by Lana Sky
“So, you come to the rescue?” Maxim spits at his feet. “Bullshit. Why? And why not warn Jacob if you were so fucking smart?” He nods to the slain driver.
“Hmm…” Dima slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shrugs. The simple gesture makes him look even younger than he already appears. A boy in grown-up clothing—but his eyes portray anything but innocence. “I’m afraid that poor Jacob had to be sacrificed for the sake of research. Call it a hunch.”
Maxim snatches my wrist and nearly drags me to the car he moves so quickly. “Talk in riddles if you fucking want to. You have five seconds to get out of my sight before I have you killed. Thank Milton for that shred of mercy—”
“You’ve killed in front of her before, haven’t you?” Dima wonders as Maxim wrenches open the door to the back seat of the car. It’s covered in blood, and he hisses, wiping his hand on his jacket. Then he slams the door shut and fumbles for the front passenger-side door.
“You were afraid to kill in front of her again. You hesitated, I saw it,” Dima insists. “You had every chance to call your snipers to take out Danil, but you hesitated.” Awe colors his voice as if that simple fact is the most fascinating discovery. “Were you going to wait until the bastard was right on you before you reacted? By then, she certainly would be scarred for life, considering his brains would be in her lap. And you trust him around your child?” His attention turns to me, his lips quirked in an amused grin. “There is so much we must discuss when we finally have our talk—”
“You will never even touch her,” Maxim swears. “Now get the fuck out of my sight.”
“Why do you even want to talk to me?” I’m surprised that the steady, level voice is mine.
“Why?” Dima raises an eyebrow as if perplexed by the question. “To learn you, of course. The woman who fucks a beast apparently in the hopes that he may one day become a house pet. You fascinate me more than the concept of Maxim seeing a woman outside of the role of a warm, wet hole. Yes, we must discuss!”
He laughs as I turn away from him, my face on fire.
“Oh, yes. Though I have been waiting patiently, haven’t I, little Maxi?”
Maxim says nothing. Finally, he gets the door to the car open and shoves me inside it. Then he storms to the other end and claims the driver’s seat while I fumble for my seatbelt.
“Goodbye for now,” Dima calls as Maxim slams the car door. Muffled, his voice still manages to seep inside. “I’ll be waiting for your call. I am anticipating our meeting more than ever, Francesca—”
Maxim slams on the gas, sending the car lurching forward and leaving Dima behind. At the same time, he snatches a cell phone from his pocket. He must speak to more than one person, switching from English to bellowed words of Russian before he finally tosses the phone aside.
“Are you alright?” he asks me.
No. I think I’m dazed. In shock, maybe. My brain seems delayed, processing everything in comically innocent terms. Like how, as we approach the city limits, Maxim completes his transition from budding “domestic” into a calculating mafia boss. I observe him, noting the shift in his posture and the subtle tensing of his jaw. But before any real doubt can set in, he grabs my hand and places it on his lap.
“Talk to me.”
I flinch, recognizing my own words mirrored back to me.
“I…” Tears spill from my eyes before I can hold them back—but I’m not afraid. I’m too tired for that. Too exhausted. All I can do is squeeze his fingers, conveying a million things I can’t say out loud.
When the car finally skids to a stop, I’m surprised that we’re at, of all places, the penthouse he’d brought me to before we left Fair Haven. In silence, he escorts me from the car and up to the suite. It looks exactly how we left it, but it’s a stark contrast to the warm, open beach house and its brighter décor.
I miss it—more than I thought I would. More than the other houses and mansions we’ve left behind. I miss the man I discovered there, sampling ice cream beneath the hot sun.
I miss the begrudging smile of content he’d tried to suppress after relinquishing control on the balcony. And how he had comforted Daisy and went out of his way to provide the others with what they wanted. What they needed.
A part of me despairs at the memories—we might never get those moments back. That peace. That…normalcy.
A different man entirely, Maxim drags me into the bathroom of the master suite and strips me naked before shoving a washcloth into my hands. He leaves, and when minutes creep by without him returning, I manage to wash mechanically and dress in a thin nightgown and a robe.
The murmur of distant voices creeps into the silence, coming from the front of the suite. Still oddly numb, I wander into the main hall and follow it out to the foyer.
There, my dreamlike haze shatters. I’m in a nightmare now.
Two demons star in it, dominating opposite ends of the foyer like the living incarnations of light and shadow. A violent, gleaming gold, Maxim takes up one corner, while a glowering Milton claims another, clothed in black from head to toe.
“How many more times do I need to tell you to end this? Letting Danil off his leash was a direct message to you. You know that,” he warns. “For fuck sake, end this. Before even Dima gets bored of this game and decides he’ll have more fun watching your livelihood destroyed by Anatoli than trying to make amends with you—”
“Stop pretending like you give a damn about me, or my fucking ‘livelihood,’” Maxim bellows, his chest heaving, his hands balled into fists. “Otherwise, you would be the one to grow bored with this game. Bored of humoring Dima. For years, I’ve let you play the role of the so-called peacemaker. But what fucking use are you now?” He looks around mockingly and scoffs. “You manage our investments, only to withhold them when it suits you just to placate your childhood pet. You put your women and your interests above mine. And now you pretend as though I’m the one abandoning you? Why don’t we call in the other investor, then? If I need so many allies? The truth is, you were never my ally, were you?”
“You fucking idiot,” Milton hisses, his upper lip curling in disgust. “Don’t talk shit. You’re so blinded by fear and hate that you can’t hear how bloody ridiculous you sound. You know what…” Tearing his fingers through his dark hair, he lets out a deep breath. “Fine. I’m done. You want to pretend as if it’s you against the world? Even after everything we’ve been through? After everything I’ve done for you. Be my fucking guest. You accuse me of putting my life above yours, even though I’m the one risking my life every day for you. Well, maybe it’s about time I did, for once. Go for it, Max. Knock yourself out.”
He turns and storms from the front door of the suite. He’s still visible within the hall when Maxim calls after him. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving little Dima to my mercy, Milton?”
“Dima?” Milton cocks his head and laughs coldly, the sound more unsettling than any I’ve ever heard. “Dima can handle himself. It was never him I was protecting when it came to the two of you. You’re just too damn stubborn to see that.”
He presses forward, vanishing into the shadows.
Roaring, Maxim pivots and slams his fists into a nearby end table. It shatters in a violent display of glittering glass. He stands alone in the aftermath, surrounded by countless jagged shards. Blood drips down his left forearm, originating from a gash sliced into the flesh, but he doesn’t even seem to notice.
“I’m sending you back,” he declares, spotting me standing at the mouth of the hall. “I need to handle this without any fucking distractions. Fuck Milton. Dima can play his little games. I won’t let him win. I won’t let him get inside your fucking head—”
“Maxim, s-stop.” I exhale the plea, but he breaks off, his throat cording. Swallowing hard, I weigh my next words. This is a true Russian Roulette. To pull the trigger, or run away? “I don’t think you spook easily,” I add, my voice rasping. “So, something had to happen to make you change your mind…”
&nbs
p; He cocks his head, his eyes flashing. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he rasps, as if the words are being ripped from his throat. “I don’t.”
But he has. He’s left marks on me that will never truly heal, and I don’t think I’ll ever fully be able to suppress the lingering fear from that. At the same time, he’s done so much for me…
So much it’s pushed him to the fucking breaking point.
“You won’t hurt me.” This time I think I actually believe it. Reaching for him, I take a hesitant step, and he nearly jumps out of his skin in his rush to maintain the distance between us. His blood paints the floor with every step, coloring the monochromatic world of his own making.
“Go,” he snarls, and my body shivers in recognition of that deep, resonating tone. He’s beyond even the past now. He’s trapped within his fucking head, and only God knows what he’s seeing.
“Talk to me,” I plead, inching another step forward.
“Talk?” He scoffs. “I’ll talk. I’ll talk about the fact that Anatoli is toying with me. Attacking my business like one would spank a naughty child. The bastard thinks he can summon me—” He breaks off, and the tension coiled within his body reveals just how much that simple command is affecting him. “Like I’m still a boy beneath his boot. Should I talk about that? Or I can talk about the fact that Milton has turned his back on me. And I can talk about Vadim, always having the last fucking laugh—”
“Tell me about him.” I take another step, narrowly avoiding a streak of blood. God, the wound looks even worse the closer I come. Carefully, I strip my robe and wad the fabric in my fist.
“Vadim?” He laughs again more darkly, his eyes still fixated on a world I can’t see. “I was four, I believe, when we first met. My mother must have upset my father more than usual. That day he left and reappeared with another child. His child, nearly my age. ‘You think that since you have my heir, you are untouchable?’ he asked her. ‘Well, I have plenty of spare bastards to take my pick from.’ He kept Vadim around after that, parading him before us periodically just to prove his point.”
“That’s awful…” Horror constricts my throat as I finally come close enough to him to risk brushing my fingers along his injured arm. He stiffens, unmoving. Cautiously, I peel back the sleeve of his shirt and wrap my robe around the worst of the wound.
“He should have looked smug then, Dima,” Maxim continues, oblivious to the pain. “He wore rags, dragged into a home worth more than his whore of a mother could ever make on her back. In that moment, he had a taste of the mantle of being the heir and what it meant. He should have fucking smirked…” He sways, and I brace my hand over his chest, but my strength is no match for his bulk.
“Come with me.” I glance over my shoulder and spot a nearby chaise. Gingerly I lead him toward it, still coaxing him, “What happened next?”
“I killed our father,” he croaks, but rather than sit, he goes rigid, scowling beyond this room. Beyond me. “His mother died of some disease. Together, we were sent to Anatoli.”
Uttering that one name drains the humanity from him. A darkness falls over his expression, and a stranger appears in his place—someone so cold and emotionless he could be formed from stone.
“I knew what awaited us the second we entered those fucking walls. Hell—” He balls his hands into fists, and my heart skips. An instinctive need to back away takes hold, but the second I withdraw, he staggers away from me, still speaking. “I knew. Dima… He didn’t. That first night, Anatoli broke my ribs in retaliation for what I did to his son—” He flattens his palm against his chest in remembrance of that pain. “I didn’t cry. But Dima? The old man didn’t lay a fucking finger on him, and he wailed anyway. He never had what it took—and I couldn’t forgive him for that. For weakness…”
He takes another step, teetering dangerously to one side. It’s as if he’s drunk off the rage, blinded to his own senses.
Renewed concern for him outweighs any fear for myself. I approach him again, keeping my voice as soft as I can. “Maxim…”
He recoils, as if his first instinct is to resist my touch. A heartbeat later, his hand captures mine, pinning it to his chest. When I lead him toward the leather chaise, he collapses onto the edge of it. His arm is still bleeding, and I race to apply more pressure, all while still stroking him. Speaking to him.
Keeping him here.
“He was weak,” he tells me. “I had Anatoli’s favor. I was his preferred heir. Everyone knew it. But Dima… He called the old bastard evil to his face once, can you fucking believe it?”
He laughs, partly amused, partly incredulous.
“I don’t know why they didn’t kill him then and there. Perhaps it was more fun to toy with him. He sniveled when they beat him. Cried when they whipped him. Cut him. Starved him. Did worse. But he never fought for his place. Not really. And when he looked at me, it wasn’t in fear. He knew what failure meant. And yet, Vadim? He always looked at me with…fucking pity.” His body vibrates with disgust at that word, mirroring his anger whenever he seems to sense it in me. “Can you believe that? As though I was the weak one. When I survived. I won. I took what I was owed and never looked back. I need no one’s pity.”
“Tell me what happened after.”
“Anatoli grew bored,” he adds, deflating. “He declared that only one of us would become the true heir, if we were willing to fight for it. The loser would go to Sevastyn…” He inhales sharply, and I press my hand to his cheek before that unsettling shadow can consume him again. With gentle pressure, I make him look at me.
“I’m here,” I whisper. “You’re with me. You’re not there.” He blinks, his expression blank, but I maintain the contact anyway. “Talk to me.”
“He should have won.” His gaze refocuses, fixating on mine. Hints of him return, peeking from behind the dark irises. The more I stroke him, the more of him I see. A man so confused the frustration haunts him. Poisons him.
It’s tormenting him.
“He should have.” Voice rasping, he insists, “The bastard should have fucking won. He wasn’t stronger, but he was faster. Smarter. He could handle a blade better than anyone. He should have won.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t. All I can do is stroke his jaw and staunch the bleeding from his arm, utilizing patience I never knew I had.
Gradually, his nostrils flare, and his expression regains some semblance of definition.
“There it is,” he accuses in a surprisingly hollow tone. “Your pity. Worse than his in so many ways…”
“No.” I shake my head and lean forward, resting my forehead against his chest. “It’s not pity. It’s never pity. Never…”
He doesn’t argue. He’s not here fully yet, but his breathing eases, and when I attempt to stand, he tightens his grip as if to pull me back.
“You’re covered in blood.” I take his hand and tug him to his feet. “Come with me.”
Despite everything, I’m shocked when he lets me take him into the bathroom. He sits in the tub, watching skeptically as I gather supplies. I strip him slowly and then wash him inch by inch. When I finally reach his head, he pulls me in, kissing me deeply. The rest of my clothing comes off easily beneath his touch, but he doesn’t settle me over his cock.
His hands find my waist instead, his chest meeting mine. He sinks his fingers reverently into my hair while pressing his lips to my collar, right above my breast. “You… Life was never a mystery to me. I knew what I wanted. Money. Power. Control. I took all of it. But never could I imagine you... I won’t lose you. But…”
A raw, pained expression contorts his features, triggering an instinctive alarm in the pit of my soul. I’ve never seen him like this. In agony, but the physical wound isn’t the cause—and I don’t think he’ll ever truly heal from it.
“Dima was right,” he croaks. “Can I give you what you need? I don’t know. You are young. You will want children—do not deny it. You will. And… In my world, children are met with strictness. Violence. What happ
ened to Vadim and me is typical—they are beaten into submission and traded like chattel. And you will not understand, but this did not bother me. It is all I know, and therefore I made a choice. No children of my own.”
His voice is a monotone hum devoid of emotion. I don’t even think he’s talking to me anymore—not really. This is for him—a confession of the things he can’t express, even in the dark room.
But he’s not alone, forced to use whips and knives to express the pain he won’t ever admit to out loud. Silently, I brace my hands over his chest, reinforcing my presence.
I’m here.
“I expected no different,” he adds. “Even with your siblings. I knew I would have to restrain myself from beating them if I was to keep you near. I was prepared to. But…” He frowns, and the expression breaks my heart into a million fucking pieces. He looks more confused than ever. So lost—a boy trapped in his memories with no way out. “I didn’t. I didn’t want to harm them. Not once. I didn’t want to beat them down for insolence. I felt no urge to hurt your sister when she defied you. Your brother does not deserve to be whipped for daring to question me. And the youngest…” His voice breaks, hollow and hoarse. “I couldn’t imagine hurting her. Selling her. If Dima threatened her that day, I would have killed him.”
I believe it. He practically levitates with repressed emotion. Brushing my lips along his shoulder is the only way to ease the tension from him again.
“I’ve never considered being a father,” he tells me. It is honesty delivered as efficiently as one of the blows from his whip. Devastating in its aim. “But now? You think I struggle with this life. I let you believe that—” He tiredly meets my gaze, and all I see reflected in his dark eyes is a man pushed to his breaking point, exhausted beyond belief. “The truth is that…I feel clearer, the more I’m with you. With them. At the same fucking time, I feel like I’m losing myself. The man I’ve been for so damn long.” He eyes his hands warily and then lets them fall into the water. “If you leave…who will I be in the aftermath?”
