Avarice

4.

Note:

The rating for this story has now been changed to mature. So those below 18, read at your own discretion.

Look at the end for translations.

****

A man lounges on a leather couch, head resting against its cushioned back, buttons of his crisp white shirt undone.

In the center of the room, three scantily dressed women sway their bodies sensuously to the sound of the soft music playing in the background, while another woman lies sprawled on the long leather couch besides the man, loose-limbed and thoroughly fucked.

"Lord Nazyalensky is attempting hard to gain your favour, Pakhan."

Azriel blinks opens his dark eyes at the offhanded statement, rolls his neck in a slow, languid motion.

"You wound me, Igor." He drawls, a tch sound in his throat, voice rough, words aimed at his most loyal shadow who stands against the large glass panel of the room with his back facing Azriel.

His eyes flicker towards the nameless woman laid by his side, blinking stars, and wraps a palm around her hair, fingers twisting in her locks as he drags her up and hauls her into his lap, dress barely hanging onto her body.

"You think—" Azriel snarls, sucks a bruise on her skin as the woman begins to pant brokenly, "that worthless shlyukha like these—" bites the soft flesh of her shoulder, lips moving lower and lower, "—can help someone win my favour?"

The man named Igor snorts, lips curving in a too sharp smile as he turns to stare at Azriel unashamedly, one eyebrow raised. "I was not talking about the whores," he states plainly.

Azriel smirks at the reply and beneath his lips the woman moans, high and desperate, a wet mess as if he'd not just fucked her minutes ago.

zhadnyy shlyukha

He carelessly pushes her off him and onto the couch as he leans towards the table and pours himself a glass of gold whiskey. He drinks a mouthful from the glass and lets it burn down his throat, before he finally turns his eyes towards Igor, only to find the older man's gaze settled on the woman who had risen from the couch and was now busily running her hand up and down Azriel's bare chest.

"You know you're always allowed to partake once I'm finished with them, Igor," Azriel murmurs, head tilting, dark humour swirling in his eyes. "Only your gods know how many years have passed since you've had a good fuck!"

"I would have to respectfully decline, Pakhan." Igor grunts, glaring warningly at Pavlov and Samson, the other two of his tenevoys currently present in the lounge, both of whom had barked out a soft laugh at Azriel's words.

Azriel simply shrugs, hiding his sharp grin behind another mouthful of alcohol, finding it as humorous as always to know that he could ruffle the usually stoic man's feathers.

He settles himself more comfortably against the couch, his eyes flickering towards the glass walls that allow him an unobstructed view of the party going on in the ballroom, can see the guests dancing and mingling, ecstatic as they celebrate the newly minted alliance between the Kozlov and Nazyalensky families, a fruitful union that hangs on a promise to be signed off in blood, a binding of two lives.

Azriel's lips curl in disgust, humor fading.

"Pakhan."

His eyes snap towards Igor, who leans against the glass panel, hands crossed over his chest.

"Yuri Nazyalensky arrived on multiple separate occasions to know when he could be granted a meeting with you."

"And why would I do that?" Azriel drawls