by Lana Sky
“What?” Maxim demands. “Just name your fucking price.”
“Fine.” Dima sighs and inspects his spindly fingers. He almost looks bored, irritated to have his fun cut short. “I want you to beg. On your knees, of course. Beg for this child’s life. Though, I will warn you that what has already been done to her has alas…already been done.”
My heart sinks. Tears sting at my eyes, but I blink them back, swallowing down any cries. A resolve unlike anything I’ve ever felt strengthens my limbs, keeping me standing. No matter what happens, I refuse to give him the satisfaction of watching me suffer.
“Dima,” Milton says, appearing at Maxim’s shoulder. “What the hell are you doing—”
“Enough.” Maxim lurches forward, his fists clenched. Then he sinks down to his knees, his hands at his sides, his body rippling with tension. “Is this what you want?” he demands. “Well, you have it. Give her back.”
“Hmm.” Dima frowns, and for the first time, a hint of alarm crosses his smug expression. Confusion. He eyes Maxim in utter silence, tapping his chin with the tip of his finger. Then he reaches into the pocket of his black sweatshirt and withdraws a knife.
A gasp rips from me as I step forward, but Maxim raises his hand, still crouched. “Don’t.”
Dima intently eyes the edge of his blade. He takes his time, inspecting every inch of its gleaming surface. “I said beg,” he remarks coldly. “Not pretend as though you’re ordering dinner. Beg for her life—”
“I’m begging.” Maxim’s voice resonates like thunder, guttural, and deep. “Give her back.”
“Are you really, though?” Dima throws his knife into the air and catches it deftly by the handle. “I don’t know if I believe you—”
“You want to kill me, is that it?” Maxim demands with a harsh, callous laugh. “Do it. If tormenting a child is how you bring me to my knees. So be it. But don’t beat around the fucking bush. Do it!”
“Fine.” Dima shifts in a graceful movement of muscle and slashes at Maxim’s throat with the tip of his blade.
“No!” I tear down the path, uncaring. All I see is Maxim, his body still upright. It isn’t until I’m nearly even with him that I realize the amount of blood trickling down his collar doesn’t match what would stream from a lethal wound. My eyes trace the base of his throat, noting only a small, delicate scratch.
Dima eyes the streak of scarlet painting his blade. Then he sighs and pivots on his heel to open the back door of the car.
A small figure bounds out, her light hair flying out behind her. “Frankie!”
The sight of her distracts me even from Maxim’s injury. “Ainsley!”
I run forward and grab her mid-step, wrenching her into my arms. I bury my face into her hair, holding her so tight she squirms in discomfort.
“What’s wrong? Why are you crying? I had so much fun!” she exclaims, her voice high-pitched with excitement. “I love Uncle Dima! We saw real ponies, and then we ate candy, and we played screaming games, and—”
“Hush, baby.” I tug at her arms, scanning her tiny limbs for any injuries. Any hint of blood. Her clothes are intact, devoid of so much as a fucking stain. The only change I notice makes me grit my teeth—her usual pink socks have been replaced by a scarlet, woolen pair.
Apart from them, I can’t escape one glaring fact.
“You didn’t hurt her.” Confusion thickens my voice as I meet Dima’s gaze.
“Her teeth, perhaps,” he admits, with a wink. “I did not regulate her sugar intake—”
“You son of a bitch.” Maxim is still laughing, his head turned skyward. A smile shapes his mouth, but there’s nothing joyful about it. “You son of a fucking bitch...”
“Hurt me?” Ainsley questions, frowning. “I want to hang out with him again! Can I? Next time, can Eric come so we can—”
“Get her inside,” Maxim warns, rising to his feet, his fingers balling into fists.
“Come with me, Ms. Ainsley.” Lucius steps forward to ease her from my arms. “I believe it’s time for bed.”
“Ah,” she whines, her voice fading as Lucius carries her inside. “I wanted to say goodbye to Uncle Dima—”
The moment she’s gone, Maxim barrels down the front path, and there’s no stopping him. He’s toe to toe with Dima within a heartbeat. His fist slams into the other man’s cheek, sending him sprawling against the hood of the car.
“Enough,” Milton warns, stepping forward. “You’ve made your point. Both of you.”
Laughing, Dima cradles his jaw and staggers to find his balance. Blood adds a ghoulish flourish to his haggard appearance. In tiny rivulets, it dribbles down his chin unchecked. “You can have your money back, little Maxi. Every dime. All of it, I promise…”
“Why?” I demand. “Why did you do this?”
He frowns. “Perhaps old Dima grew bored of waiting for Maxi to be receptive? If I wanted answers from him, I would have to take them. And I did.” He meets my gaze, and whether intentionally or not, he doesn’t try to disguise the raw confusion contrasting with his gleeful mask. Beneath the façade, turmoil rages underneath, making me recoil. Maxim has his demons, but nothing like this...
“If he and Milton can form their little families and play their little games… If they believe they can change, then why can’t I? Perhaps it’s time I take my own family. Play my own game?” He eyes his trembling fingers and forms a fist as if capturing something within it. “I believe it is what I am owed… And in all honesty, if Maxim can attract a woman and children to him, any man can.”
“That’s it?”
“Francesca!” Maxim’s hand swipes at my shoulder, but even he can’t stop me from pushing past him, approaching Dima head-on.
Towering over me, the man meets my gaze, unfazed—even when I raise my arm. I lash out, tracking the amusement flickering through his dark eyes as my palm lands across his cheek.
“I deserved that, I suppose,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers along his reddening flesh—but his smile is too feral to be contrite. I doubt he even feels the pain at all. You got what you wanted, didn’t you? His smug grin tells me. You got your answer.
And I got mine.
“Anyway, this was fun! I agree with dear Ainsley, we must do this again.” Beaming, he turns on his heel and enters his car. As Maxim glowers, he issues a lazy wave and kisses the tips of his fingers.
“Adieu! And no hard feelings, Maxi? I hear from a little birdie that you’ve sent Anatoli running back to Russia—” He laughs, the sound booming. “He won’t stay there for long… But for now, all is well, yes? You and Milton are the best of friends again, and poor Dima will take his leave. Though…” He chuckles before closing the door after him. As the window lowers, he adds. “I will be expecting my invitation to the weddings.”
He drives off as Maxim glowers, his body rigid. A ferocity radiates from him like fire—fiercer than any rage I’ve ever sensed in him before. But I’ve come to know him enough to suspect that it doesn’t stem from hurt pride or shame. No, this fury extends deeper than that. Into his core.
And it’s expressed solely in the way he reaches back for me, yanking me against him. His touch conveys possession as he finds my hip, cupping it with his palm. Whatever he did just now—his capitulation to Vadim—was worth more than a thousand rings.
More than if he had slayed a million Anatolis.
More than any promise he could ever make through words alone.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The bedroom is the one space in the house that didn’t get as much attention as the rest. Maybe because I subconsciously knew that he deserved to have say in it. That he would insist upon it.
Dark and unreadable, his eyes take in the plain white walls and modest furniture mainly consisting of the massive, wooden-framed bed we’re seated on now. He’s perched on the mattress’ edge while I’m on my knees behind him, dabbing at the blood still flowing from his neck.
A wave of emotion constricts my throat, preventing me fr
om speaking—in fact I don’t think I’ve said a word since Dima and Milton left. All I can do is clean him off, conveying in gentle caresses with my cloth just how much I appreciate what he did.
Defended his family.
With the worst of the bleeding finally staunched, I set the cloth aside and use my opposite hand to trace a path down his arm, seeking out his white-knuckled fingers. He’s furious. I suspect the irritating pain is what keeps him from hunting down Dima—that and an emotion that swelters between us the longer my touch lingers over him.
Overwhelmed, I sink against his massive frame, pressing my lips to the crook of his shoulder. He stiffens, then gradually relaxes. This kind of intimacy is new for us both, as foreign as vanilla ice cream was to him just a few days ago.
As the seconds pass, my throat loosens, enough for me to croak out a single, tired question. “When do you want the wedding to be?”
He lifts his hand, bringing mine with it, displaying the ring on my finger. His free hand comes to trace the delicate circlet of marble, lingering over his name.
“When you are ready,” he says, and that statement carries with it so many connotations. My thoughts swim at the prospect of deciphering them all. But, as always, he can never leave me with a solid choice—it always comes in the form of a game. The premise of this one, he proposes as a dare. “After we make this room suit us both.”
Club XXX continues in Vadim: Control. Continue on for a preview!
Preview of Vadim: Control
When delving into the world of sexual promiscuity, it’s totally okay to have one glass of wine beforehand, just to calm your nerves. Two is fine too. Okay, three—but there’s a benefit to every sip of alcohol far beyond the use as a mental crutch.
Or so I tell myself.
For one, I’ll be nice and loose for whatever billionaire I manage to snag on my first night on the prowl. Depending on how well it goes, I’ll be closer to scratching the big-ticket item off my bucket list—joining a secretive, exclusive sex club.
Telling myself that makes it easier to down my fourth glass as I scan the offerings milling about the exclusive “Gray Bar” of Hotel Six—the most exclusive venue within ten miles of the area’s major airport. It’s a forty-floor haven for millionaire businessmen with too much money to spend and not enough time to look for a relationship lasting beyond a few hours. In theory, it should be a sexual revolution mecca.
In reality, it’s slim pickings tonight, go figure. The one night of the week I finally managed to gather up the nerve to pick out an outfit that—in the right lighting—makes me look like I almost belong here. Enough that I was able to slip past the stern-faced bouncer before he could do a doubletake.
Though, maybe I should have tried my skills on him first? The old guy could have been a nice warm-up for my rather lacking talent of seduction. Frowning, I do the math on my fingers. Six months since my divorce from Jim. Three years since we last had sex. Minus the odd dildo every now and again, I haven’t been laid in…
Too damn long. Sighing, I let my fingers fall to the table before me and tap the polished wood with my hot pink nails. A normal person would try online dating, or maybe troll the grocery store for some horny single dad with a fetish for one-night stands to ease her way back into the dating pool. A normal person.
I, however, decided to skip the queue and jump into the big, wide world with a bang. Literally. Why feign interest in a long-term relationship or play the roulette game with STDs when you can aim right for the jackpot—exclusive billionaire sex clubs like the kind my uncle Conroy used to gossip about after one too many brandies.
The billionaire part is beside the point. Three big ones, actually—safety—both physically and health-wise—privacy and most importantly…kink. Weird, crazy kink. Enough to drown out say, seven or so years of a lifeless marriage and boring, missionary sex so lame that a nun wouldn’t consider participating as breaking her vows.
Yes, Tiffy, I tell myself. You’re on a roll. A horrible, fruitless roll.
An hour in and I have yet to be approached by one of the three men occupying the lounge in addition to me. It must be the slow hour for rich bachelors.
One potential prospect sits at the bar, his back to me. A curtain of dark hair obscures most of his face, but he’s scrawny. Too scrawny. Next.
Sighing, I shift my attention to another potential victim. Aged approximately seventy years, with a beautiful head of balding gray hair, he’s only a moderately more appealing candidate. I bet rich older men have plenty of experience to draw from, though. Viagra can be a heck of a drug—and hell, to make their trysts last, those over sixty probably extend the foreplay too.
Bonus points.
Not that I would know how to recognize extended foreplay if it slapped me in the face. Jim thought oral sex was sinful—unless on the rare occasion he had two beers, it wasn’t Sunday, and I was the one willing to open my mouth.
Stop it. I shake my head to clear away the negative thoughts—no more dwelling on the past. I’m the new and improved Tiffany Connors. No longer bitter about years of youth wasted. No longer hating on my prudish ex-husband. No longer sexually repressed.
So very sexually repressed.
I crane my neck to the corner of the room where the third and last potential victim sits thrumming through a magazine. The fact that it’s Vogue, paired with his impeccably tailored suit, sends my gaydar pinging hard. Strike three.
After yet another sip of wine for courage, I cycle back to bachelor number one, the guy at the bar. He’s not my type, but what’s the harm in trying? Glass in hand, I leave my booth and approach him, praying to God I don’t trip in these heels. It’s the first time I’ve worn anything but neat, respectable flats in nearly a decade—yet another example of jumping headfirst into my new carefree life.
Forcing my lips into a friendly grin, I sidle up to my target. “Hello,” I purr huskily—or at least I try to. “I’m Tiff.”
He inclines his head toward me, and my eyelids flutter in shock. I’m so caught off guard; I nearly let my sexy rouse slip in favor of gaping at him.
He’s pretty. Freakishly so. An angelic nose anchors his delicately crafted features—like a masculine but beautiful doll. Pale skin conforms to his high cheekbones and strong jaw. Jesus almighty, I’ve never seen a sexier jaw. Eyes so dark I feel the need to strike a match take me in with little reaction, and my brain runs wild trying to decipher them. Is he bored? Surprised that I’ve approached him?
A half-empty glass of whiskey sits in front of him and nothing else—a testament to the brooding businessman stereotype.
Score.
“Gorgoshev,” he says in a voice so rich my tongue dampens, my throat contracting. He has an accent I can’t place. Russian, given the name? No. Something more musical. French? I’m too distracted to put much effort into narrowing it down as he extends his hand toward me.
And it’s as beautiful and slim as the rest of him. My nails look garish against his porcelain skin, and I’m ten times more self-conscious. Way to make a first impression. If he already doesn’t think I’m a dumb bimbo, I’m halfway there.
“Do…do you come here often?” I ask, flicking my hair over my shoulder. I must flick too hard because one of my hoop earrings smacks off my chin, and I nearly slip from my stool.
A cool hand catches my wrist before I can lose my balance completely, anchoring me in place.
“T-Thank you,” I stammer, smoothing my fingers over my skirt. He moved so fast. Already he’s back to nursing his whiskey as if he never budged at all. “I’ve probably had way too much wine.”
I groan internally. The fact that I acknowledge drinking at all is a sign I’ve definitely had too much wine. Surprisingly, Mr. Pretty doesn’t seem to mind my sloppiness.
My heart races the more I watch him, and I dare to hope this could be working. He’s handsome enough, and yes, he may be freakishly thin, but I can work with it. Jim—no, not thinking about him. My ex, has the body of a college linebacker five ye
ars beyond his prime, so I’m not picky.
Smiling wider, I try to engage the non-cheating, non-asshole person before me in conversation. Something smart, Tiff. “Is Gorgoshev your first or last name?” I wonder.
Kill me.
“Last,” he says, either oblivious to the stupidity of the question or he must get it a lot. “I’m not inclined to give out my first name to strangers.” A playful smirk shapes his mouth, softening the rejection hidden within his words. Touché.
“I’m Tiffany Connors,” I blurt. It could be the wine talking, but something about him makes me curious enough to extend the conversation, all embarrassment aside. “Age twenty-eight. I like long walks on the beach. I can assure you that I’m not a serial killer—”
“And I’m sure you carry quite the reputation in finance to commandeer a private booth in such an establishment,” he says over me.
I clam up as my cheeks catch fire. Smart man—too smart, it seems. “I…I…”
“Relax.” He cocks his head back and takes a small sip from his drink. “You’re the first woman under fifty to come in here alone—” He meets my gaze directly, and my heart lurches. “Pardon me for being curious.”
“Oh, yeah...” I flick my tongue along my lower lip, weighing the benefits of further engagement. He seems nice, but his lack of ogling my tits or trying to feel me up leaves me puzzled. Navigating the dating world beyond high school is a brand-new experience for me. Are we in good territory? Bad? Should I cut my losses and move on to an easier mark like the bald guy across the room?
Decisions. Decisions.
Jutting my chin, I decide on the spot to cut the bullshit and go for the balls. “Maybe I’m not a financier,” I confess, eyeing him through my lashes. “Maybe I’m interested in something a lot more fun than comparing business ventures. What do you say? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
A part of me cringes inside—the good, God-fearing part of me that wishes I was wearing a cute sweater instead of a dress that exploits by cleavage to hell and back. After two years, it’s still hard to shake the old girl.
