by Lana Sky
It sounds too damn good to be true.
It probably is.
I walk ten blocks before I finally fish his business card from my pocket and dial the number Lucius gave me. I don’t expect him to answer, but he does on the first ring. The only words to leave his mouth are, “If you have made your decision, Ms. Marconi, please supply the address where we might meet.”
I give him the next block I reach, and not even ten minutes later, a fancy black car pulls up to the curb in front of me. The weirdo driver climbs out and circles around to take my suitcase and toss it into the trunk. Lucius is already waiting for me in the back seat.
“Good evening,” he says. His hands are folded on his lap. He’s not wearing a suit tonight, but dark pants, a gray coat, a sweater and a matching scarf wrapped neatly around his throat. “Mr. Koslov most likely won’t be expecting you so soon. I can book a hotel room for you, in the meantime.”
I don’t know how to tell him that I already spent all the money he gave me. Instead, I dig the nails of one hand into the back of the other and wait while he pulls a cell phone from his pocket. He barely touches it before it starts to buzz.
“Lucius,” he says, bringing the phone to his ear. His eyes cut over to me. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” He hangs up and tucks the phone back into his pocket, a frown tugging at his mouth. “He said to bring you to him now.”
Lucius doesn’t explain how the hell Maxim could have known where I was. I don’t have the balls to ask. Roughly ten minutes later, the driver pulls up before the black high-rise and there isn’t time for fucking questions anyway.
“I will take you up.” Lucius steps out onto the curb and extends his hand for mine.
Everything passes by in a blur. One minute, I’m outside, staring up at a building I could never dream to live in. The next, I’m dragging a brand-new suitcase into the entryway of a penthouse suite.
Maxim isn’t here waiting, and I don’t hear any sound coming from the room with the stone and tools.
“It is customary that I give the women a small tour of the layout,” Lucius explains while adjusting the ends of his scarf. “This room is the main receiving area for guests.”
He starts down a hallway that leads into what looks like a living room—the disgustingly rich variety. There isn’t much furniture, but what little there is looks like it’s made of real black leather accented with red silk pillows. The glass end tables might be crystal. Exotic plants sit in the corners within huge marble pots.
Classy.
“Over here is the dining room.” He points a short distance down the hall.
It’s bigger than the living room, dominated by a long, ebony table and polished chairs. By the time he shows me to a kitchen and a study, I have a general gist of the color scheme and style Maxim prefers. Dark colors: blacks, reds, grays. There are no family photos hung on the walls or personal touches like the decapitated Barbies or Kool-Aid stains in my house.
Just quiet, clean perfection.
“And this will be your room,” Lucius explains as he opens one of the doors at the very end of the hall.
I can only stare as I follow him inside it. My room.
I’ve never had one. Not in all of those years living out of trailers with Melanie. She had already been working on her fourth kid when we moved into the house, and she took one of the only two bedrooms for herself.
My new room is large. There’s a bed in the center of it, draped in a black canopy. Beneath it, the sheets are white and the marble flooring of the rest of the house becomes ivory carpeting. In the corner of the room is one of those fancy vanities with a mirror framed in white. Two French doors on the opposite end open up to the closet, I guess.
“There is a schedule,” Lucius says while I brace my suitcase against the wall, “for how Maxim prefers his days to run. Since he doesn’t seem to be here, you may dress for dinner and wait for him.”
“D-dress?”
Lucius nods toward the closet. “The clothing is organized into three sections,” he says. “Day clothing is in the first section. Then evening wear. Last is night clothing. If you can’t find anything in your size, just make do with what you can and I’ll send for the tailor in the morning.”
He turns to leave, and I watch him go, too uneasy to voice the questions crawling up my throat. There are rooms he never showed me. I think it was on purpose. Maxim’s rooms.
I wind up creeping back into mine and closing the door. Inside the closet, I find it divided up just like Lucius said. It’s like three mini wardrobes shoved into one. In the first section, the clothing is lighter: pinks, whites, grays. Everything looks like a dress, made of lace. In the next one, the clothes are all black: longer dresses and a few crisp blouses and skirts. The last one just has flimsy nightgowns.
Rather than pick something for dinner, I grab a clean sweater out of my suitcase and a different pair of jeans. I sit on the bed for a while before I start pacing the middle of the room.
My room.
I can almost see the other women who’ve lived in it before me. Just imprints. Shadows. Someone who wore a medium. Another who wore an extra small. Someone who preferred heels. Another who liked flats.
It’s like a hotel for the desperate and pathetic. I find myself staring at the bed next, wondering how many people have slept in it. Fucked on it.
Without deciding on a number, I wander out into the hallway, retracing the path Lucius took. My footsteps echo—it’s that damn quiet in here. It’s that damn large. My house could fit in the living room alone with plenty of room left over for Maxim to entertain.
It’s nice, even on my second trip through, but I keep going until I reach the entryway, and then I continue past it until I’m surrounded by rows of sharp tools.
He finished the statue of the woman. She stares down at me, her arms reaching toward the ceiling, her hips flexed like she’s dancing. A few details are missing, like the curls in her hair or the lines of her stomach, but it already seems perfect. Even with the jagged crack slicing through it all.
I think it takes minutes before I gather up the nerve to step closer to it. It would be taller than me even if it weren’t on the pedestal. The dusky glow streaming in from the windows casts a bluish sheen over the stone. She almost looks alive. And if she were, I can imagine what she’d say: What the fuck are you doing?
“You were not given permission to enter this room, kotyonok.”
I shiver at the sound of his voice: equal parts rage and something that could be amusement. I hear him laugh, but the step he takes toward me sounds heavy. Deliberate.
“Come here.”
I turn around. He’s near the doorway, leaning against it, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing the same clothing he wore at the café: the black shirt and pants. Here, with very little lighting, the shadow makes his eyes seem darker. His body looms over mine, even taller than I remember.
“I must break you in.” It’s a promise as his hand cups my chin, tilting my head back to meet his gaze directly. His eyes narrow, scanning my face. “Did Lucius give you the tour?” he wonders before pulling away.
“Y-yes,” I choke out, digging my nails into my wrist. Sharp. Deep. “Yes, he did.”
Maxim’s eyes narrow further. “Then I assume that nothing in the wardrobe was in your size?”
Shit. I swallow hard, trying to keep the truth from showing. Learning from Melanie, I’ve turned lying into an art form. “I didn’t think so—”
“Come.” He turns on his heel and leads me to the room designated as mine.
I watch him approach the closet and throw both doors open. His fingers skim the clothing in the evening section and he pulls out a dress. Then another. Several more.
“Strip,” he tells me without turning around.
My teeth sink into my bottom lip as my hands start for the clasp of my pants.
“The sweater first,” Maxim says, and I change tack.
It’s cold in the room. I’m shaking as I wind the fabric
of my shirt up and over my head. Something tells me to take my bra off before he can even issue the command himself. Then I wait…
After another minute of searching through the clothes, he looks at me over his shoulder. His eyes perform a lazy sweep down my naked torso. He nods. “Continue.”
This time, he watches as I work on the stubborn zipper of my jeans. It takes me five tries to get the damn thing undone. Maxim starts toward me on the fourth yank and it springs open on the next try.
I slowly peel them down, not really knowing what he wants. A tease? No. His jaw is clenched, so I yank them down and kick them off my ankles. Once naked, I with my arms at my sides.
“Beautiful,” he grits out as his gaze settles between my legs. My inner thighs throb; he’s staring at the bruises. “Come.”
I start forward on cue, and once again, I know instinctively when to stop: just beyond his reach.
“Turn around, kotyonok.”
I do, feeling warm air fan the back of my neck seconds later.
“Raise your arms.”
The moment I comply, something soft and flimsy grazes them. A dress. It’s black, lacy, and loose-fitting. The V-shaped neckline plunges between my breasts—one of the few things I didn’t inherit from Melanie was her cleavage.
“You are thin,” he says near my ear. It doesn’t sound like a compliment. “I will have Lucius find you things that are more suitable.”
“Thank you,” I croak out. I don’t know what else to say. It’s not a gift. Something tells me that personal my style won’t matter a damn bit in what outfits I wear. He has a wardrobe already picked out; I’m no better than Ainsley’s Barbie dolls.
“Do not thank me,” Maxim says as if to drill that point home. His hand encircles my neck from behind, his thick fingers resting over my windpipe. “Never thank me.”
“O-okay—”
“And now,” he says over me, his fingers tightening their grip just enough to make it harder to speak. “Are you ready for your punishment?”
My blood runs cold. He’s flipped a switch again and another man has taken his place. One who speaks in grunts and grumbles rather than a suave tone. A man who digs his nails into my skin so hard that I flinch before he shoves me toward the bed. I lose my balance halfway and wind up on my knees. The carpet cushions the blow. At the same time, it turns pain into fire as momentum drags me forward.
“What did I do?” I can’t help the question. Not even the prissy, bitchy, whiny tone to it.
My guess is wandering his home without permission.
“You disobeyed me, didn’t you?”
His footsteps form a foreboding melody: light and soft. Steady. He’s taking his time, as if savoring the way I jump with every vibration running through the floor.
“Earlier today, in the café. Do you know how?”
It’s the world’s most dangerous version of a pop quiz. I always failed those in school, which is one of the many reasons why I dropped out. “I…”
“Think.” A tiny bit of skin on my shoulder is pinched. Hard.
“You t-told me to wait?”
“Yes,” he says. “And for how long?”
“T-ten minutes—”
“And how long did you wait, kotyonok?”
I swallow hard as the answer sticks in my throat. “Fifteen.”
“Fifteen,” he says. His fingers run through my hair again, smoothing the back of it flat. “Five minutes too late. When I give you a command, I expect you to obey.” He rakes his fingers against my scalp and turns them into a fist. “Do you understand?”
My eyes start burning, blinking back moisture. “Yes! I understand.”
“Good.” His hand withdraws. “Your first punishment will be simple. Get on the bed.”
My pussy starts to ache. It’s still sore. His voice in my ear reminds me of his cock. Thick. Big. Too damn much.
“Now.” He doesn’t touch me, even as the slight way he raises his voice hits me like a slap.
I jerk forward on my hands and knees and crawl onto the bed. The comforter is soft beneath me. Softer than anything I’ve ever felt. In a sick way, it’s the polar opposite of the pain I feel on my ass a second later. Sharp. Piercing.
I gasp out, craning my neck back to see the source. Something shiny glints through the air, held in Maxim’s fist. It’s small. Silver.
The knife.
“On your stomach.” His thumb traces the blade, smearing something red all over the surface. “That was number one.”
Number two hits my left shoulder above the collar of my dress. It’s deep enough to bleed. Deep enough to sting.
I go limp, throwing my arms out beside me, my gaze on the wall.
He takes his time with number three: a long, curved cut along my hip and blood dribbles down after each brutal slice. My heart pounds. Stops. Starts up again. Surges. Stammers. Dies.
“I don’t hear you keeping count.” His voice is thunder again. I feel it rather than hear it, ripping through my spine.
“F-four,” I rasp as the blade bites in again, on my other hip this time. He is more daring than I ever would be, slicing in without care.
“What’s next, kotyonok?” His voice sounds deeper. Jagged. “What next?”
I suck in air the moment I feel the start of the next cut. The tip of the knife sinks in.
Oh god.
My bottom lip trembles when he starts to saw. In and out. Over. Over.
“Kotyonok—”
“F-five.” I can’t stop my eyes from welling up as warmth drips down my arm.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” Maxim tells me, running his fingers through my hair, tugging them loose whenever they get caught in the tangles. “I will fuck you hard. If you get so much as a drop of blood on the sheets…” His fingers cup my hips, yanking my ass higher until I’m on my knees, face down. “You will be punished. Do you understand?”
I nod into the mattress while his fingers trace a path down the back of my neck, my spine, the curve of my ass. He travels all the way down to my pussy, grazing his nail along my rim. I hear the zipper to his jeans come undone. I feel the bed shift beneath his weight. His hands fan out over my hips, positioning me toward him before I can crawl away.
“You’re bleeding,” he reminds me. Don’t disobey.
The cut on my arm is leaking the most. I twist it, feeling the blood run down toward the crook of my elbow instead. The one on my hip is at a tricky angle. I have to tilt my hips slightly so keep the blood from dripping off. I can feel every tiny, warm bead bubbling up, streaking my skin.
And then the bed jerks forward and I only feel Maxim. Inside me. On top of me. I bite down onto the comforter, choking myself with a mouthful of fabric. I won’t scream. Won’t cry.
But he’s so damn big. My body doesn’t know what to do with his size. It clamps down tight. Whenever he moves, I feel it in my stomach. My skull. He’s pulsing inside me. Pushing through me. Hot. Heavy. Solid.
Fuck.
He pulls out slowly and my body attempts to follow, my ass arching toward his hips to slow the friction and lessen the pain. I have to rise onto my elbows, letting the blanket fall from my mouth in a trail of drool. The blood. I twist my arm even more. My heart beats faster. The blood flows harder.
“You are tight, kotyonok,” he tells me, gritting the words out against my skull. “But not out of fear.”
How he knows as much? I can’t focus enough to care. Again, he doesn’t sound happy about it. Just annoyed. Irritated. I’m too tight. He has to ram his way back in.
Holy fuck. His weight throws me forward. The top of my head smacks off something hard, and I have to choose between being silent or tracking five different streams of blood.
Something gives and I cry out. And then he moves again and I learn an entirely new way to scream: in hoarse whispers and squeaks.
“Not a single drop,” Maxim warns somewhere during his fourth thrust.
I squeeze my eyes shut and stop resisting. I let him fuck me and tune i
nto every inch of my skin. I feel it all. The parts where it’s gaping and open. Where it’s slick with warmth. The pain is a constant buzz running through my veins. Boiling over in places. Ice cool in others.
I have to move: flexing my thigh or clenching my arm to keep the blood from flowing. But sometimes tensing up so that I feel every ridge of the body slamming into mine. It’s white-hot agony. One taste of it and my thoughts go crystal fucking clear.
Then numb again.
Clear.
Numb.
Clear, clear, fucking clear. There’s one position where I feel him the most. Where he slams into me so hard that I just see white each time. I taste his violence in my throat. In my blood.
And then I don’t feel anything…
And I feel everything.
Oh God.
My muscles clench up. Tighten. Clamp down over his cock in ways I don’t tell them to. I don’t want them to. I gag on my own screams. It’s too much. Too raw. Too hard.
The only way to save myself is to throw myself against him until I don’t feel anything. No pain. No fear. Just clarity washing over me like a goddamn storm, ripping me open and tearing me apart.
I need it.
I crave it.
I’d sell my fucking soul to make it last.
But it doesn’t.
I crash back to Earth and find an animal fucking me mercilessly hard, growling words into my skin with every thrust. They sound angry.
“You bitch.” The world shatters into pieces when he pulls out of me and flips me over. I land on my back, blinking up at a devil crouched beneath a canopy of shadow. His eyes flash, his jaw clenched. “Do you think you can get inside my head, huh?” He grabs me by the throat and drags me closer, nudging my thighs apart with his knee. His fingers tighten, lifting my head just far enough so that I have a view of him entering me. The way he slams in. The mess he makes.
Fuck. My eyes roll back into my head—it hurts that much. It’s consuming. Swallowing.
It feels.
It feels…
