence before Grisha reaches across the table. He wraps his hand
around mine and squeezes it gently. His gaze never leaving mine.
“Don’t rush anything, Tasha. I know you don’t want to waste it, but at the same time, going to
school and then hating whatever it is you went there for, could be a complete waste of money too.”
Nodding my head, I let out another heavy sigh as I shake my head a couple of times. “I feel stupid,
and useless.”
Neither of them assures me that I’m neither of those things. It’s not their job. Instead, they tell me
not to worry and that they’ll help me navigate all of this, but also tell me not to start dipping into the
large amount, otherwise it will become extremely easy to spend.
I don’t disagree.
They know how much I like expensive things. It would be so easy to spend it on material items.

KAZIMIR

WATCHING both Danill and Grisha storm into my office, I know that Natasha must have contacted
them. It does not surprise me. These men are fiercely loyal to her. After all, they are her only family.
Leaning back in my chair, I wait for them to come completely inside and close the door behind
them. Jerking my chin toward the chairs across from my desk, I silently offer them to the men.
Danill marches over to one of the chairs and sits down. Grisha takes the other. Neither of them
speak immediately, but I can tell that they have plenty to say to me. Pressing my lips together, I wait
for them to speak.
“Want to tell me what happened with Tasha?” Grisha asks. “First you come to Holland and
Danill’s place, grabbing her ass and kissing her in public, then you show up at my wedding with
another woman on your arm. And now she’s quit her job and you’ve deposited a million in cash in her
bank account?”
“I have. This is all true.”
I can tell that Grisha doesn’t like my answer to his question. But he isn’t wrong. All of those
things are true.
“Two men assaulted her last night. They didn’t get far, but they still got their hands on her. I took
care of them. They’ll never do that again, to Natasha or anyone else. She wants to quit. I wanted to
make sure she had a leg up on the world. Least I could do.”
“Because she was assaulted? You do that every time someone takes liberties with a woman in
your club?” Danill asks.
I snort. I don’t have to explain myself, not to anyone, but for whatever reason I feel like I need to
when it comes to them, or maybe it’s more when it comes to Natasha. Licking my bottom lip, I lean
back in my chair and let out a heavy breath.
“I offered to keep Natasha,” I say. “She wanted more, too much for who she is.”
Danill and Grisha know how the life is and what my position is. They know that I cannot marry
Natasha, but keeping her comfortable, that’s saying a hell of a lot. They clear their throats, their eyes
sliding to the side as they shift in their seats.
 “Natasha would not have accepted that. She wishes to be queen,” Grisha announces.
“She made that very clear. Which is why we are no longer involved. Part of her quitting the club
was that she didn’t want to be around me any longer. I can’t blame her, even though it will be hard not
to be able to keep tabs on her.”
The men don’t say anything right away in response to my confession. I decide that I don’t want to
go into any more detail. They have more than I would have otherwise given them. Danill clears his
throat again before he stands.
I watch him, arching a brow, wondering what he’s going to do next. He takes a step toward me,
places his palms on the desk, and leans over.
“I know that what you offered her was in line with who she is, where she comes from. But at the
same time, it’s Natasha, and she deserves better. I’m glad she turned you down.”
He isn’t wrong. I could tell him that, but my pride would never allow that shit. Not in a million
fucking years. Instead, I nod my head slowly, my eyes never leaving his. He pushes off of my desk,
taking a step backward and jerks his chin.
“I understand your position though, and I respect you, Kazimir, I always have.”
My lips twitch into a grin. “Drink?” I ask.
Danill clears his throat at the same time Grisha says, “fuck yes.”
Together, the three of us head to the VIP area where I always have one table reserved for me in the
dark corner. I order us a bottle of my favorite vodka and I enjoy a drink with my Torpedoes.
Tomorrow is another day. We’ve survived this one and we will live to see another.
 C HAPTER 6

KAZIMIR

W aking up, I groan as the sun beats down on my face. I should have closed my fucking windows.
Goddamn Los Angeles and that fucking sunshine. Jesus fucking Christ. I groan, but I can’t move.
I drank too much last night. Way too much.
There is a moan next to me, a female moan, and I lift my head too fast to look next to me. The pain
slides down my spine from my head at the sudden move. There is a moment of shock as I realize that I
am indeed sleeping next to a naked woman, then I blink a few times and groan at the recognition of
that woman.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask.
She turns her head, opening one eye as she looks at me. “You don’t remember, nice,” she says
with a snort.
Licking my dry lips, I try to shake my head, but it hurts too fucking badly. Instead, I just stare at
her, completely blanked out on last night and how she ended up in my bed… naked. She pushes up
onto her elbows, then sits up and the sheet falls to her waist, exposing her bare tits, gorgeously
enhanced tits. Well, at least I know what drew me to her.
“We fucked last night, although it was after you got trashed at the club, demanded I come and give
you a show, then you brought me home and finished the job. Afterward, you made sure to remind me
that I was indeed not Natasha.”
“Fuck,” I hiss.
She laughs softly, reaching over and touching my chest. I try not to recoil from her touch, but I’m
sure that she senses my aversion. She doesn’t say anything though, she wouldn’t, considering I’m her
boss. She knows exactly what and who I am, on top of that, her father is a Brigadier.
“I don’t mind, Kazimir,” she says with a purr, sliding her palm down my chest, her nails slightly
digging into my skin, reminding me that she is very much here.
Lifting my hand, I wrap my fingers around her wrist and look into her eyes.
“I’ll be your kept whore, gladly. I would be so lucky.”
I snort. She would be so lucky, she really fucking would. Shaking my head, I squeeze her hand and
gently glide it off of me, placing it down on the bed. I want to tell her that I’ll never see her again
after this, but I decide against it.
 If she told her father, he could get pissed or something, and honestly, that’s some shit that I don’t
want to deal with right now.
“I need a little time, yeah?”
“She was that important?”
I shrug a shoulder. If I make it seem like Natasha meant anything at all to me, then that would make
her a liability. Something that I knew she was already, but at the same time, she’s no longer under my
supervision, so I cannot protect her the way that I used to. Just because she is a liability to me,
doesn’t mean that I need to advertise it.
“She was important. At least for what she was.”
I lie. Natasha wasn’t just important, she still is. Nothing about her is in the past tense. She is the
most important woman in my life, at least since her. Since Anika. Though, I’m not sure that I felt this
deeply, even for Anika.
The woman across from me nods, then her lips curve up into a grin. “Fuck me anyway?” she asks.
I would deny her, I actually start to, but she slides her hand down my stomach, and wraps her
fingers around my cock, stroking me. Her touch is soft, slow, and her grip is perfectly firm in every
way that I need it to be. She moves her hand up and down, her eyes on mine. Then she lowers her
head, wrapping her lips around me.
All thought of denial leaves as soon as she starts to suck my cock. I’m technically single. I’m not
doing anything wrong at all right now. Lifting my hips, I wrap my fingers in her hair, holding her head
as I fuck her mouth.
She gags, but doesn’t stop me, her eyes finding mine as she watches me. My eyes don’t leave hers
and if she meant anything to me at all, this would be fucking amazing. She would be fucking amazing,
but she doesn’t mean shit to me, so this is nothing more than a great blow job, nothing more, nothing
less.

NATASHA

LOOKING at the house in front of me, I wonder if this was a good idea, after all. Maybe I shouldn’t
have accepted this offer. I know that Danill and Grisha would not steer me wrong but being involved
with a Pakhan that isn’t Kazimir feels all kinds of wrong.
Pressing my lips together, I roll them around a few times, then I take a step forward, and another,
and another, until I’m directly in front of the door. Lifting my hand, I make a fist with my fingers, and I
knock.
The door swings open just seconds later. The man standing in front of me is a tiny little older
gentleman, he looks adorable in his tuxedo, but I have a feeling that he can hold his own if he needs
to. He looks like he’s been around the Bratva block a few times.
“I’m here to see Fyodor Davydov,” I announce.
The man in front of me nods his head, then his eyes slide down my entire body before they lift
back up to meet my eyes.
“This should be interesting,” he mumbles.
I watch as he turns around, then he shuffles away. Slipping into the house, I stay in the foyer, but
close and lock the front door behind me. Pressing my lips together, I look around the house. I don’t
think I’ve ever been inside of this house before.
 It’s fancy, like really fancy, almost gaudy. I don’t know what I expected, maybe some opulence,
like gold filigree on the walls or something, but that’s not how Fyodor decorates. His house is
modern, like really modern. It’s all clean lines and leather. It’s really sexy actually.
“Natasha,” a booming voice announces.
Spinning around, I lift my eyes and am met with Fyodor. I suck in a breath and take a step
backward. He’s handsome. I haven’t seen him in a while and for whatever reason, I hadn’t
remembered how good-looking he was. I’m sure that it has something to do with the fact that I’ve only
had eyes for Kazimir for far too long.
“You have a job for me?” I ask.
He nods his head slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. “I do, but I don’t know if you’re game?”
“Depends on the criteria?”
His lips curve up into a grin. “I need a beard,” he announces.
My eyes widen and my lips part slightly. I start to ask him a dozen questions, but he lifts his hand,
his palm facing me as if to stop my speaking. Pressing my lips together, I bite the inside of my cheek
as I watch him.
“A beard?” I ask.
His lips turn up into a smirk and he nods his head. “I need someone to go to parties with me, be on
my arm. Be mine for appearances in public.”
“What else does this entail?” I ask.
His lips curve up into a grin. “No sex, just an arrangement until you have discovered what you
would like to do.”
Pressing my lips together, I roll them a few times. “What if I know what I want?” I ask. “Can we
talk in your office?”
His brow arches and he jerks his chin. He doesn’t say anything right away, I follow behind him
and then when we slip into his office, I close the door behind me as he makes his way over to his
desk and relaxes down in the chair across from me.
Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, I look across the large desk at the man behind it. He’s
handsome. Sexy even. He’s a few years younger than Kazimir, if I had to guess, and no less intriguing,
but he’s not Kazimir.
“Did you know why I didn’t have you come to my business office?” he asks.
Tilting my head to the side, I give him a small smile. “Are you having sex with your secretary?”
I ask him this, knowing that he has recently fired the woman that was his secretary and hired a
handsome young man to take her place. She was a Brigadier’s daughter, a wallflower, but sweet and
kind. I don’t know her well, but word travels fast in our circles.
The look on his face shows me the truth, granted he’s not really hiding anything, at least not right
now.
“It’s not just sex,” he mutters.
“You love him?”
I don’t know if my question is really a question or more of a statement. He doesn’t verbally
answer me, instead, he nods his head. He licks his lips but doesn’t say anything to me. It should
surprise me that this Pakhan for the Bratva is gay, but this isn’t old Russia anymore. These aren’t the
old rules, I don’t think anyone would care.
They certainly don’t blink an eyelash with Ksenia’s brother and his husband, both are respected
Bratva. Sucking in a breath, I wonder if he’s basically me? He must be. He is the me to Kazimir. My
heart instantly aches for him.
 “Why doesn’t he get to be at your side then?”
It’s a good question. He no doubt thinks that it is as well, because he doesn’t have an immediate
answer for me. So it’s not just the gay thing, it must be his position as well. Instead, he leans back in
his chair and watches me. He stares at me for a long moment, then shakes his head once, as if
whatever he was thinking was a stupid idea.
“I’m a Pakhan, and I’m too old to start having liabilities. The old ways are better.”
I know exactly what he’s referring to. He’s talking about the way the Bratva was years ago,
probably when he first started. The men of the Bratva didn’t marry. They didn’t have families. They
didn’t have liabilities like relationships of any kind. A reason prostitution is and will always be part
of the deal when it comes to this organization, male or female prostitution.
“Are they though?” I ask.
He snorts, closing his eyes before he lifts his hand and scrubs his hand down his face with a
heavy sigh.
“Nyet,” he barks as he opens his eyes. “What is it you wanted to talk to me about?”
He’s getting annoyed with me and my questions. Like Kazimir, this is a man who is not questioned
often, if ever. And to have a woman asking him questions, not just about the Bratva, but about his love
life? Unheard of.
“I want to work for you,” I announce. His eyes widen, and I shake my head with a smile. “I want
you to teach me how to become part of the Bratva, or at least, teach me a job that will make me
useful.”
He lifts his hands to his mouth, holding them together in a prayer-like position in front of his
mouth. His eyes are focused on me, connected, and he stays that way for far longer than makes me
comfortable.
“Can you shoot?” he asks.
I shrug a shoulder. “Not sure, but I was hoping for something more… secretarial?”
He clears his throat and I laugh.
“Not like that. I mean, books, loans, running something.”
“Let me think. I have a few things that I think I could train you on. Something easy enough but
would take it off of my Brigadiers plates enough that they would probably welcome you, instead of
asking me if I’m fucking crazy for involving a woman in anything.”
“So we have a deal?” I ask.
“You be my girlfriend in public, and I’ll teach this to you.”
Nodding, I extend my hand, he shakes his head extending his. “My Sovietnik will have a contract
drawn up. You’ll sign it, that will be the beginning. You’ll not speak to my secretary. You’ll not see
her. You don’t come to my office. You will have my cell phone number. You can text and call me on
that. We’ll meet either here or your place. Public is for appearances only, parties, events, shit like
that, you good with that?”
“And no sex?” I ask.
He chuckles. “Like I want Kazimir on my fucking radar. No sex. Also, you’re not to enter into any
relationships, yes?”
I want to tell him to eat shit. How is it fair that he’s going to be getting laid on a regular basis, but
I’m supposed to abstain? Then I realize that my irritation is irrelevant. I’ve got nobody to get laid by
anyway, so it doesn’t even matter. It’s a completely moot point.
“And I’ll be paid?” I ask.
“Handsomely, plus training.”
“Then, I agree one hundred percent.”
 C HAPTER 7

KAZIMIR

P artiesThey
are not for me.
aren’t my fucking thing.
They never will be.
And baby showers?
I’m unsure why I’m invited as a man, but I am here. I am here because it is Grisha and only
because it is Grisha. He’s wanted this woman, this child, this life since I’ve known him. So, I am
happy to celebrate it, even if it means I’m at a fucking baby shower of all places.
Carrying a card full of cash, I walk into the house. I’m surprised that other than some balloon
decorations and shit on the walls, it looks like just a party and not what I would have guessed a baby
shower would be at all.
“You made it,” Ksenia cries as she walks toward me.
She’s not very big, her belly just barely a basketball-sized bump beneath her dress. Handing her
my card, I give her a smile.
“I made it, not that I would have missed it,” I say.
She takes the card from me, then shifts her gaze to the side before she brings it back to meet mine.
She’s looking at something, or rather someone, and I have a feeling that it’s Natasha. I don’t turn
around, knowing that if she’s here, I’ll see her soon enough.
It’s been a few weeks since I last saw her. “Vodka?” I ask.
Ksenia jerks her chin, her gaze finding mine again and she gives me a distracted smile as she nods
her head. “Come on, we have a whole bar.” Following behind Ksenia to the bar, I’m glad to run into
Grisha and Danill.
“Have you seen her?” Danill asks.
“I have not, but I assume she is here,” I state.
There is a moment of silence. The men share a glance with one another, then Danill nods his head.
He lifts his vodka to his lips and takes a drink. Once he swallows, only then does he give me the
warning.
“She is here with Davydov,” he announces.
It takes a moment for the words that Danill has just said to me to sink into my head. Then I repeat
them to myself, replaying them in my own head a few times. Grisha and Danill are both watching me,
staring at me, waiting for my reaction.
I don’t give them one. I have one brewing inside of me, but nobody will see it… well nobody but
maybe Fyodor Davydov and Natasha.
“Fyodor Davydov is who I assume you are referring to?” I ask.
They nod, simultaneously. Pressing my lips together in a flat line, I don’t give them much of a
reaction, though inside I’m fucking seething. About to lose my goddamn shit, seething, but I don’t say
anything. I don’t give them anything.
“Good for them. It’s clear to me that Natasha will do whatever it takes to be a queen.”
They don’t respond to that. They look at one another, then they both clear their throats as they take
another drink from their glasses. Giving them a smile, I take a sip from my own glass.
“Let’s celebrate this new baby, yeah?”
Lifting my vodka, I hold it up for the other men. They clink my glass, and we salute, then finish the
contents of our cocktails. I hear her voice in the distance, closing my eyes, I decide that I can’t see
them together.
I fucking refuse.
Walking out of the house, I head toward the backyard where there are more drinks, food, and
tables set up. I know that this party is not big enough for me to completely avoid her, but I am going to
try my goddamn hardest.

NATASHA

F YODOR HAS his hand around my waist, he squeezes me, his fingers flexing as soon as Kazimir walks
through the door. Shit. I don’t even have to look up to know that it’s him. I knew that he would be
here. I thought that I was mentally prepared for it. Maybe I am, but what I’m absolutely not, is
physically prepared.
He refuses to look at me, but that’s okay. It’s actually better that way. I have no doubt that he’s
decided I’ve betrayed him in the worst possible way. I’m on the arm of his friend, someone that he
respects, and has a partnership of sorts with.
“I don’t want this to ruin your working relationship with Kazimir,” I murmur, shifting my attention
from Kazimir to Fyodor.
He turns to me, his lips curved up in a smile and his eyes soft as he looks down at me. If anyone
chanced a glance at us right now, we look like we’re in a relationship. He appears to be looking at me
with tenderness, especially with the way his hand is around my waist.
Fyodor dips his chin, his eyes not leaving mine. “This will ruin nothing. He’ll be pissed with me,
but this is life. He is the one who pushed you away. He is the one who decided that he could not
marry you or be your man in public. I’m showing him that he could have. If anything, he will be
angrier with himself than anyone else.”
“I don’t want to hurt him,” I whisper.
Fyodor nods his head once, his eyes never leaving mine. “I understand that, but life can hurt
sometimes.”
His explanation makes me wrinkle my nose at him, which causes him to burst out laughing.
Apparently, I’m funny. Although, his laughter is contagious, and I end up joining him. We spend the
party staying far away from Kazimir, or maybe he spends it staying far away from me.
I’m not sure, but I’m relieved that we don’t have a weird moment together. I’m not ready for that
yet. I see him with Danill and Grisha, and I wonder if they’ve told him that they are the ones who set
me up with Fyodor.
Once the food has been served, I excuse myself from Fyodor and the rest of our group, people that
are part of his organization that I don’t know very well. I know more of the people that are around
Kazimir, because I grew up with Danill and Grisha.
Making my way down the hall, I slip up the stairs toward a bathroom that isn’t used by everyone,
but I know that Ksenia wouldn’t mind me using. I just need a moment or two to gather myself.
There is a lot happening downstairs, a lot of talking excitedly all around me, a lot of movements,
of drinks, of food. Just a lot. I need a couple minutes to just… breathe. Once I’m upstairs, I slip into
the bathroom and start to close the door behind me when a hand shoots out and a foot slips between
the jamb and the door.
I open my mouth to ask the person on the other side what the actual fuck, but then the door is
pushed open, and my breath is frozen in my throat.
It’s Kazimir.
He steps into the small space, closing and locking the door behind him. I blink up at him, my
mouth dry as I stare. I’m unable to speak. Unable to move. I can do nothing but watch him, my lips dry
and parted as I do.
Kazimir doesn’t say anything, he advances. Taking two steps backward, I am stopped by the wall
behind me. My head bounces off of it once, his hand lifts and his fingers wrap around the front of my
throat.
His fingers squeeze around my neck, his eyes focus on mine, and then I watch as his lips curve up
into a grin before he leans forward. His mouth touches mine. He doesn’t say anything immediately,
and he also doesn’t deepen the kiss.
Inhaling through my nose, I lift my hands and press my palms against his chest in a very lame
attempt to push him away. It doesn’t work, though I didn’t really want it to anyway. He does lift his
head slightly, his eyes boring into mine.
“Social climber, only in this for one thing and one thing only, for that title of queen? Nothing
matters, right? Not even the fact that he’s older than me. Not that you don’t give two fucks about him.
As long as it comes with a title, expense account, and gifts, you don’t give a shit.”
I want to slap him across the face. I want to lift my hand and just hit him so hard that it bruises his
perfectly gorgeous features, but I don’t. I won’t. I can’t. Instead, my hands at his chest, my fingers curl
and I bring him toward me.
It’s my turn for my lips to be against his. “Fuck me, Kazi.”
I don’t have to demand it twice. He does exactly what I want, the way that I want it. He doesn’t
even take preparations of any kind. Instead, he reaches down, wraps his hands around the back of my
thighs and picks me up, pressing my back against the wall.
Kazimir wrenches my panties to the side and as I close my eyes, letting my head fall back against
the wall, he slams inside of me. Lifting my head, I let out a hiss. He’s large, I’m not ready, and yet, it
still feels absolutely amazing.
“Kazimir,” I breathe.
He doesn’t say anything at all, his thrusts are hard and rhythmic. Gripping his shoulders, my nails
dig into him from over his shirt, then I gasp as my orgasm rushes through me.
I don’t know how it happened so quickly. Maybe because it’s just him and I’ve missed him so
much. Maybe he’s just that good. Either way, it doesn’t matter, I don’t have a moment to even think.
Kazimir buries himself deep inside of me, then he grunts as he comes. He looks at me, his orgasm
pulsing throughout his body, and in silence we stare at one another. I want to tell him a million things.
I want to explain to him my situation, that it doesn’t look as it seems, but the words don’t come.
Instead, I say nothing. He shifts from between my legs, sets my feet down, does up his pants and
starts to walk away. My skirt is at my hips, my hair a mess, and my breathing erratic as I softly call
out his name.
He stops, turning his head to look back at me. Before I can ask him anything, though I’m not sure
what I would even ask, he jerks his chin, his eyes dragging up and down my body before they stop on
mine.
“Go back to him but remember that it’s me who makes you feel the way you do right now. I would
have given you everything, pchelka.”
“You’re wrong,” I blurt out as tears fill my eyes.
He arches a brow as if daring me to defy him, to call him out on his lie. I do anyway. I take that
dare and I go with it.
“You would never have brought me here as your date. You would have never treated me like
anything other than a whore. You made that perfectly clear, time and time again. You don’t really give
a shit. Not about me.”
He shakes his head once. “Don’t put words in my fucking mouth about how I feel,” he grinds out.
I stare at him, simultaneously silently begging and daring him to tell me how he feels. He doesn’t.
Instead, he turns and walks away, leaving me alone in the bathroom. Alone and dripping with his cum
between my legs.
Asshole.
That fucking beautiful asshole.
 C HAPTER 8

NATASHA

F yodor senses something is wrong, but he has the good manners not to ask me about it. Instead, he
drops me off at home, walking me to my apartment door and makes sure that I am inside safely.
Thanking him for the evening, I press my lips against his cheek then slip inside of my home.
Once the door closes behind me, I lock it and start to undress as I make my way to my bedroom.
Nobody will be coming over tomorrow. I have one full day of rest and relaxation before I start my
training, my new job, with Fyodor.
He has made it clear that I cannot see his secretary, the real person of his heart, and that he cannot
see me. So, my first day of training will be at his office, only for lunch. I’ll be meeting his most
trusted Brigadier. I don’t know how long this is going to take me to learn whatever it is he’s decided
I’ll learn, but I’m excited.
This is an amazing opportunity that I never thought I would have in my lifetime. This is something,
that as far as I know, hasn’t ever happened before. Women don’t learn anything about the Bratva. They
are seen, never heard, and maintain oblivion if anyone should ask.
Walking naked to my dresser, I tug open the top drawer and pull out my salmon-colored bikini,
then my nude cover-up, tossing them on top of the dresser. Walking toward the bathroom, I start the
tub and watch the hot water fill it up, then add some bath salts.
Once it’s three-quarters full, I turn the water off, grab my current read and sink down into the hot
water. My skin burns so good that I don’t even open my book right away. Instead, I close my eyes and
let out a sigh.
When I’m acclimated to the water, though I start to sweat from the heat, only then do I reach for
my book. Honestly, I don’t even know what I’m reading. I’ve been so consumed with Kazimir and him
ending things, then the money he sent me, that I haven’t really been paying attention to the words.
Licking my lips, I decide to start from the beginning. As soon as I start to read, my lips curve up
with recognition. Oh yeah, this is about a sixtysomething guy and his assistant, a twentysomething.
Hot.
It’s going to be good. I’m focused this time and I let the words consume all of my attention.
I don’t know how long I stay in the tub, but as soon as I finish the first sexy scene, I realize that my
water has gone cold. Closing my book, I set it down on the tray that I have across my tub and reach
for the towel.
Touching the drain with my toe, I let the water lower as I stand and wrap the warm towel around
my body.
Stepping out, I grab my book so that I can finish it in bed and daydream about a man
twentysomething years older than me, being not only amazing in bed but also loving me and wanting
only me.
I have the older man that’s amazing in bed thing with Kazimir, but not the rest. He doesn’t want to
marry me. He doesn’t want to even be in a relationship with me. Then there’s Fyodor. I have zero
sexual attraction toward him, but he actually wants me to be his woman in public.
I feel like this whole mess could be a huge mistake. Maybe I wasn’t really thinking when I agreed
to the beard thing with Fyodor.
Maybe I jumped the gun a bit.
Pressing my lips together, I pull on a T-shirt and panties, then slip into bed and try to forget about
all of the decisions that I’ve made recently. Probably horrible ones, definitely questionable ones.
So instead of doubting myself, of overthinking for hours on end, I read for hours on end. I finish
the book in its entirety, and I fall asleep dreaming of sexy older men and their abilities in bed, then
their unicorn abilities to commit and love.
God, if I could find that, I don’t think I would be able to even breathe. I would be completely
consumed.

KAZIMIR

I FINISH my bottle of vodka, wondering if I’ve bought enough to keep me in this habit. I probably
shouldn’t make drinking this much of a habit anyway. It’s not good to keep a sharp mind if I’m stuck
on this booze every fucking night, but after that party, after seeing the woman that I refuse to admit that
I love with another man… I feel like this is a need.
There’s a knock on my front door. I ignore it, hoping whoever it is will just disappear. But they
don’t. I hear them slam their fist against the door again. It’s late. I spent the whole night at the party,
got laid, and now I’m fucking exhausted.
The person at the door doesn’t stop. It sounds like they won’t be giving up and they’re giving me a
goddamn fucking headache. Standing, I walk toward the door, looking through the peephole, I let out a
grunt at the sight of the person on the other side.
Wrenching the door open, I stand with my legs apart and my arms crossed over my chest as I look
down my nose at him.
“Davydov,” I growl.
“Let me in so I can fucking explain, you big ass baby,” he mutters.
Stepping to the side, I decide that I have to hear him out. He obviously knows something and has
something to say to me. I don’t slam the door in his face, even though all of me wants to do that.
Instead, I allow him to walk into my house and into my living room.
“Well?” I call out.
He doesn’t say anything right away. Fyodor sinks down on my sofa and spreads his arms across
the back, then he turns to me. “Sit,” he demands.
I think that he forgets I’m the exact same position as him, even though he’s ten years older than me,
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will not signify a witch of Endor, when it must necessarily signify a
necromancer, which is as much against his tooth as the other? Nay
indeed this necromancer is also a witch or wizzard, according to the
definition produced above.
“The rest of the chapter being so inconsiderable, and I having been
so long already upon it, I shall pass to the next, after I have desired
you to take notice how weak and childish, or wild and impudent, Mr.
Webster has been in the interpretation of Scripture hitherto, in the
belief of his sage dames, to fence off the reproach of being termed
witches; whereas there is scarce one word in this place of
Deuteronomy that does not imply a witch or wizzard, according to
the real definition thereof. And truly he seems himself to be
conscious of the weakness of his own performance, when after all
this ado, the sum at last amounts but to this, that there are no names
in all the Old Testament that signifies such a witch that destroy men
or beasts, that make a visible compact with the devil, or on whose
body he sucketh, or with whom he hath carnal copulation, or that is
really changed into a cat, hare, dog, or such like. And to shew it
amounts to no more than so, was the task we undertook in this
chapter.
“But assure yourself, if you peruse his book carefully, you shall
plainly find that the main drift thereof is to prove, as I above noted,
that there is no such witch as with whom the devil has any thing
more to do than with any other sinner, which, notwithstanding this
conclusion of his a little before recited, comes infinitely short of: and
therefore this sixth chapter, consisting of about thirty pages in folio,
is a meer piece of impertinency. And there will be witches for all this,
whether these particulars be noted in them or no; for it was sufficient
for Moses to name those ill sounding terms in general, which imply a
witch according to that general notion I have above delivered; which
if it be prohibited, namely, the having any thing to do with evil
spirits, their being suckt by them, or their having any lustful or
venerous transactions with them, is much more prohibited.
“But for some of these particularities also they may seem to be in
some manner hinted at in some of the words, especially as they are
rendered sometimes by skilful interpreters: for ‫( מכשף‬Mecasseph,) is
translated by Vatablus, and the vulgar Latin Maleficus, by the
Septuagint φαρμακός, that is Veneficus: which word signifies
mischievously enough both to man and beast. Besides that
Mecasseph carries along with it the signification of transformation
also; and haply this may be the difference betwixt ‫ מכשף‬Mecasseph,
and ‫ מעונן‬Megnonen, that the former uses prestigious
transformations to some great mischief, as where Olaus Magnus tells
of those that have transformed themselves into wolves, to men’s
thinking, and have presently fallen upon worrying of sheep. Others
transformed in their astral spirit, into various shapes, get into houses
and do mischief to men and children, as I remember Remegius
reports. And therefore it is less wonder that that sharp law of Moses
is against the ‫ מכשפה‬Mecassephah; such a witch as this is, ‘Thou
shalt not suffer a witch to live;’ this may be a more peculiar
signification of that word. And now for making a compact with the
devil, how naturally does that name ‫ חובר חבר‬Chobber Chebber,
signifie that feat also? But for sucking and copulation, though rightly
stated it may be true, yet I confess there is nothing hinted towards
that so far as I see, as indeed it was neither necessary that the other
should be. But these are the very dregs, the fex magorum et
sagarum, that sink in those abominations, against which a sufficient
bar is put already by this prohibition in general by so many names.
And the other is filthy, base, and nasty, that the mention thereof was
neither fit for the sacred style of Moses’s law, nor for the years of the
people.
In my passing to the eight chapter I will only take notice by the
way of the shameless impudence of J. Webster, who in favour to his
beloved hags, that they may be never thought to do any thing by the
assistance of the devil, makes the victory of Moses, with whom the
mighty hand of God was, or of Christ, (who was the angel that
appeared first to Moses in the bush, and conducted the children of
Israel out of Egypt to the promised land) to be the victory only over
so many hocus-pocusses, so many jugglers that were, as it seems, old
and excellent at the tricks of Legerdemain; which is the basest
derogation to the glory of that victory, and the vilest reproach against
the God of Israel, and the person of Moses, that either the malicious
wit of any devil can invent, or the dulness of any sunk soul can
stumble upon. Assuredly there was a real conflict here betwixt the
kingdom of light and the kingdom of darkness and the evil spirits
thereof, which assisted the ‫ חרטמים‬Hartummim, the Magicians of
Egypt; who before that name is named, that no man may mistake,
are called ‫מכשפים‬, Mecassaphim, such kind of magicians as can
exhibit to the sight manifold prestigious transformations through
diabolical assistance, and are rendered Malificia by good
interpreters, as I noted above; that is, they were wizzards, or he-
witches. The self same word being used in that severe law of Moses,
‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’ Are not these magicians then
examples plain enough that there are witches; that is to say, such
wretched wights as do strange miraculous things by the assistance or
consociation of the evil spirits?
“O no, says Mr. Webster, these are only ‫ חכמים‬Chacamim, wise
men and great naturalists, who all what they did, they did ‫בלהטיהם‬,
by their bright glittering laminæ, for so ‫ להטם‬forsooth must signifie.
But what necessity thereof that ‫ להט‬should signifie lamina? there is
only the presence of that one place, Gen. iii, 24. ‫להט חרב‬, where it is
‫ חרב‬only that signifies the lamina, and that of a long form, scarce
usual in those magical laminæ with signatures celestial upon them,
which J. Webster would be at; but ‫ הטם‬signifies merely flamma; so
that ‫ בלהטיהם‬by this account must signifie by their flames, if it be
from ‫ להט‬ardere, flammare: and therefore Buxtorfius judiciously
places the word under ‫ בלהטיהם‬abscondit, obvolvit, reading not
‫ בלאטיהם‬but ‫בלאטיהם‬, which is as much as to say, occultis suis
rationibus Magicis, which is briefly rendered in English, ‘by their
enchantments;’ which agrees marvellously well with ‫מכשפים‬
Mecassephim, which is as much as Præstigiatores Magici, or such as
do strange wonderous things in an hidden way, by the help of evil
spirits. But that the Egyptian magicians should do those things that
are there recorded of them in Exodus, by virtue of any lamels, or
plates of metals, with certain sculptures or figures, under such or
such a constellation, is a thing so sottish and foolish that no man that
is not himself bewitched by some old hag or hobgobling, can ever
take sanctuary here to save himself or his old dames from being in a
capacity, from this history in Exodus, of being accounted witches.
For if there may be he-witches, that is magicians, such as these of
Egypt were, I leave J. Webster to scratch his head to find out any
reason why there may not be she-witches also.
“And indeed that of the witch of Endor, to pass at length to the
eighth chapter, is as plain a proof thereof as can be desired by any
man whose mind is not blinded with prejudices. But here J. Webster,
not impertinently, I confess, for the general, (abating him the many
tedious particular impertinences that he has clogg’d his discourse
with) betakes himself to these two ways, to shew there was nothing of
a witch in all that whole narration. First, by pretending that all the
transaction on the woman of Endor’s part was nothing but collusion
and a cheat, Saul not being in the same room with her, or at least
seeing nothing if he was. And then in the next place, that Samuel that
is said to appear, could neither be Samuel appearing in his body out
of the grave, nor in his soul; nor that it was a devil that appeared;
and therefore it must be some colluding knave, suborned by the
witch. For the discovering the weakness of his former allegation, we
need but appeal to the text, which is this, 1 Sam. xxviii, v. 8.
‘And Saul said, I pray thee, divine unto me by the familiar spirit,
and bring me up whom I shall name unto thee,’ ‫ קסומי־נא לי‬that is, do
the office of a divineress, or a wise woman, ‘I pray thee unto me, ‫באוב‬
Beobh, by virtue of the familiar spirit, whose assistance thou hast,
not by virtue of the bottle, as Mr. Webster would have it. Does he
think that damsel in the Acts, which is said to have had πνεῦμα
πύθωνος, that is to have had ‫ אוב‬Obh, carried an aqua-vitæ bottle
about with her, hung at her girdle, whereby she might divine and
mutter, chirp, or peep out of it, as a chicken out of an egg-shell, or
put her neb into it to cry like a bittern, or take a dram of the bottle, to
make her wits more quick and divinatory. Who but one who had
taken too many drams of the bottle could ever fall into such a fond
conceit? Wherefore ‫ אוב‬Obh, in this place does not, as indeed no
where else, signifie an oracular bottle, or μαντεῖον, into which Saul
might desire the woman of Endor to retire into, and himself expect
answers in the next room; but signifies that familiar spirits by virtue
of whose assistance she was conceived to perform all those
wond’rous offices of a wise woman. But we proceed to verse 11.
“‘Then said the woman, whom shall I bring up unto thee? And he
said, bring me up Samuel.’ Surely as yet Saul and the woman are in
the same room, seeing the woman askt, ‘Whom shall I bring up unto
thee?’ and he answering, ‘Bring up unto me Samuel,’ it implies, that
Samuel was so brought up that Saul might see him, and not the witch
only. But we go on, verse 12.
 “‘And when the woman saw Samuel, she cryed with a loud voice;
and the woman spake to Saul, saying, why hast thou deceived, for
thou art Saul? Tho’ the woman might have some suspicions before
that it was Saul, yet she now seeing Samuel did appear, and in
another kind of way than her spirits used to do, and in another hue,
as it is most likely so holy a soul did, she presently cryed out with a
loud voice, ‘not muttered, chirpt, and peept as a chicken coming out
of the shell,’ that now she was sure it was Saul, for she was not such a
fool, as to think her art could call up real Samuel, but that the
presence of Saul was the cause thereof: and Josephus writes
expressly, Ὅτι θεασάμενον τὸ γύναιον ἄνδρα σεμνὸν καὶ
θεοπρεπῆ ταράττεται, καὶ πρὸς την ὄψίν οὐπλαγέν, οὐ σύ, φησὶν,
ὁ Βασιλεὺς Σαοῦλος; i. e. ‘The woman seeing a grave god-like man
is startled at it, and thus astonished at the vision, turned herself to
the king, and said, art not thou king Saul?’ Verse 13.
“‘And the king said unto her, be not afraid; for what sawest thou?
And the woman said unto Saul, I saw Gods ascending out of the
earth.’ The king here assures the woman, that tho’ he was Saul, yet
no hurt should come to her, and therefore bids her not be afraid. But
she turning her face to Saul as she spake to him, and he to her, and
so her sight being off from the object, Saul asked her, ‘What sawest
thou?’ and she in like manner answered, ‘I saw Gods,’ &c. For Gods, I
suppose any free translator in Greek, Latin, and English, would say,
δαίμονας, genios, spirits. And ‫ אלהים‬signifies Angels as well as Gods;
and it is likely these wise women take the spirits they converse with
to be good angels, as Ann Bodenham the witch told a worthy and
learned friend of mine, that these spirits, such as she had, were good
spirits, and would do a man all good offices all the days of his life;
and ’tis likely this woman of Endor had the same opinion of hers, and
therefore we need not wonder that she calls them ‫ אלהים‬Elohim,
especially Samuel appearing among them, to say nothing of the
presence of Saul. And that more than one spirit appears at a time,
there are repeated examples in Ann Bodenham’s magical evocations
of them, whose history, I must confess, I take to be very true.
“The case stands therefore thus: The woman and Saul being in the
same room, she turning her face from Saul, mutters to herself some
magical form of evocation of spirits; where upon they beginning to
appear and rise up, seemingly out of the earth, upon the sight of
Samuel’s countenance, she cryed out to Saul, and turning her face
towards him, spoke to him. Now that Saul hitherto saw nothing,
though in the same room, might be either because the body of the
woman was interposed betwixt his eyes and them, or the vehicles of
those spirits were not yet attempered to that conspissation that they
would strike the eyes of Saul, tho’ they did of the witch. And that
some may see an object, others not seeing it, you have an instance in
the child upon Walker’s shoulders, appearing to Mr. Fairhair, and it
may be to the judge, but invisible to the rest of the Court; and many
such examples there are. But I proceed to verse 14.
“‘And he said unto her, what form is he of? and she said, an old
man cometh up, and is covered with a mantle.’ He asks here in the
singular number, because, his mind was only fixt on Samuel. And the
woman’s answer is exactly according to what the spirit appeared to
her, when her eye was upon it, viz. ‫‘ איש זקן עלה‬an old man coming
up;’ for he was but coming up when she looked upon him, and
accordingly describes him: For ‫ עלה‬there, is a particle of the present
tense, and the woman describes Saul from his age, habit, and motion
he was in, while her eye was upon him. So that the genuine and
grammatical sense in this answer to ‘what form is he of?’ is this, an
old man coming up, and the same covered with a mantle, this is his
form and condition I saw him in. Wherefore Saul being so much
concerned herein, either the woman or he changing their postures or
standings, or Samuel by this having sufficiently conspissated his
vehicle, and fitted it to Saul’s sight also, it follows in the text: ‘And
Saul perceived it was Samuel, and he stooped with his face to the
ground and bowed himself.’
“O the impudent profaneness and sottishness of perverse shufflers
and whifflers! that upon the hearing of this passage can have the face
to deny that Saul saw any thing, and meerly because the word
‘perceived’ is used, and not ‘saw,’ when the word ‘perceived,’ plainly
implies that he saw Samuel, and something more, namely, that by his
former familiar converse with him, he was assured it was he. So
exquisitely did he appear, and over-comingly to his senses, that he
could not but acknowledge (for so the Hebrew word ‫ ידע‬signifies)
that it was he, or else why did he stoop with his face to the very
ground to do him honour?
 “No, no, says J. Webster, he saw nothing himself, but stood
waiting like a drowned puppet (see of what a base rude spirit this
squire of hags is, to use such language of a prince in his distress,) in
another room to hear what would be the issue; for all that he
understood, was from her cunning and lying relations. That this
gallant of witches should dare to abuse a prince thus, and feign him
as much foolisher and sottisher in his intellectuals, as he was taller in
stature than the rest of the people, even by head and shoulders, and
merely forsooth, to secure his old wives from being so much as in a
capacity of ever being suspected for witches, is a thing extremely
coarse and intolerably sordid. And indeed, upon the consideration of
Saul’s being said to bow himself to Samuel, (which plainly implies,
that there was there a Samuel that was the object of his sight, and of
the reverence he made) his own heart misgives him in this mad
adventure, and he shifts off from thence to a conceit that it was a
confederate knave, that the woman of Endor turned out into the
room where Saul was, to act the part of Samuel, having first put on
him her own short cloak, which she used with her maund under her
arm to ride to fairs or markets in. To this countryslouch in the
woman’s mantle, must king Saul, stooping with his face to the very
ground, make his profound obeysance. What was a market-woman’s
cloak and Samuel’s mantle, which Josephus calls διπλοΐδα ἱερατικήν,
a ‘sacerdotal habit,’ so like one another? Or if not, how came this
woman, being so surpriz’d of a sudden, to provide herself of such a
sacerdotal habit to cloak her confederate knave in? Was Saul as well
a blind as a drowned puppet, that he could not discern so gross and
bold an impostor as this? Was it possible that he should not perceive
that it was not Samuel, when they came to confer together, as they
did? How could that confederate knave change his own face into the
same figure, look, and mien that Samuel had, which was exactly
known to Saul? How could he imitate his voice thus of a sudden, and
they discoursed a very considerable time together?
“Besides, knaves do not use to speak what things are true, but what
things are pleasing. And moreover, this woman of Endor, though a
Pythoness, yet she was of a very good nature and benign, which
Josephus takes notice of, and extols her mightily for it, and therefore
she could take no delight to lay further weight on the oppressed spirit
of distressed king Saul; which is another sign that this scene was
acted bonâ fide, and that there was no cozening in it. As also that it is
another, that she spoke so magnificently of what appeared to her,
that she saw Gods ascending. Could she then possibly adventure to
turn out a countryslouch with a maund-woman’s cloak to act the part
of so God-like and divine a personage of Samuel, who was Θεῷ τὴν
μορφὴν ὅμοιος, as the woman describes him in Josephus Antiq.
Judaic. lib. vii. c. 15, unto all which you may add, that the Scripture
itself, which was written by inspiration, says expressly, verse 20, that
it was Samuel. And the son of Sirach, chap xlvi. that Samuel himself
prophesied after his death, referring to this story of the woman of
Endor. But for our new inspired seers, or saints, S. Scot, S. Adie, and
if you will, S. Webster, sworn advocate of the witches, who thus
madly and boldly, against all sense and reason, against all antiquity,
all interpreters, and against the inspired scripture itself, will have no
Samuel in this scene, but a cunning confederate knave, whether the
inspired scripture, or these inblown buffoons, puffed up with nothing
but ignorance, vanity and stupid infidelity, are to be believed, let any
one judge.
“We come now to his other allegation, wherein we shall be brief,
we having exceeded the measure of a postscript already. ‘It was
neither Samuel’s soul,’ says he, ‘joined with his body, nor his soul out
of his body, nor the devil; and therefore it must be some confederate
knave suborned by that cunning, cheating quean of Endor.’ But I
briefly answer, it was the soul of Samuel himself; and that it is the
fruitfulness of the great ignorance of J. Webster in the sound
principles of theosophy and true divinity, that has enabled him to
heap together no less than ten arguments to disprove this assertion,
and all little to the purpose: so little indeed, that I think it little to the
purpose particularly to answer them, but shall hint only some few
truths which will rout the whole band of them.
“I say therefore that departed souls, as other spirits, have an
ἀυτεξούσιον in them, such as souls have in this life; and have both a
faculty and a right to move of themselves, provided there be no
express law against such or such a design to which their motion
tends.
“Again, that they have a power of appearing in their own personal
shapes to whom there is occasion, as Anne Walker’s soul did to the
miller; and that this being a faculty of theirs either natural or
acquirable, the doing so is no miracle. And,
 “Thirdly, That it was the strong piercing desire, and deep distress
and agony of mind in Saul, in his perplexed circumstances, and the
great compassion and goodness of spirit in the holy soul of Samuel,
that was the effectual magick that drew him to condescend to
converse with Saul in the woman’s house at Endor, as a keen sense of
justice and revenge made Anne Walker’s soul appear to the miller
with her five wounds in her head.
“The ridged and harsh severity that Webster fancies Samuel’s
ghost would have used against the woman, or sharp reproofs to Saul;
as for the latter, it is somewhat expressed in the text, and Saul had
his excuse in readiness, and the good soul of Samuel was sensible of
his perplexed condition. And as for the former, sith the soul of
Samuel might indeed have terrified the poor woman, and so
unhinging her, that she had been fit for nothing after it, but not
converted her, it is no wonder if he passed her by; goodness and
forbearance more befitting an holy angelical soul than bluster and
fury, such as is fancied by that rude goblin that actuates the body and
pen of Webster.
“As for departed souls, that they never have any care or regard to
any of their fellow souls here upon earth, is expressly against the
known example of that great soul, and universal pastor of all good
souls, who appeared to Stephen at his stoning, and to St. Paul before
his conversion, though then in his glorified body; which is a greater
condescension than this of the soul of Samuel, which was also to a
prince, upon whose shoulders lay the great affairs of the people of
Israel: To omit that other notable example of the angel Raphael so
called (from his office at that time, or from the angelical order he was
adopted into after his death) but was indeed the soul of Azarias, the
son of Ananias the Great, and of Tobit’s brethren, Tobit, v. 12. Nor
does that which occurs, Tob. xii. 15, at all clash with what we have
said, if rightly understood: for his saying, ‘I am Raphael one of the
seven holy angels which present the prayers of the saints, and which
go in and out before the glory of the holy one,’ in the Cabbalistical
sense signifies no more than thus, that he was one of the universal
society of the holy angels, (and a Raphael in the order of the
Raphaels) which minister to the saints, and reinforce the prayers of
good and holy men by joining thereto their own; and as they are
moved by God, minister to their necessities, unprayed to themselves,
which would be an abomination to them, but extreme prone to
second the petitions of holy sincere souls, and forward to engage in
the accomplishing of them, as a truly good man would sooner relieve
an indigent creature, over-hearing him making his moan to God in
prayer, than if he begged alms of himself, though he might do that
without sin. This Cabbalistical account, I think, is infinitely more
probable, than that Raphael told a downright lye to Tobit, in saying
he was the son of Ananias when he was not. And be it so, will J.
Webster say, what is all this to the purpose, when the book of Tobit is
apocryphal, and consequently of no authority? What of no authority?
Certainly of infinitely more authority than Mr. Wagstaff, Mr. Scot,
and Mr. Adie, that Mr. Webster so frequently and reverently quoteth.
“I but, will he farther add, these apparitions were made to good
and holy men, or to elect vessels; but King Saul was a wretched
reprobate. This is the third liberal badge of honour that this ill-bred
advocate of the witches has bestowed on a distressed prince. First, a
‘drowned puppet,’ p. 170, then a ‘distracted bedlam,’ in the same
page, which I passed by before; and now a ‘wretched reprobate.’ But
assuredly Saul was a brave prince and commander, as Josephus
justly describes him, and reprobate only in type, as Ismael and Esau;
which is a mystery it seems, that J. Webster was not aware of. And
therefore no such wonder that the soul of Samuel had such a
kindness for him, as to appear to him in the depth of his distress, to
settle his mind, by telling him plainly the upshot of the whole
business, that he should lose the battel, and he and his sons be slain,
that so he might give a specimen of the bravest valour that ever was
atchieved by any commander, in that he would not suffer his country
to be overrun by the enemy while he was alive without resistance;
but though he knew certainly he should fail of success, and he and
his sons dye in the fight, yet in so just and honourable a cause as the
defence of his crown and his country, would give the enemy battel in
the field, and sacrifice his own life for the safety of his people. Out of
the knowledge of which noble spirit in Saul, and his resolved valour
in this point, those words haply may come from Samuel, ‘To morrow
shalt thou and thy sons be with me,’ (as an auspicious insinuation of
their favourable reception into the other world,) in ‫סחיצחצדקימ‬, in
thalamo justorum, as Munster has noted out of the Rabbins.
 “Lastly, as for that weak imputation, that this opinion of its being
Samuel’s soul that appeared is Popish, that is very plebeianly and
idiotically spoken, as if every thing that the Popish party are for, were
Popish. We divide our zeal against so many things that we fancy
Popish, that we scarce reserve a just share of detestation against
what is truly so: Such as are that gross, rank and scandalous
impossibility of ‘transubstantiation,’ the various modes of fulsome
idolatry and lying impostures, the uncertainty of their loyalty to their
lawful sovereigns by their superstitious adhesion to the spiritual
tyranny of the Pope, and that barbarous and ferine cruelty against
those that are not either such fools as to be persuaded to believe such
things as they would obtrude upon men, or are not so false to God
and their own consciences, as knowing better, yet to profess them.
“As for that other opinion, that the greater part of the reformed
divines hold, that it was the devil that appeared in Samuel’s shape;
and though Grotius also seems to be inclined thereto, alleging that
passage of Porphyrius de abstinentia Animalium, where he
describes one kind of spirit to be Γένος ἀπατηλῆς φύσεως,
παντόμορφόν τε καὶ πολύτροπον, ὑποκρινόμενον καὶ θεοὺς καὶ
δαίμονας καὶ ψυχὰς τεθνηκότων. (which is, I confess, very
apposite to this story; nor do I doubt but that in many of these
necromantick apparitions, they are ludicrous spirits, not the souls of
the deceased that appear,) yet I am clear for the appearing of the soul
of Samuel in this story, from the reasons above alleged, and as clear
that in other necromancies, it may be the devil or such kind of
spirits, as Porphyrius above describes, ‘that change themselves into
omnifarious forms and shapes, and one while act the parts of
dæmons, another while of angels or gods, and another while of the
souls of the deceased.’ And I confess such a spirit as this might
personate Samuel here, for any thing Webster has alleged to the
contrary, for his arguments indeed are wonderfully weak and
wooden, as may be understood out of what I have hinted concerning
the former opinion, but I cannot further particularize now.
“For I have made my postscript much longer than my letter, before
I was aware; and I need not enlarge to you, who are so well versed in
these things already, and can by the quickness of your parts presently
collect the whole measures of Hercules by his foot, and sufficiently
understand by this time it is no rash censure of mine in my letter,
that Webster’s book is but a weak impertinent piece of work, the very
master-piece thereof being so weak and impertinent, and falling so
short of the scope he aims at, which was really to prove that there
was no such thing as a witch or wizard, that is not any mention
thereof in Scripture, by any name ‘of one that had more to do with
the devil, or the devil with him, than with other wicked men;’ that is
to say, of one who in virtue of covenant, either implicit or explicit,
did strange things by the help of evil spirits, but that ‘there are many
sorts of deceivers and impostures, and divers persons under a
passive delusion of melancholy and fancy,’ which is part of his very
title-page.
“Whereby he does plainly insinuate, that there is nothing but
couzenage or melancholy in the whole business of the fears of
witches. But a little to mitigate or smother the greatness of this false
assertion, he adds, ‘And that there is no corporeal league betwixt the
devil and the witch; and that he does not suck on the witches body,
nor has carnal copulation with her, nor the witches turned into dogs
or cats,’ &c. All which things as you may see in his book, he
understands in the grossest imaginable, as if the imps of witches had
mouths of flesh to suck them, and bodies of flesh to lie with them,
and at this rate he may understand a corporeal league, as if it were
no league or covenant, unless some lawyer drew the instrument, and
engrossed it in vellum or thick parchment, and there were so many
witnesses with the hand and seal of the party. Nor any
transformation into dogs or cats, unless it were real and corporeal, or
grossly carnal; which none of his witch-mongers, as he rudely and
slovenly calls that learned and serious person, Dr. Casaubon and the
rest, do believe. Only it is a disputable case of their bodily
transformation, betwixt bodinus and remigius; of which more in my
Scholia. But that without this carnal transmutation, a woman might
not be accounted a witch, is so foolish a supposition, that Webster
himself certainly must be ashamed of it.
“Wherefore if his book be writ only to prove there is no such thing
as a witch that covenants in parchment with the Devil by the advice
of a lawyer, and is really and carnally turned into a dog, cat, or hare,
&c. and with carnal lips sucked by the devil, and is one with whom
the devil lies carnally; the scope thereof is manifestly impertinent,
when neither Dr. Casaubon, nor any one else holds any such thing.
But as for the true and adequate notion of a witch or wizard, such as
at first I described, his arguments all of them are too weak and
impertinent, as to the disproving the existence of such a witch as
this, who betwixt his deceivers, impostors, and melancholists on one
hand, and those gross witches he describes on the other hand, goes
away sheer as a hair in a green balk betwixt two lands of corn, none
of his arguments reaching her, or getting the sight of her, himself in
the mean time standing on one side amongst the deceivers and
impostors, his book, as to the main design he drives at, being a meer
cheat and impostor.
“C. C. C. May, 25, 1678.”
 The Confessions of certain Scotch Witches,
taken out of an authentic copy of their trial
at the Assizes held at Paisley, in Scotland,
Feb. 15, 1678, touching the bewitching of Sir
George Maxwel.
The tenour of the confessions as taken before justices. As first of
Annabil Stuart, of the age of 14 years, or thereby; who declared that
she was brought in the presence of the justices for the crime of
witchcraft; and declared, that one harvest last, the devil, in the shape
of a black man, came to her mother’s house, and required the
declarant to give herself up to him; and that the devil promised her
she should not want any thing that was good.—Declares that she,
being enticed by her mother, Jennet Mathie, and Bessie Wen, who
was officer to their several meetings, she put her hand to the crown
of her head, and the other to the sole of her foot, and did give herself
up to the devil. Declares that her mother promised her a new coat for
doing it. Declares that her spirit’s name was Ennipa, and that the
devil took her by the hand and nipt her arm, which continued to be
sore for half an hour. Declares that the devil, in the shape of a black
man, lay with her in the bed, under the clothes, and that she found
him cold. Declares, that thereafter, he placed her nearest himself,
and declares she was present in her mother’s house when the effigy
of wax was made, and that it was made to represent Sir George
Maxwel. Declares, that the black man, Jannet Mathie, the declarant’s
mother, (whose spirit’s name was Lemdlady; Bessie Weir, whose
spirit’s name was Sopha; Margaret Craige, whose spirit’s name is
Regerum, and Margaret Jackson, whose spirit’s name is Locas) were
all present at the making of the said effigy; and that they bound it on
a spit, and turned it before the fire; and that it was turned by Bessie
Weir, saying, as they turned it, Sir George Maxwel, Sir George
Maxwel, and that this was expressed by all of them, and by the
declarant. Declares that this picture was made in October last. And
further declares that upon the third day of January instant, Bessie
Weir came to her mother’s house, and advertised her to come to her
brother John Stuart’s upon the night following; and that accordingly
she came to the place, where she found Bessie Weir, Margery Craige,
Margaret Jackson, and her brother John Stuart, and a man with
black cloaths, and a blue band, and white handcuffs, with hogers,
and that his feet were cloven: that declarant sat down by the fire with
them when they made a picture of clay, in which they placed pins in
the breasts and sides; that they placed one in every side, and one in
the breast; that the black man did put the pins in the picture of wax;
but is not sure who put the pins in the picture of clay; that the effigies
produced are those she saw made; that the black man’s name is
Ejsal.
This declaration was emitted before James Dunlop, of Husil, and
William Gremlage, &c. Jan. 27, 1677, ita est Robertus Park,
Notarius Publicus.
“The second confession is of John Stuart, who being interrogate
anent the crime of witchcraft, declared that upon Wednesday, the
third day of January instant, Bessie Weir, in Pollocton, came to the
declarant late at night, who being without doors near to his own
house, the said Bessie Weir did intimate to him that there was a
meeting to be at his house, the next day; and that the devil under the
shape of a black man, Margaret Jackson, Margery Craige, and the
said Bessie Weir were to be present; and that Bessie Weir required
declarant to be there, which he promised; and that the next night,
after declarant had gone to bed, the black man came in, and called
the declarant quietly by his name, upon which he arose from his bed,
put on his clothes and lighted a candle. Declare, that Margaret
Jackson, Bessie Weir, and Margery Craige, did enter in at a window
in the cavil of declarant’s house; and that the first thing the black
man required, was, that the declarant should renounce his baptism,
and deliver himself wholly to him; which the declarant did, by
putting one hand on the crown of his head, and the other on the sole
of his foot; and that he was tempted to it by the devil promising him
that he should not want any pleasure, and that he should get his
heart filled on all that should do him wrong. Declares, that he gave
him the name of Jonat for his spirit’s name; that thereafter the devil
required every one of their consents for the making of the effigies of
clay, for the taking away the life of Sir George Maxwel, of Pollock, to
revenge the taking of declarant’s mother, Jannet Mathie, that every
one of the persons above named, gave their consent to the making of
the said effigy, and that they wrought the clay; that the black man did
make the figure of the head and face, and two arms, to the said
effigy; that the devil set three pins in the same, on one each side and
one in the breast; and that the declarant did hold the candle to them,
all the time the picture was making. And that he observed one of the
black man’s feet to be cloven—that his apparel was black—that he
had a blueish band and handcuffs—that he had hogers on his legs,
without shoes; and that the black man’s voice was hough and
goustie: and farther declares that after they had begun the framing of
the effigies, his sister, Annabil Stuart, a child of 13 or 14 years of age,
came knocking at the door, and being let in by the declarant, she
staid with them a considerable time, but that she went away before
the rest, he having opened the door for her—that the rest went out at
the window at which they entered—that the effigies was placed by
Bessie Weir in his bed-straw. He farther declares he himself did envy
against Sir George Maxwel, for apprehending Jannet Mathie, his
mother; and that Bessie Weir had great malice against this Sir
George Maxwel, and that her quarrel was, as the declarant conceived,
because the said Sir George had not entered her husband to his
harvest service; also that the said effigies was made upon the fourth
day of January instant, and that the devil’s name was Ejoal; that
declarant’s spirit’s name was Jonas, and Bessie Weir’s spirit’s name,
who was officer, was Sopha; and that Margaret Jackson’s spirit’s
name was Locas; and that Annabil Stuart’s spirit’s name, the
declarant’s sister, was Enippa; but does not remember what
Margery Craige’s spirit’s name was. Declares that he cannot write.
This confession was emitted in the presence of the witnesses to the
other confession, and on the same day.—Ita est. Robertus Park,
Notarius Publicus.
The next confession is that of Margaret, relict of Thomas Shaws,
who being examined by the justices, anent her being guilty of
witchcraft, declares that she was present at the making of the first
effigies and picture that were made in Jannet Mathie’s house, in
October; and that the devil, in the shape of a black man, Jannet
Mathie, Bessie Weir, Margery Craige, and Annabil Stuart, were
present at the making of them, and that they were made to represent
Sir George Maxwel, of Pollock, for the taking away his life. Declares,
that 40 years ago, or thereabout, she was at Pollockshaw Croft, with
some few sticks on her back, that the black man came to her, and
that she did give up herself unto him, from the top of her head to the
sole of her foot; and that this was after declarant had renounced her
baptism, and that the spirit’s name which he designed her was Locas:
and that about the third or fourth of January instant, or thereby, in
the night-time, when she awaked, she found a man to be in bed with
her, whom she supposed to be her husband, though her husband had
been dead twenty years or thereby, and that the said man
immediately disappeared; that this man who disappeared was the
devil. Declares, that upon Thursday the fourth of January instant,
she was present in the house of John Stuart, at night, when the
effigies of clay was made, and that she saw the black man there,
sometimes sitting, sometimes standing with John Stuart; and that
the black man’s cloaths were black, and that he had white handcuffs;
and that Bessie Weir, in Pollocton, and Annabil Stuart, in Shaws, and
Margery Craigie, were at the aforesaid time and place at making the
said effigies of clay; and declares that she gave her consent to the
making of the same, and that the devil’s name who compeered in the
black man’s shape was Ejoll.
Sic Subscribitur, ita est, Robertus Park, Notatius Publicus, &c.
 Then follows the depositions of certain
persons, agreeing with confessions of the
above-said witches.
“Andr. Martin, Servitour to the Lord of Pollock, of the age of thirty
years, or thereby, deposes, that he was present in the house of Jannet
Mathie, Pannel, when the picture of wax produced was found in a
little hole in the wall at the back of the fire—that Sir George, his
sickness did fall upon him about the eighteenth of October, or
thereby—that the picture of wax was found on the —— of December,
and that Sir George his sickness did abate and relent about the time
the picture of wax was found and discovered in Jannet Mathie’s
house—that the pins were placed in the right and left sides; and that
Sir George Maxwel, of Pollock, his pains, lay most in his right and left
sides. Depones, that Sir George’s pains did abate and relent after the
finding of the said picture of wax, and taking out the pins as is said—
that the pannel, Jannet Mathie, has been by fame and bruite a
reputed witch these several years past. And this is the truth, as he
shall answer to God.—Sic Subscribitur, Andr. Martin.”
“Lawrence Pollock, Secretary to the Lord of Pollock, sworn and
purged of partial counsel, depones that on the —— day of December
he was in the Pannel Jannet Mathie’s house when the picture was
found; and that he did not see it before it was brought to the Pannel’s
door—that Sir George Maxwel of Pollock’s sickness did seize upon
him about the 14th of October, or thereabouts, and he did continue
in his sickness or distemper for six weeks, or thereby—that Sir
George’s sickness did abate and relent after the finding of the said
picture of wax, and taking out of the pins that were in the effigies—
that by open bruit and common fame, Jannet Mathie, and Bessie
Weir, and Margery Craige, are brandit to be witches. Depones, that
the truth is this, as he shall answer to God.—Sic Subscrib. Lawrence
Pollock.”
“Lodawic’ Stuart, of Auckenhead, being sworn and purged of
partial counsel, depones, that Sir George’s sickness fell upon him the
14th or 13th day of October—that he was not present at the finding of
the picture of wax; but that he had seen Sir George Maxwel, of
Pollock, after it was found; and having seen him in his sickness
oftentimes before, he did perceive that Sir George had sensibly
recovered after the time that the said picture was said to have been
found, which was upon the 11th or 12th of December—that Jannet
Mathie and Margery Craigie, two of the Pannel, are by report of the
country said to be witches—that he having come to Pollock, he did
see Sir George Maxwel, whose pains did recur, and that his pains and
torments were greatly increased in respect of what they were before
the finding of the picture of wax—that upon the eighth of January,
when they left the said Sir George Maxwel, of Pollock, the deponent
James Dunlop, of Housil, Allan Douglass, and several others, did go
to the house of John Stuart, Warlock, on Pollockshaw, and there he
found a picture of clay in the said John Stuart’s bed-straw—that
there were three pins in the said picture of clay, and that there was
one on each side, and one in the breast—and further depones, that
being returned to Sir George’s house, Sir George told the deponent
that he found great ease of his pains, and that it was before the
deponent Hounsil, and the rest, did reveal to him that they had
found the said picture of clay, and further, that this is the truth, as he
shall answer to God.—Sic. Subscrib. Lodowick Stuart.”

There are more depositions of a similar nature whence these were

extracted, but these are enough to discover that the confession of
those witches are neither fables nor dreams. It belongs us, therefore,
in this enlightened age, when superstition has fled before the rays of
science and the influence of religion, to account for the then
prevalent notion, which appears so far to be authenticated, of the
existence of witches. It is not enough to say that people are
barbarous, ignorant, or unenlightened, to exculpate them from
charges involving such strong points as supernatural with human
agency. In this stage of investigation, nothing is more natural than to
ask, did witches ever exist? Yes.—Upon what authority? Sacred Writ.
—Are there such beings as witches now? We hear of none.—Then the
last grand question, to which a secret of some importance is attached
—What has become of them? have they vanished into viewless air,
without leaving a wreck behind; or are they consigned to the “bottom
of the bottomless pit?” Of this we may say something hereafter; while
in the meantime we lay before our readers