by Lana Sky
“Yes, she knows, all right.” There’s an underlying meaning to the man’s words when he faces Maxim again. The fingers of his left hand fiddle with something on the middle finger of the right: a gleaming bit of metal. A ring? He turns away before I can make it out clearly. “I’ll leave you to your fun. I would say try not to make too much of a mess, but I beat you to it already.” With the eerie grace of a predator, the man drifts off, gliding through the crowd while Maxim turns his attention to the stage.
His jaw is clenched, his eyes narrowed. He wasn’t bluffing: He is angry.
“You know what I am, don’t you?” he asks, catching me off guard by the heat in his tone. Instinct warns me not to speak, only listen.
But on the surface, a part of me has to obey and I try to stammer out a reply as a million potential answers flood my mind. Who is he?
Psychopath.
Criminal.
Murderer.
“Don’t speak,” he warns. “Just nod. Yes? No?”
My head jerks in some semblance of agreement and he looks away, his brows furrowing. “And yet you continue to play this game,” he murmurs, though I think he’s talking more to himself than to me—a terrifying fucking monologue. “Let me ask you something: can you handle it? You’ve lasted this long.” He barks out a chilling imitation of a laugh. “But I think that’s more due to naivety on your part. If you really saw…if you really knew, you’d run—”
“Sir?” Lucius appears before us, leading another man to our booth. He’s pudgy and balding, with dark, cold eyes that linger on my collar. A gray suit strains over his beer gut. If I squint a little and ignore the price of his shiny boots, he almost looks like one of my regular clients: the typical arrogant Fuckface.
“Levoi,” Maxim says, his tone flat. He lets my chain go and jerks his chin to the bar in a silent command. Go.
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I scramble to my feet as the other man sits, and I don’t stop until I’m at the counter. The bartender looks at me but never offers up a drink. Maybe he knows my age, or maybe there’s some unspoken rule about Maxim’s toys. Alcohol makes you bleed more, after all.
But I’m too fucking chicken to test that theory. So I wait until a firm hand grazes my lower back, urging me to follow.
My spine tenses as I turn to face the rest of the room. The person who touched me is only a few feet away, his blond hair gleaming in the scarlet glow. Only now, as I come up behind him, do I understand the purpose of the round tables I noticed earlier. Each one sports colorful roulette boards, tended by a man dressed in black. Maxim heads to the table by the window, the man called Levoi in tow. He doesn’t command me to sit on his lap this time. I just stand, my arms crossed over my chest, while the two men take up opposite seats and place their bets.
They begin to speak in Russian: a low, terse conversation that seems oddly polite at the same time. Every now and then, Maxim will nod or flash a dangerous half-smile, but the other man almost seems bored. His eyes keep flickering around to the scantily clad waitresses or the newest sex show on the stage. A busty blonde and an energetic redhead are at it now, gyrating their bodies to allow the audience to see every angle of their…performance. I don’t even notice the creeping sensation along my hip at first. Then the touch becomes firmer—unfamiliar. Maxim’s fingers aren’t this stubby. I flinch, caught off guard by the flash of yellow as one of the men suddenly lurches over the table.
“Nyet.” The tone is a whip, though mostly level. The piercing, dark eyes directed my way don’t leave any mistake however. It was a command. “This one is mine,” Maxim says, switching to English—a jarring change. “If you want a girl for the night, I am more than willing to supply you with one. After we come to an agreement—”
“Agreement.” Levoi throws his head back and laughs. The unsteady sound cuts through the music, and suddenly, the current actors on stage fall silent. The whole damn room does. “You think I’m here to compromise, boy?” he wonders in an even thicker accent than Maxim’s. “You don’t understand. Anatoli sent me here himself. Apparently, he thinks that you don’t have what it takes to run his operation. He’s on his way back to the States. If I were you, I would worry less about your toys.” He claws at my side, dragging me closer without warning. I stagger, sprawling onto his lap, my face inches from his crotch. “And more about what will happen to you when your grandfather calls you to heel.”
“I will only warn you one more time,” Maxim says softly. Too softly. Fear coils in my belly, but it has nothing to do with the thick, rough fingers tangling in my hair. “Respect where you are and take your fucking hands off what is mine.”
“I see you need to learn your place,” Levoi says.
The flat of a palm connects with my ass so hard that I jump. Thwack!
“Is that so?” Maxim questions.
Then chaos ensues. Nearby, something crashes onto the floor. The next second, the table goes flying. A cold grip snatches my arm, yanking me upright and shoving me aside before I can make sense of any of it.
And then pounding. Over and over—every bit as brutal and calculated as the hammering of the chisel. It’s only when I find my balance and glance down that I see just what masterpiece Maxim is working on now.
Levoi’s face is a bloody pulp, his body jerking with every blow as Maxim pummels him with both fists. Blood flies. No one moves. The room starts spinning.
“This way.” A steady grip on my arm makes me turn. Lucius is standing beside me, his lips set in a stern line. “Trust me,” he says when my eyes flicker toward Maxim’s back. “You’ll want to come with me, Ms. Marconi.”
He drapes his own jacket over me and steers me out of the mansion altogether. A different car than the one Maxim drove is waiting, and that familiar driver is already in the front seat. Once we reach the high-rise, Lucius walks me all the way to the door, letting me inside the suite. He doesn’t follow me in.
“What was that?” The question spills out of me as my brain reboots, reconciling the horror I’ve just witnessed.
Rather than answer me right away, Lucius rubs his chin and glances over his shoulder at the gleaming closed doors of the elevator. It’s almost like he’s waiting, checking that Maxim really isn’t there.
“That was business,” he says finally, turning to face me again. His voice dips, giving the word a chilling double meaning. “I suggest you forget about everything you’ve seen tonight. Everything you’ve heard. Though…”
“Yes?” My breath catches in my chest. I can’t shake the feeling that whatever he’s about to say, it’s a warning I need to hear.
“I strongly suggest you avoid mentioning anything of what you heard to Maxim as well. Especially his grandfather. Goodnight, Ms. Marconi. Oh, and your clothing arrived the other day,” he adds, before heading to the elevator. It’s such a jarring change in subject that I just stare at him, blinking twice. “I had it placed inside the closet of your bedroom.”
“Th-thank you.” After he leaves, I swallow hard, my mind already hesitant to imagine the type of clothing Maxim prefers his women to wear.
Lace and black seem to be recurrent themes, I find once I reach my bedroom and throw the closet doors open. At a glance, it doesn’t look much different than it did the other day. The clothes are still organized into three separate sections, each one with a slightly different color scheme. But, when I look closer, I realize one major difference: Every single item of clothing is new. Tailored for one person. One woman.
Even the shoes are all the same size: mine.
I know better than to read more into it than the obvious; every woman probably got her own wardrobe for however long she lasted. I bet Maxim only kept a mixture of different sizes just in case he had to buy a new toy.
Just in case.
I feed myself that lie as I settle on a black, plain dress for dinner and wait while the hours pass by and the shadows creep over the edges of my room. It’s nearly midnight when I pull on a lacy, gray night dress and climb into bed.
>
Without permission.
But, by two a.m., I’m convinced Maxim won’t be returning any time soon. So I risk it, and I’ve barely drifted off to sleep when the first ear-shattering crash echoes throughout the suite.
It came from his room—I can tell that much. I hear another crash. Another. It sounds like someone is throwing something—a lot of somethings. Stomping footsteps mingle with the chaos. And shouting. Yelling.
Brutal, violent noise.
I’m out of bed when glass starts to shatter, and I stagger toward the door, opening it just enough to peek out into the hall. I don’t smell smoke. Nothing’s on fire. But the shouting grows louder.
The chaos beckons me forward, step by step, while my hand trails along the wall for balance. Another crash resonates through the floor the closer I come, and I find the door to his room already open, swinging as if on broken hinges.
Beyond it, the once completely black room is a collage of broken color. Lighter clothing is strewn over the floor. One of the end tables is in shambles, pale wood spilling out from the flawless façade. The closet is open, the racks within broken and twisted.
In the middle of it all stands Maxim. He’s breathing heavily, his head lowered, his body shirtless—and it seems to be the most damaged thing of all. Tattoos and scars riddle the taut flesh stretched tight over coiled muscle. Near the ridge of his abdomen is something that almost looks like a wound at first: a circle of pink flesh. I have to blink before I recognize it, only because of a stint of working at a nursing home a year back. One of my patients had colon cancer and had to get a colostomy. He has the same wound-like area on his stomach: a stoma, I think it was called.
“You should have stayed in bed, kotyonok.”
I’m already turning to run. My fingers brush the doorknob—too damn slow.
“Stay.”
I feel the weight of his command like a slap. My heart starts pounding as I have no choice but to step over the threshold of his room. The carpet feels dangerously soft at my feet, and it’s disguising the way they tremble.
He makes me come closer to him than I ever have. Close enough to touch. To breathe him in. Rather than command me to stop, he shoves me down to my knees.
“Do you know the first rule of obedience?” When I don’t answer, his eyes darken and he heads for the dresser, wrenching open the only drawer left intact. From it, he withdraws a length of black material and what looks like a plastic pouch. Carefully, he places the pouch around the stoma and then wraps his entire abdomen in the black material: the binder I noticed before. “The first rule,” he says after a moment, “is to never question. You submit.”
He paces, seeming to grow larger with every step. Angrier. When his hands go to his belt, I assume he’ll channel his rage into sex, make me suck him off. My mouth is already open when he yanks his belt free and curls it around one fist.
Then he lashes out with the loose end.
Crack! The flat edge hits my knee in a fiery splash of pain. I can’t even attempt to hold back a gasp.
“The second is suppression. You feel nothing. You are nothing. Turn.” He grits the word out and I have no choice but to obey.
I face the bed on my hands and knees as he comes up behind me. Rough fingers seize the back of my nightgown, yanking it over my hips, and the next blow strikes my ass. I see white—he didn’t hold back.
“You fall and I will make this worse for you,” he warns as my body sways, sweat beading over my skin. “Do not move.”
The whip cracks again. Another burning sting assaults my system. Again. Again. My arms shake, fighting to keep me up. Keep me up. Please. God.
Another hit to my lower back draws a cry from my lips, mingling with the drool dripping from my mouth. A lower strike. He lashes away at my calves before finally nudging me with what feels like the toe of his boot.
“Spread your legs.”
The carpet bites into the skin of my knees as I wiggle them apart before I sense the next rush of air. I feel nothing at first. Maybe he missed?
Then stars. One by one, they float across my vision. My pulse surges through my skin, drowning out whatever Maxim is gritting out above me—it’s that damn loud. I can list off every single searing welt on my body: twelve. My thoughts are that goddamn clear. It’s terrifying to float this high. An overdose of agony.
“Don’t move.” He hits me again, this time growling out words with every blow. “And finally, the last pillar is honestly. So admit it. You’re toying with me. Why? Do you enjoy it?”
Thwack!
“Did you like mocking me?”
Crack! Crack!
“Answer me!” His next blow hits me so hard that I taste blood.
“N-no—”
“Nyet!” A string of Russian cuts me off, followed by another hit to my back. “Maybe he planted you, huh?” Maxim growls, switching to English. “Anatoli. Another test. You are just like the rest. Selfish.” Thwack! “Reckless.” Thwack! Thwack! “Careless! I’ve always seen through you. Fuck him. Fuck you. Fuck! FUCK!”
He strikes my shoulder and both arms give way, pitching me facedown into the carpet, my ass in the air. I don’t know if it’s part of my punishment, but he doesn’t slow. I hear the whistle of leather. Feel the bite of pain. Over and over and over.
It’s all I am. All I fucking know. It will never end. I’ll die like this. My eyelids flutter as the blows trail off. He’s done. He has to be done.
I’ve barely taken stock of the damage he’s left behind before his fingers dig into my hair, tugging, pulling. He hauls me upright and shoves me forward, onto the bed. I hit the mattress face first, jostled by the shift in weight as Maxim climbs on behind me. His fingers find the back of my collar, tugging it tight. Too tight. Choking.
Blood rushes to my head. My arms jerk, weak and useless, clawing at whatever they can, trying to reach his hands. It’s too much. Too much pain. Too raw.
I’m dying.
And he’s inside me, thrusting deep and hard, manipulating my body like a rag doll. I’m only conscious for the first three thrusts. I feel them all the way up to my throat, suffocating me from both ends, but I lose myself after that. Clarity comes only in bits and pieces before I go under again. I hear him grunt. My airway closes. The world goes black. Gray. He groans. Climaxes. I breathe.
The ordeal doesn’t end, even when he finally climbs off me. I hear him pace, still throwing off rage like heat from a bonfire. I know the moment he picks the whip up again and the last coherent thought I have is of the safe word. Remembering it.
My lips tremble, fighting to say it. “I’m hap—”
“Shhh.” The mattress vibrates as Maxim finally collapses beside me. And the world goes black again before I can say a damn thing.
Chapter 13
“She’s alive.”
The voice is familiar. I recognize the accent, but it isn’t Maxim’s. Shadowy features come to mind instead: dark hair, imposing build.
“She’ll heal,” the man continues. “There doesn’t seem to be any internal bleeding. You must have held back.”
“Good.”
My body reacts to that gruff, raspy tone. Maxim. He sounds close. Maybe his fingers are the ones I feel on my lower back. My mind loses track of the conversation as I register the pain. It hurts—all of it. My skin. My muscles. My arms. My legs.
“You seem concerned about this one. It’s not like you to lose control.” the other man says, but it comes out more like a question. “Though something tells me that you aren’t worried about the money—”
“Thank you,” Maxim says, sounding farther away as the touch on my skin disappears. “I’m sorry if I interrupted your fun tonight.”
“Fun,” the other man echoes with a chilling laugh. “You’re not the only one who wants to kill, dear friend. I’ll be having my fun later. Anyway, while I’m here, how are you on supplies? Has there been any bleeding? I would usually warn most patients in your condition against heavy lifting.”
“It’s fi
ne,” Maxim growls.
“Right. Just so you know, I disposed of the body,” the other man adds. “And you don’t have to worry. Any witnesses were persuaded to forget. But your grand—Anatoli will be another matter. You know this.”
“You should have strung the bastard up on the wall,” Maxim growls. “Use him in any fucking way you wish. As for him? I’ll handle it.”
“Well, just promise me that, next time someone crosses you, you’ll leave the poor fool alive. I’d have more use for them then.”
They laugh, two dangerously beautiful sounds that chase me as my thoughts scatter once again.
“Can you hear me, kotyonok?” Maxim’s voice trickles around the edge of my consciousness, mingling with the fingers running through my hair. The caress is a mocking omen of the pain seeping through my veins.
Too much. The moment I regain feeling in my limbs, I groan. But that isn’t enough. I have to suck in air and cry out. Scream.
My back is on fire. My legs. My pussy.
I’ve never felt this sore. This swollen. This broken.
I’ve never felt so painfully clear, either. It’s like my thoughts are jagged glass, hurtful and sharp. What do I remember? Maxim pacing. Another voice. Bits and pieces of a hushed conversation: distribution, Anatoli, the States, Maxim’s “condition,” pain.
There’s too much in my skull too decipher. Is this better than fog? I don’t know. I don’t want to know.
“Look at me.” Maxim is sitting on the opposite side of the bed when I finally peel my eyes open.
I can’t see his face, but I don’t have to in order to picture it. Stern, cold expression. Haunting, soulless eyes. He brushes the hair back from my clammy forehead with his thumb, dragging the pad of it along my skin.
“Do you want to say your safe word, kotyonok?” He eases his finger beneath my chin, turning my face up toward his.
