Surrender

by Lana Sky

  Maxim wasn’t lying about his ability to purchase a home within days. All Jonathan seems to require from me is simple confirmation. Afterward, he devolves into a flurry of phone calls and shuffling paperwork. Before seeing me off, he presses a folder into my hands. “Oh, Mr. Koslov requested I give you this once you’d settled on a property. Tomorrow, I’ll connect you with an interior designer to get the furnishing process underway.”

  My heart pounds ominously as I tuck the folder beneath my arm and enter a car driven by Tomas. It isn’t until we’re nearly in the city that I finally gather the nerve to open the folder and observe the documents within.

  I scan the first line, expecting an explicit, detailed list of sex toys. Instead, I find a series of names with a sentence or two scribbled beside them, denoting that particular person’s requests. All of it is written in Maxim’s handwriting, with curt phrases implying that he personally interviewed every member listed.

  Ainsley – Pink walls. A playroom. A pony. Please, a pony? I don’t need a room, just that!

  Daisy – My own space. Seriously. MINE. Please. Yellow. A deck to tan.

  Mikie – Blue. An arcade. (he’s rich enough, right?) A boat.

  Ollie – Bunk bed. A pinball machine. A skateboard ramp.

  Ray – A video game room. A bed shaped like a pirate ship.

  Eric – A room made of LEGO.

  Tears well within my eyes and spill out before I can blink them back. They distort the ink on the page, making the words blur and run together. At the very end of the list, its author made sure to denote—I will attend to my own personal requirements in time.

  He could do this for me, while having the confidence to claim that nothing I could offer him would ever be enough to make him bend where it really matters. His psyche. His security. His peace.

  That wall will always remain between us—literally. Only in some dark room, deep in the night, can he ever face the trauma shaping him. And he will always choose to face it alone.

  “Are you alright, Miss?” Tomas wonders from the driver’s seat. Alarm deepens his tone as he reaches for his pocket, presumably for a cell phone. “Did you change your mind about the house? If you are not satisfied, I’m sure Mr. Koslov will—”

  “No,” I croak, waving him off. “I’m fine. It’s just…”

  I look down, surprised to find my fingers interlaced, the nails digging in. I’d been pinching myself without realizing it. I’ve already broken the skin—a bead of blood bubbles from the tiny wound, and my eyes fixate on the color.

  Red. That fucking hue dominates my life now, a reminder of the violence that comes with Maxim Koslov. The insanity. The death. The rage.

  If I ever did marry him, there is no way in hell I could ever wear white. Just this goddamn color that’s come to drench our lives.

  Red.

  “Ms. Marconi?” Tomas inquires, sounding more alarmed.

  “I want you to take me somewhere,” I say, wiping at my eyes with the sleeve of my coat. “I don’t want you to ask for Maxim’s permission either. I don’t want him to know where I am. If you don’t know the address, Lucius will—”

  “Do you understand what you are asking?” Tomas wonders, his voice soft.

  I’m asking for him to risk pissing off an employer who isn’t like any other. But I’m learning that it takes more than desperation to win a game. It requires a reckless willingness to gamble.

  Everything.

  “Please,” I insist. “I need to do this alone.”

  “Miss…” I can visibly see him wrestle with the dilemma of informing Maxim or deferring to me. The second directive, must outweigh the first. At least in this instance.

  “As you wish,” he concedes with a sigh. “Though if you are in any danger, I will be forced to inform Mr. Koslov immediately. And I will only be able to maintain silence for a few hours, at the most. You understand.”

  “I won’t be in any danger,” I admit. “Though I’m afraid that you’ll probably be incredibly bored.”

  Not for the first time, I face my reflection and barely recognize the woman staring back. Yards of silken fabric spill from her slender body, conveying a cruel, twisted imitation of the perfect, beautiful creation most girls spend their entire lives envisioning.

  In my case, the concept is more abstract than that of a beautiful gown fit for a princess, or a symbolic representation of what should be the best day of my life.

  This dress is a promise, conveyed in glaring, contrasting shades of white and bloody red.

  This is the life I’m willing to sign up for. The trade, I’m finally able to make—a harmony of violence and security. Death and life. Blood and the purity left behind once it’s all washed away.

  Looking at myself now, I realize that this is the only gown befitting of someone insane enough to marry Maxim Koslov.

  “I must admit the overall effect is stunning,” the designer exclaims as she races around me, pinning various pieces of fabric in place. “I do adore the original, more traditional concept. But traditions were made to be…adapted.” She adjusts the scarlet bodice that hugs my torso before flaring out into a wide, billowing skirt. The base is every bit the beautiful dress Maxim first envisioned. But as the viewer’s eye rises, swaths of scarlet intermingle with the ivory, consuming the gown entirely by the level of my chest.

  I don’t look wide-eyed and innocent in this design. I look like I’m bleeding from my heart, drenched in the color I’ve come to dread. In some ways, it’s beautiful. In others, it’s fucking terrifying.

  But I’m tired of hiding from it.

  “I can finish the alterations in a few days,” the designer says while continuing to make more adjustments. “I think the color is lovely, but if you wanted to add a deeper red here—” She breaks off, gasping as a monstrous thud resonates from the entrance of the boutique—the door slamming hard enough to rattle the fragile glass.

  His expression like thunder, the culprit storms in, his dark eyes flashing as they find me. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he growls, brandishing a clenched fist at Tomas, who stands alert beside a rack of clothing. “You order my men to hide you from me? I had to have fucking Lucius—” He breaks off as he finally takes in my appearance. “I…”

  His mouth opens and closes wordlessly. Then he blinks and rakes a trembling hand through his hair. In the end, all he seems capable of doing is staring. His gaze traces the contours of my dress, tracking the blend of color and the bold shape. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking from here.

  Rather than dwell on it, I face him with my head held high, my shoulders back. “How is this for a trade?”

  He swallows hard, his throat rasping until he finally manages to spit out a handful of words. “I…I’ll be in the car.”

  He turns and leaves the boutique, decidedly quieter than the way he entered.

  It’s nearly an hour before the seamstress manages to carefully dissect the gown, preserving the construction.

  When I finally join Maxim out front, he’s in the driver’s seat and doesn’t say a word as I claim the space beside him. He doesn’t even look at me, turning his full attention to the road. Rather than the penthouse, I’m surprised when we arrive before Club XXX minutes later, just as night is beginning to fall.

  Maxim climbs out and marches inside almost too quickly for me to keep up. Before I can fall behind, he grabs my wrist, dragging me down the hall to his secluded room in the back.

  After stumbling over the threshold, he shoves me against the wall. The cold surface braces me as his bulk crushes me from the front.

  “Fuck,” he breathes, as his fingers bunch up my skirt and find the wetness already slicking my inner thighs underneath. He wastes no time, testing me with the width of his thumb.

  When he flicks his wrist, nothing is preventing him from going deeper on the second explorative touch. Further than he meant to, judging from his raspy grunt. His free hand crawls up my spine, cinching my neck, forcing me to meet his gaze.
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  “Say it,” he growls, grinding his pelvis against my hips. “You’ll marry me?”

  I suck in air through my teeth and release it in a single word. “Yes…”

  “In that dress.” He lowers his mouth to my throat, inhaling me. “You will wear my ring?”

  My eyelids flutter at the intensity of his voice. “Y-Yes.”

  “And you’ll take my name, even if it means nothing?”

  “Yes.”

  He groans, cursing under his breath. “You truly were made for me.” A crime in his book—and my punishment comes swiftly—his lips dominating mine, nipping teeth giving way for a tongue that batters me open and overtakes any resistance I may have felt. With the club full, someone might be able to hear us, even from here.

  And when he finally wrenches up the skirt of my dress and plunges inside of me, anyone within a goddamn ten-mile radius probably hears me.

  Hears him. His guttural roars echo every mewling cry to spill from my throat. Together, the sounds meld into a blistering crescendo—the only thing I can hear as my world comes apart.

  I come clinging to him with all I have, my limbs shaking and ghosted with sweat. “Holy…fuck,” I breath out against his skin.

  “I’m going to fuck you in that dress,” he swears as his hands cup my ass, lifting me into his arms. With staggering steps, he brings me to the bed and climbs onto the mattress, pinning me beneath him. “Mark you in it,” he adds, describing more of his X-rated wedding day. “Take pieces of the silk. Make a whip. I’ll use it on your pretty skin until all of you is painted red…” His voice shakes with need, and he hardens against my thigh, rousing an answering twitch in my belly. “And the ring,” he adds, sliding his hand down my trembling stomach to the space between my legs. I’m forced to buck my hips into him further, relishing the sinful contact. “The things I will do to you with that ring.” He swipes the pad of a finger over my entrance, swirling the moisture already there. “But that is nothing compared to your name.” He chuckles deeply, and my breathing hitches at the foreboding sound. “I’ll train your sweet ass to react to it,” he tells me, nuzzling his open mouth against my shoulder. Without warning, he bites down. Once. Twice. I’m too tired to scream. I just moan, weakly clutching his arms. “I’ll make you come every time I fucking say it. Francesca…”

  He bites off the rest and groans again, sounding pained. Starving. Mad. “I will be the only man who can call you his.” His hand sinks into my hair, and he uses a chunk of it as a leash to draw me into him, letting our mouths meet. He isn’t content with claiming just my lips. His mouth travels across my jaw and finds my ear as he shifts his hips against mine, drawing his erection between my legs. “And how I will own you.”

  “Own?” I counter, finding my voice again. “I thought this was a trade?”

  “Trade… Yes.” He nuzzles my throat as if addicted to the taste of me. I doubt he’s actually processed what I’ve said. He finds my nipple and captures it between his teeth through my dress, making my back arch off the mattress.

  “A t-trade,” I insist, sinking my fingers through his hair. I stroke through the damp strands until he finally faces me again. “Do you accept my terms?”

  Rather than annoyed, his eyes glow, heavy-lidded with lust. A low hum revs in his throat, deepening the more I touch him. Could this be victory?

  “My kitten,” he grates, sounding pained. “She drives a hard bargain. Regardless, I accept the terms, but can you accept mine?”

  He gives me a taste, entering me again. I’m sore and breathless from the first time—but my body gives me no say. It yields to him, dragging him deep. So deep that I forget what it feels like to ever go without him.

  In the aftermath, he holds me tight, crushing my body to his chest. His hands stroke through my hair as if memorizing every strand.

  “I want you in my dress,” he admits. “My ring. You’ve made a tempting offer. So I’ll take it. And in return…you get to play your dangerous little game.”

  “Dima?” I say, dread thickening my throat.

  “Is that what you truly want?” His skeptical tone resonates cold in the wake of his lust—but his fingers absently stroke my hips, countering any real anger.

  “I want to help you,” I reply. “I wasn’t lying when I asked you for a partnership.” I press myself against him, sensing how his body relents to me as if in defiance of his stubborn frown. “I want your trust.”

  He grunts and parts his lips over my shoulder as if a mouthful of my flesh is the only thing worthy of silencing him. A jolt runs through me as he bites down, conveying his agreement.

  He’ll let me talk to Dima.

  But as he rolls over and drags me to his side, I can’t resist wondering who got the better bargain out of this trade.

  Chapter Eighteen

  After we dress, Maxim makes a single phone call. To Milton, I presume. Their conversation passes quickly, surprisingly devoid of a shouted argument.

  “It will happen here,” Maxim announces once he hangs up. “Soon. Before I come to my senses and change my fucking mind. Come.” He takes my hand, and we return to the main club, finding it empty.

  In our absence, someone rearranged the furniture, leaving a single table in the center of the room, set with two chairs.

  “He has an hour,” Maxim warns as he leads me to one of the chairs and holds it out for me. “One fucking hour. He can’t touch you. And I have my men watching…” He hesitates, as if he wants to say more. Demand I reconsider, maybe? In the end, he retreats, presumably returning to his private room. “I won’t be far,” he calls back to me. “Him, I do not trust. But you? I trust that you can handle him. And I trust that if you feel that you cannot, you will call for me…”

  I shiver beneath the weight of his newfound confidence. Do I deserve it? I won’t know for sure until the time comes when I’ll have to pull the trigger in this ultimate game of roulette.

  It isn’t long before I sense the entire atmosphere in the building shift with the arrival of my opponent. Dima. For him to arrive so quickly...I can’t escape the feeling that he knew well in advance this moment would come. Maybe not the exact time or day—but with enough certainty to stick around closely, awaiting Maxim’s summons.

  Oozing confidence, he strolls into the club dressed in a gray sweatshirt, with a red beanie crushing his curls to his skull. When he spots me, he flashes a grin, wiggling his fingers.

  “I’m impressed,” he exclaims, taking the chair across from me. “Very impressed. I’d assumed it would be at least a few months before Maxim would break down enough to humor my little request.”

  I fight to keep control of my expression. Do I smile and aim for politeness? Or do I copy Maxim’s inherent hostility?

  I mull over both options only to settle on neither. Something warns me Dima would see through the act either way.

  So all I do is ask, “You were willing to wait that long just to talk to me?”

  He smiles. “Oh, no. By then, Anatoli would have already beaten his favorite boy back into submission. I would be speaking to you through the iron bars of your cage after the old man tired of you and Maxim had already moved on to another pretty fool.”

  A shiver runs through me, constricting my throat. So much for uncertainty as to how to treat him—I’m starting to agree with Maxim. This is pointless, humoring a psychopath whose main goal only seems to be sowing chaos.

  But I’m the idiot who decided to play the game. All I can do is see this round through to the end.

  “So, what do you want?” I ask, making my tone as neutral as I can.

  “Let’s not waste time discussing such boring matters!” He snaps his fingers, beckoning a waitress who appears from nowhere with a bottle of wine. Her hand shakes as she sets two glasses onto the table and fills them to the brim. I try to meet her gaze, but she avoids me and scurries back down the hall the second Dima dismisses her. I watch her go—she isn’t heading toward where I assume the kitchen to be.

  Will she rep
ort to Maxim that I’m unscathed so far?

  “Ah, dear Maxim has supplied us with the absolute best,” Dima exclaims, drawing my attention back to him. He lifts a glass and hands it to me.

  “Thank you,” I say while setting it aside without taking a sip. “So why did you want to talk to me?”

  “This is a marvelous establishment,” Dima admits, eyeing our surroundings with an approving nod. “Such a unique atmosphere.”

  One he obviously doesn’t feel comfortable within. It’s warm enough inside that I feel fine, even in my short-sleeved dress. He, on the other hand, seems to sink into his sweatshirt, and a slight tremor in his jaw draws my notice. He’s shivering.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Just cold,” he says offhandedly. “Nothing abnormal. I am always cold. My therapist tells me that it’s partly psychosomatic. All in my head,” he explains, tapping his skull with his finger. “Mostly, it is due to medical reasons. Alas, you could stick me in the middle of a raging inferno, and it would never be warm enough. Anyway, as for why I am here?” He shrugs and shifts to face me directly. “I must admit you fascinate me.”

  “Why?” I counter, unnerved by the way his eyes flicker across my face as if missing nothing. Not my unease. Not a single fucking pimple.

  He chuckles, eyeing his own glass. “You think you’re special to him, don’t you? You think you’re the only woman to tempt him. The only woman to soften him. The only one…” He lifts his gaze to mine. “And you would be right. He’s been through women the way most men change out socks. Rarely the same one twice. None of them have lived with him. None of them have desired to. But have you stopped to ask yourself why?”

  “No,” I lie. “But why does it matter to you?”

  “Why?” His eyes widen in disbelief. “Maybe it’s because Maxim doesn’t love. He’s incapable of it, as am I. We are similar in this, you see—and I came to that realization years ago. Living within that family has damaged us both. Even Milton, to an extent. While they may have forgotten that, alas, it can’t be helped.” He shakes his head, sending his curls bouncing beneath the rim of his beanie. His smile doesn’t disguise the glimmer of darkness lurking beneath the cheerful expression. He’s angry. They have forgotten…