by Lana Sky
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?”
“You,” I whisper against his skin, curling myself against him. I take one of his hands and thread our fingers together. “This is you. You don’t have to suppress your past with me.”
“I don’t?” He laughs, but the sound trickles from him as a sigh more than anything. I look up to find him observing our clasped hands. “Dima is a different breed of monster from me, but he is right. You will never be safe in my world. Trying to convince you otherwise was a lie—”
“I like your world,” I interject, my voice small. “Not your grandfather’s fucked-up empire, or the twisted games, or the lies. Your world. A beach house with rules we decided on. Lazy days and vanilla sex, with kink at night. That world.”
His expression shifts, and I choke out a startled laugh. He looks comically skeptical, an eyebrow raised. “I will have to fight to give you that world.”
“I know. Which is why you need to let me help you.” I weigh the danger of pushing him too far. But hell, that’s the only game to play with him. Reckless, Russian Roulette. “If it will make a difference like Milton said, then let me talk to Dima—”
He makes a low sound in his throat. “I will grant you anything… But I will pretend you didn’t request that.”
“You need his help,” I say, parroting Milton’s insistence. “I don’t want to come between you and your friend. And…” A part of me shies from voicing more, but I don’t have a choice. It’s the truth. “If he hurts me, I know you’ll kill him.”
“And if he toys with your head?” he counters, tightening his grip on my hand. “Plants devious, vicious lies? He is a snake.”
“That’s why you need to trust me. Like I trust you.”
Trust. The line of his mouth softens at the sound of that word, but in the same damn breath, his nostrils flare. “No—”
“Maybe I can help you find the truth?” I suggest, trying a different line of attack. “Learn what he really wants? It’s been bothering you, don’t tell me it hasn’t.”
“The truth is, he wants to destroy what I have. He couldn’t take the Koslov name, so he’ll take you from me.”
“And I won’t let him.”
His brows furrow as if the idea of my free will never factored into his thinking.
“You gave me a choice before,” I add, recalling how he questioned me in front of Milton and Dima. “Or was that for show?”
Sighing, he repositions me so that I straddle him. It’s a devious ploy only a true game master would enact to regain control. His hands feel huge against my hips, cradling me with a gentleness he rarely utilizes. Our foreheads meet, and his teeth tease my lower lip, dissolving my will to argue with every sensual nip.
“I trust you,” he confesses as my thoughts start to scatter. “My kitten who can be so affectionate when she chooses, sucking me off for all of the world to see. And ice cold the next, lashing out with her claws. But I will never trust Dima.”
Thinking fast, I slip my tongue between his lips, stealing his taste. He groans in shock, his nails grazing my flesh. As the upper hand shifts in my favor, I’m bold enough to propose, “What if we trade?”
A frown tugs on his mouth—he’s suspicious. “I am curious as to why you are so determined in this instance. Vadim seems to catch your interest more than marrying me.”
“I want to help you,” I confess, brushing off the uncharacteristic note in his voice. Jealousy? In silent reassurance, I press my lips against his skin over and over. With each affectionate kiss, his breathing quickens, and the balance of power teeters again in my direction. “I only want to help you.”
Can he really not see the toll this is taking on him? Though hell, he doesn’t even seem to feel the wound on his arm. I swipe my thumb near it in sympathy. A normal man would be rushing to the emergency room, demanding stitches.
“You think I need helping?” he wonders.
“Maybe we both do? I want a future with you.” I sound so damn tired, and I am. This is my last-ditch ploy to win this round—and not for Dima’s sake or anyone else’s but my own. And his. For him, I have no shame in resorting to selfish begging. Maybe later, I’ll let myself examine what that might mean.
“I do,” I repeat against his collar bone, cutting my brain off to any thoughts but this. “I’m willing to fight you for it, and if I’m wrong. I’m wrong. We’ve been through worse. So what do you say? At least consider a trade?”
“I will think about this.” His lips find mine before I can argue, silencing me with a kiss so deep my head reels when he pulls away. Robbing me of any chance to recover, he rocks beneath me, settling between my legs. Before I can even steel myself, he’s thrusting in deep, groaning at the feel.
“In the meantime, we will trade in this way,” he grates through gritted teeth.
A thrust for a thrust. Pleasure for pleasure. A kiss for a kiss. All of it is currency we’re both squirreling away for leverage later.
So is the way of the game.
Chapter Sixteen
Hell doesn’t contain an ounce of fire. It’s just so fucking cold. Wet. There’s red everywhere. Painting the walls, sloshing over the floor, flooding the air with the scent of salt.
It’s blood.
Screaming, I try to swim as the level rises higher by the second—an ocean of violence, washing me away.
And I’m drowning in it…
“It’s alright,” a heavy voice drips into my ear, persistent over my cries. Patiently, the owner coaxes me back to a reality of silken sheets and a darkened room. “You’re safe. Wake up. Look at me, Francesca.”
For a twisted, painful few seconds, all I can do is struggle to breathe as I take stock of my limbs. I’m drenched—but the liquid isn’t blood, just sweat. I’m not in hell either. A nearby window displays a view of Fair Haven bathed in darkness, illuminated with accents of neon.
“You were dreaming,” Maxim murmurs, brushing his lips over my forehead with a rare gentleness. He’s beside me, his heat like an anchor, giving me strength against the tidal wave of fear threatening to swamp my thoughts. All those memories…
It’s getting harder to ignore them. Harder to keep them at bay.
I saw yet another man die in front of me. More than one.
Sooner or later, I’ll have to face that fully. I can’t hide from the horror forever.
“Sleep,” Maxim insists as if reading my mind. He eases his fingers into my hair, parting the sweat-soaked strands. “What happened changes nothing. You’ll meet with the realtor in the morning—”
“What if your family tries to attack you again?” I’m shaking at the thought of it, and more terrifying worries sneak into my brain. The constant danger. The crippling paranoia. It will always be like this with him. Always. “What if—”
“I will ensure you have a team of security on you at all times,” he says, raising his voice to gently overpower mine. He sounds different, though I can’t name how. Exhausted? As if what happened in the tub drained parts of him away. His cold baritone resonates warmer than usual as a result, and it sinks into my bones, easing my fear. “As you said, I do not spook easily,” he adds. “So sleep. If you trust me as you claimed to, then trust me now. No one will ever harm you again.” His eyes scan my face intently, hunting for any sign of dou
bt. When I finally start to drift off, he sighs, relieved. “I’m here…”
He’s gone before I wake up. The mass of sheets twisted around my body reveals that he didn’t lay beside me for very long. Just enough to soothe me back to sleep before rising again. Then I suspect he paced until dawn before the windows, mulling over the prospect of his kingdom in peril.
A gray dawn bathes said kingdom, and the room itself, in a soft, neutral glow now. It’s such a jarring contrast to the chaos of last night, but I know better than to enjoy it for very long. Instead, I rise from the bed and stretch to wake up my sore limbs. After grabbing a clean dress from the closet, I shower alone and leave the bedroom to find a plate of lukewarm food waiting for me on the dining room table, along with a note.
I will be gone until tonight. The realtor has a list of my preferences. I insist upon them all. — Maxim.
My lips twitch as I fold the note and set it aside. I don’t know whether to laugh at the rare attempt at a joke on his part, or…
Shiver. I suspect his “preferences” go far beyond a request for a particular architecture style or double sinks. The more I stress over what he could want, the more I start to second guess going out alone at all.
But intuition warns against the panic. Trust goes both ways. If I want him to include me in his life, I can’t attach myself to him forever. I can’t always kneel in his shadow.
I need to make a place for myself and determine my own rules as to what I’ll allow within it.
So I eat, and when the realtor comes, I’m ready. Hours later, we’ve explored every fucking mansion within a twenty-mile radius, and some of my previous confidence starts to wane.
Who knew that a “family home” was a foreign concept in this city? Sure, there are plenty of spacious mansions like the few Maxim’s shoved my family into before. They look beautiful, with plenty of space and “curb appeal,” according to the realtor.
But none of them seem…real. Stable. Like a home, not that I’m a fucking expert on those. Even with money being no obstacle, I can’t bring myself to sign off on any of the sprawling, lifeless structures I tour with Jonathan, an Italian man who peppers nearly every sentence with architectural terms.
“As you can see, this atrium will provide your family maximum privacy while allowing in some sunlight and the allusion of the outdoors.” He beams at the plastic-looking trees and flowers cramped within the narrow space in the center of the last home on the list.
Suffice to say, it’s a no.
I’m exhausted when I finally return to the suite. I’ve spent my entire life in the slums, and yet a day touring fancy homes worth millions has somehow left me feeling filthier than I ever did in Horn Hill. Disgusted, I strip my clothing right at the door and head straight for the bathroom. When I finally emerge from the shower wearing a robe, I discover that someone is already in the bedroom, ripping a suit from his muscular limbs.
“You found nothing,” he says without looking in my direction. Am I surprised that he’s kept tabs on my progress?
Maybe not.
“No.” I awkwardly fiddle with the strings of my robe as he continues to strip, tugging at his shirt next. “Nothing really stood out to me…”
“It’s a house,” he points out gruffly. “What needs to stand out?”
I bite my lower lip. He has a point. What does a house need?
“Safety?” I ask, thinking out loud. “Someplace that Ainsley can play in, and Daisy can sulk, and Mikie can have his own room for once. A home.”
“Hmph.” He pauses, his shirt still clenched in his fist as if the concept is as foreign to him as it is to me. Then he snatches a clean one from a hanger and wrenches it on over his head. “I’ve added more men to the team on you. Lucius is still with your siblings, but I will need time to ensure the security of the new home before they can return. As long as it’s secure, I’m sure any place will suffice rather than have their return delayed.”
Which makes his week deadline more pressing than ever.
“Are you leaving?” I wonder as he swiftly buttons his shirt and straightens the collar.
“Yes. I’ve been busy strengthening my security overall,” he adds while stripping his pants in exchange for a fresh pair. “Restructuring my assets. Letting Danil confront me at all was a mistake on Anatoli’s part.” His grim expression reinforces the guttural edge to his voice. “A mistake he will not make again.”
Once fully dressed, he marches to the doorway. Only then does he seem to remember my presence enough to add, “I won’t be back tonight. Tomas can bring you dinner—”
“Wait.” I reach out, brushing my hand over his shoulder. He falters, but doesn’t fully stop, rocking back and forth on his heels with barely suppressed impatience. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” Without warning, he captures my chin, kissing me hard with an intensity that leaves me clinging to him. Up this close, I can sense the unease bubbling beneath the surface of the stern façade he’s crafted beneath the fresh suit and aloof gaze. His lips linger over mine until he finally pulls back.
“I’ve made up my mind,” he says, his voice cold. Final. “I won’t let you near Dima. There is nothing worth trading for that risk. Nothing.”
I watch him go in a daze, too stunned to argue.
At least he was honest. The man can offer me the world, but there is nothing I possess he deems worth having. Nothing apart from complete possession.
Even the prospect of us living together doesn’t seem to appeal to him beyond the surface practicality of it. What he said won’t stop taunting me, echoing in my brain on repeat. “What needs to stand out? It’s a house.”
Maybe he’s right.
Or maybe…he is capable of viewing it from just one angle. It’s not the house itself that matters but what it symbolizes. This cold, isolated penthouse reflects the many aspects of him he’s clung to. What’s helped him survive in his world for so long. Few personal belongings. A bed he rarely sleeps in. Furniture picked solely for its functionality.
Lucius had a point, but I think I misinterpreted his original warning. You can free the wolf from its captivity, but if all it knows are iron bars, the forest doesn’t seem like home anymore.
But no real family can survive within the confines of a cage.
The only way to bridge the gap is to find a compromise. Learn what bait might tempt a wolf…
Enough for him to forget he was ever a prisoner at all.
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning, I wake up to the realtor, Jonathan, knocking on the door of the suite. When I open the door, hastily dressed, I find him flanked by two armed members of my expanded security detail. One is Tomas, who nods stiffly in greeting.
“Mr. Koslov strongly suggested we close on a property soon,” Jonathan says while tugging nervously at his purple tie with one hand and juggling a briefcase in the other. Crossing to a—newly replaced—end table, he fishes a stack of documents from his bag and shuffles through them. “I believe you’ll love a series of homes in the exclusive Knight Heights district—”
“I think I want to look at some places near the water,” I suggest, cutting him off.
It’s the one feature that separates Fair Haven from most other shitholes in the country—a bay on the outskirts, which serves as both a focal point for what little tourism there is, as well as the main reason why it’s such a hotbed for crime in the first place.
We’re open to the world in a way that leaves it ripe for the taking by men like Maxim.
Jonathan’s brows furrow. “The bay? An interesting choice.” His skeptical tone betrays his true thoughts on that front. “I will admit that location holds a more rustic charm. You won’t come anywhere near to the elegance of say, this property here—” He gestures around us, referring to the penthouse. “Though, I suppose you could always renovate…”
On that optimistic note, we take a car staffed by one of Maxim’s drivers. Within an hour, we’re pulling up to the first property to fit my pre
ferences. My initial impression is that Jonathan was right. These homes are nothing like the highly modern mansions we toured in and around the city. They look older, like something you’d see in one of those small-town dramas. Still huge and impressive, but in a less obvious way.
The place a mob boss might live, only when retired or under witness protection.
The one we approach now is sprawling, made of sturdy brown wood, and supported by stone accents. Positioned on a hill, it overlooks a quiet, semi-private section of the bay, complete with a rocky beach and a wooden dock.
Inside, the mixture of stone and wooden architecture continue, creating an open, simple layout centered around three large windows overlooking the water.
“There are ten bedrooms in total,” Jonathan remarks. “Plenty of acreage if you’re into outdoor activities, and there is a pool in addition to a private section of the waterfront. Basic amenities, but they possess a certain charm, I suppose.”
I crane my neck back to take in the high, vaulted ceilings above a living room dominated by a stone fireplace. The beautiful, “rustic” design will amplify every single sound the kids make. When Ainsley and Eric fight, it will resonate with the intensity of an army skirmish. Daisy’s whining will echo times a million during one of her rants.
And Maxim’s voice alone will have no trouble filling the space, reaching every inch of it.
“Ms. Marconi?” Jonathan wonders, an eyebrow raised. “Are you ready to move on?”
“No.” I sigh, turning my attention to the view of the water beyond the windows. It’s no tropical paradise, that’s for damn sure. Shitty Fair Haven can’t compare to endless blue waters. But in some ways…
This is so much better.
Turning to Jonathan, I square my chin. “I’ll take it.”
