Prisoner (Russian Tattoos Book 2) by Kat Shehata Read Free Book Online Page A

pulled it open. The heavy table was gone. Chairs gone. All the furniture had been removed, and its place—a gym. “Whoa, this is so cool. Spasibo , Dmitri.”
    Free weights, a padded bench, yoga stuff, a can of tennis balls, and my racquet! I’d packed it for my trip and hoped I could hit some balls at the resort. I’d been playing with the same racquet, AKA The Silver Bullet, since high school. Considering my long list of problems, sports equipment wasn’t a priority, but it was my good luck charm.
    “Boris wants you to get your strength back and put some weight back on before you go home. Better for you to be healthy than like this.” He sneered and gestured at my frail, banged up body.
    “Okay.” I wasn’t insulted that he had implied I looked like hell. I bounced a ball on the ground to test it out. I stepped back and hit the ball lightly against the wall to warm up my arm. It wasn’t a huge room, just about the size of the living room in our apartment back home, but I had plenty of wall space to hit the ball and enough concrete floor to bounce it on.
    “Start off easy. Don’t hurt yourself.”
    I rallied against the wall at a moderate pace, careful to keep my movements slow and steady. Dmitri seemed satisfied I wasn’t going to crash and burn and stalked off to use the free weights.
    The truth was, every muscle in my body ached, my wrists were sore from struggling against the cuffs, and I had a hard time focusing on the ball. I never let on that I was in pain or having trouble, though. I vowed to get back in shape quickly with the aid of all the equipment and unlimited amounts of nutritious food. I peeked over my shoulder to see what Dmitri was doing.
    He had taken off his shirt and was lifting free weights. For a Russian gangster, his skin was light on ink. From what I could see, he just had one series of “bloody” scratch tats—like from a tiger—across his right shoulder. His muscles rippled as he pumped iron, and sweat glistened on his body.
    After I hit for maybe another ten minutes, I could barely keep myself upright. I was winded and sweaty, my legs were wobbly, and stars were flashing before my eyes. I rolled out a yoga mat, lay down on my back, and did some lazy stretches.
    Dmitri was inverted on a padded bench holding a heavy free weight and doing crunches. He grunted out the last ten reps, set down the weight, and placed his hands on his hips as he caught his breath. Sweat trickled down his body and sprinkled on the floor.
    Seeing him work out with such vigor inspired me to get up and get moving. I may not have been in top form, but I could do more than some half-ass yoga moves. I hopped to my feet and jogged to the punching bag. I put my weight on my right leg and pounded the bag. It was so heavy, or I was so weak, it hardly moved.
    I made up various combinations of jabs, hooks, and uppercuts, and mentally etched Boris’s face on the bag as my target. I began to hit harder. Sweat rolled into my eyes. The salt burned, but I didn’t stop fighting. The bag swayed with the intensity of my punches and I bounced on my toes, unwilling to relent or give in to exhaustion.
    Fifty more good knocks and Boris will drop to the floor. One, two, three…
    Dmitri pulled me away from the bag. “Easy, Carter.”
    “Get off me. I’m not done yet.” I tried to shrug him off.
    “Enough.” He pulled me back and stood between me and the bag.
    I put my hands on my knees to catch my breath and wiped the sweat off my face with my shirt. I was so lost in the zone, I hadn’t realized Dmitri had come up behind me. He handed me a towel and led me to the kitchen. He motioned for me to sit and poured us a couple glasses of water.
    “Who were you fighting?” he asked.
    I smiled, embarrassed by my win-or-die-trying nature. “I’ll give you three guesses.”
    Dmitri smirked. “I fight my papa.”
    “Why? Is he part of the Bratva ? You don’t like him?”
    “He’s in Siberia. He murdered my mama with his