by Lana Sky
He smells it; I hear him inhale, and it’s a long time before an exhale follows. Without a word, he crosses the threshold and approaches the bed, letting the weak daylight wash over him. I suck in a breath and blame the reaction on lack of sleep. Today, he’s dressed in shades of gray. His hair is wild, barely tamed by the brush I assume he ran through it. His eyes are narrowed again, prowling my bare body to seek out the bruises that mark it. On my hips. My ass. My back.
The cuts on my inner thigh sear, on fire. It’s been longer than twenty-four hours since he made them, but they still feel open, unwilling to heal—his name branding me for eternity.
While I’m trapped, Maxim takes his time. A part of me expects him to leave again when he’s finished. Make me wait. Make me suffer. Instead, he comes closer and unlatches every cuff, watching on in silence as I rub my sore wrists once they’ve been freed.
His hand lashes out, the rough palm grazing the length of my ass, making me shudder. When I look up, he’s staring down, his eyes fathomless shadow. “Can I trust you to bathe yourself today, kotyonok?”
It’s not a question. I know better than to let him see me flinch. Nothing unnerves me more than when he changes his rigid schedule—and washing me seems to be his favorite pastime, right after fucking. He shows my body the same care he does his tools in his studio: wiping them down, rubbing his ownership into every new scratch and scar. He’s the hammer. I’m the chisel, at his mercy. Always.
So what changed?
“Go,” he tells me without explaining his reasons why. He just nods toward the open bathroom door.
I scramble to my feet and stagger into it, running the bath water first. Moving on autopilot, I grab the rose-scented soap from under the sink, along with a washcloth.
By the time I finally look back, he’s gone and my bedroom door is closed again. Another bad sign. My stomach clenches in that familiar, terrified feeling of being caught in an instructor’s crosshairs. This is a test.
Failing isn’t a fucking option, so I do my best to remember the method he likes: washing myself down with the rag in a way to preserve his scent before braiding my wet hair. From the closet, I play it safe and pick a gray dress with white lace trim. My shoes are black flats, and I’ve only just pulled on the second one when I hear him.
“Come here.”
His voice beckons me down the hall—all the way down to that infamous black room. The door is a slightly ajar, gray daylight spilling out over the ebony marble. I have to push it open with my palm in order to see him standing before the bed, his hair loose and untamed, his body shirtless.
“Come.” He never looks up. Not once as I creep over toward him, wringing my hands together over the front of my dress. He’s had the place cleaned since that infamous night. The furniture has been replaced, the carpet cleaned.
God, I hate the way my gaze skips the warning signs—like those flashing, dangerous eyes—and goes right to his body instead. He’s showered. The binder is wrapped tight around his abdomen, but lying on the bed are what look like a fresh pouch and a cloth. The moment I reach his side, Maxim just waves toward the assembled objects, no orders given. I have to interpret what he means.
Clean me.
And it’s almost terrifying how I know almost instantly just what he wants. I sink to my knees at the foot of the bed, aware of him watching my every movement. The back of my neck prickles the way it does whenever I’m prone before him. Like, at any minute, he’ll sink something into it. Mark, beat, claim. My hands flutter when I finally manage to reach for him first, finding the strip of Velcro holding the binder together.
It’s delicately soft. There’s only the slightest resistance when I start to pull. Tug. Gradually, it comes undone and I unwrap him. Up this close, he’s a collection of old scars and wounds. They paint him. Sculpt him. Every little nick in his flesh adds definition to each ounce of muscle. My aim is just to look. I don’t even realize I’m actually touching him until I feel him flinch beneath me. God, he’s soft. Warm, rigid.
He stiffens further, and panic locks my body into place, but he never moves. Never retaliates. And, for whatever reason, I can’t tear my fucking hands away. They rebelliously trace a path all the way down to the right side of his abdomen, circling the area where the used pouch is still attached to his skin. When my fingers creep too close, he bats them away and peels it off himself before stalking toward the bathroom. I hear the toilet flush, and when he returns, his stoma is bare.
Standing before me again, he waits, and I lunge for the cloth, dragging it carefully along his skin without him having to tell me to. When he’s dry, I reach for the pouch, but once again, he takes it from me and secures it himself. His movements are slow though. Deliberate. I recognize the motion; he’s teaching, and I do my damned hardest to pay attention. When he’s done, he makes me wrap him back up, pulling tight.
And this is when the sheer intimacy of the situation sinks in. Something tells me that this is a ritual most of his toys never see. Never take part in. The look in his eye, once I finally gather up the nerve to peek, cements that suspicion.
He’s frowning again, his eyes narrowed into that terrifying expression: confusion.
“You’re not disgusted,” he says softly as he tugs the binder into place. There’s no embarrassment in his tone. No shame. Just a question I’m not sure how to answer. Something tells me I just stumbled onto the reason behind this encounter: It was a test. To see how I’d react to this. To him.
Would I freak out? Run? I think, deep down, he wanted me to run. I’ve caught him off guard and a part of me instinctively knows that it was the worst possible thing I could have done.
So my first impulse is, like always, to lie. “I’ve seen worse.”
“Have you?” A low sound trickles out of him, bit by bit. A laugh, I realize with a shudder. As the sound finally trails off, his fingers curl into my hair, jerking my face up to meet his gaze once again. “Do you fuck cripples routinely, kotyonok?” The way he says that word…
Crippled. It makes something inside my stomach curl up into a tiny ball. I know better than to let him sense the reaction—I try to hide it—but the tight line of his mouth seals my fate.
He picked up on it anyway.
His grip tightens, dragging me closer. “Or is it pity that keeps you near?”
“N-no.” I shake my head so firmly that the damp braid clinging to my shoulder starts to unravel.
Without warning, he reaches down, curling his thumb around a loose strand. One firm tug and my head is yanked in his direction. The ice in his gaze freezes me solid. “Then what?”
“I’ve seen worse,” I wind up blurting out. Though, this time, maybe it’s not a lie. I’m thinking of Melanie and one of the many times I saw her OD. How pale she looked. How dead. The most fucked-up part of all? Each time, I’d wish more than anything else in the fucking world that she really was dead.
That, this time, we were finally free.
“Tell me.”
My scalp is on fire, manipulated by a heavy hand. When my answer doesn’t come quickly enough, he drags me upright, forcing me to sit on the edge of the bed while he stands in front of me. From this angle, he looks more stone-like than ever. Shadows dance over the sculpted planes of his face, illuminating the darkness in his eyes. They glow, daring me to deny him.
My teeth clench together. This is a story I don’t want to tell. But, when his hand comes to cup my jaw, I know I don’t have a choice. So I spill. Another truth, another twisted piece of my past, drips over his fingertips, more precious than blood.
“My mom was—is—a heroin addict,” I admit. And that’s the most respectable of Melanie’s many goddamn flaws. “I can’t even tell you how many times I found her passed out. Thought she was dead. And…”
His frown tightens. He adjusts his grip, drawing me closer so that I’m forced to drag his scent into my lungs with every frantic inhale I take. Two quick breaths and I’m the bitch overdosing this time—no amount of Narcan can ever
bring me back.
“And when you realized she wasn’t?” Maxim asks.
“I…”
Two of his fingers trail the length of my cheek as if he’s deciphering my emotions through touch. Only he can make me feel like this: like an open book. His mouth tilts—were he a normal person, he might even yell out bingo.
“You were disappointed…weren’t you?”
I have no choice but to respond. “Y-yes. I was.”
A heavy thumb batters the corner of my lip as if testing the weight of every single word. “And why is that?”
My heart starts pounding, every nerve in my body on red alert. Mayday, mayday. This confession bites too deep. My eyes sting. This tiny part of me that still recognizes the creature I call my “mother” doesn’t want the truth to come out.
“Tell me,” Maxim demands, stroking my jaw.
Just like that, my brain ceases to hold any control. The confession is ripped out of me, dragging up old memories I don’t want to face. “Because I hate her.”
It’s one thing to think it to yourself every minute of every damn day—but it’s another entirely to fucking say it. My nails dig into the palm of my right hand, seeking clarity from the racing thoughts. Hard. Harder.
But nothing. My head doesn’t clear. My body’s grown accustomed to a different brand of pain, and when I look up, it receives another brutal dose. Maxim’s fingers leave my face and rake through my hair, wrenching my head back as his body forces its way between my legs.
I fall back. He prowls over me, his mouth catching mine, his teeth nipping the tip of my tongue. Shock renders me paralyzed. Men like him don’t kiss; he fucks me with his mouth, crushing my body into submission—tongue-stabbing, drowning, choking, lethal submission.
It’s hungry.
It’s punishing.
I taste copper when he finally pulls away, rolling off me—but his sudden grip on my braid keeps me tethered to his side. Enslaved.
“This pains you to admit,” he says, grinding the words out as if through clenched teeth. I can’t see his face—just his back. Golden skin is stretched taut over rippling muscle. He radiates tension. Hoards it.
Warning bells go off. I know where this emotion leads when it comes to him. My mouth waters in anticipation, even as my throat goes dry. I’m a wind-up doll, ready to unravel when he finally turns to face me, controlling the direction of my gaze with his grip on my hair.
“You loathe the fact that you hate your own mother,” he tells me, his eyes piercing deep into mine, seeing what I can’t admit out loud. “You think this makes you…broken. But do you even know the true meaning of hate, kotyonok?”
His fist twitches, winding my braid around the scarred knuckles, drawing me closer to him. Inch, by inch. Rising onto my hands and knees I have to crawl toward him as the pressure on my scalp becomes unbearable. My face comes close enough to his that I can feel his breath on my parted lips.
“True hate is being bound only by duty. By blood. It is not even being allowed to feel anything else.” His free hand seizes my chin, forcing my mouth open. In a fluid burst of muscle, he raises his head, flicking his tongue along my lower lip. Seconds later, he seizes that same bit of flesh between his teeth and bites down, swallowing my gasp. “I was never allowed to feel,” he growls into me: a twisted confession. “I never wanted to feel. And you. You mock me for it, don’t you?”
All at once, I’m pushed back. The force of the blow sends me flying off the mattress and I land on my side. The loss of his heat stings like a slap, even as the taste of my own blood lingers on my tongue.
“In my family, weakness is smothered out,” Maxim declares from the other side of the room. The broken, guttural baritone sucks every ounce of oxygen from my lungs. “It is beaten into submission, fucked, cut, killed, betrayed, sold, coveted. It is ruined. So comfort yourself.” His gaze sweeps over me from across the length of the bed—I sense it. “Had you my father, you would have been forced to kill your mother, rather than merely hate her. And if I felt anything for you?” He laughs and I’ve never heard a more twisted fucking sound. “I’d pity you.”
Just like that, he leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.
And I don’t dare move.
Not one fucking inch.
The weight pressing on the back of my neck jars me awake. I jolt into awareness, my fingers digging into the carpet beneath me. One inhale warns me to keep still because the scent filling my lungs is the first clue as to the identity of my tormentor. It’s followed by the harsh breaths catching on the air.
Maxim. Anger wafts from him like perfume.
I know better than to struggle, so I wait, feeling the warmth imparted by the limb at my throat. His foot? He smells like sweat, and when I open my eyes again, darkness shrouds the already black room.
“Get up, kotyonok,” Maxim tells me before withdrawing the pressure and walking away.
I hear him cross over to the other side of the room, each step heavy and aimless. Restless. When I finally turn to face him, he’s already switched a free-standing lamp in a corner on. The harsh light contrasts with the ebony walls, illuminating the sweat glistening on his skin and seeping through patches of his shirt. He’s been sculpting, I assume.
But the physical exertion hasn’t helped his mood that much. His eyes fucking glow, stalking my position as I warily climb to my feet. The moment I find my balance, he jerks his chin, sending a fringe of hair across his face, obscuring whatever expression is distorting it.
“Come here.”
I swallow hard and force my trembling legs to obey. He lets me come almost a foot away before his hand lashes out, shoving me back onto the bed. I scramble to get my bearings, both hands fisting into the comforter on either side of me.
“If I gave you the full amount specified in your contract tonight, would you return?” he asks.
“I…” That’s right. The final day of this week is approaching fast—and the sheer amount of money combined with the insanity of the question overloads my brain. Shit. Logic goes to war with what little bit of sanity I have left. Do I lie? Come clean? The answer is obvious though.
Hell no. I wouldn’t come back.
“I… Yes,” I choke out. But it’s wrong. I’m lying.
He knows it. With a step closer, he’s able to brush my chin with the tip of his thumb, setting every nerve in my body on red alert. “And why would that be, kotyonok?” he wonders mockingly, humoring me for once. “The sex?”
Once again, I know the right answer.
And again, fear makes a fool of me. “Yes… No.” I swallow hard, grappling on the edge of panic and terror. “I don’t know—”
“You don’t.” All at once, his hand falls away, leaving my chin burning in the aftermath of his touch. That unnerving twist to his mouth returns, stopping my heart in its tracks. I’ve more than just confused him; I’ve pissed him off. “Fine, then.” He backs away, turning to face me fully. His expression alone makes my stomach sink even before he issues his next command. “Touch yourself. With your fingers,” he adds with harsh emphasis when I just blink up at him. “Get yourself off.”
One of my hands dutifully uncurls from the black duvet. Reaches down…hesitates.
“Do not make me tell you again,” he warns from the corner, casting a shadow that swallows every ounce of nearby light. He’s on edge again, tossing off sparks of anger like electricity. His fingers flex at his sides, curling and uncurling in and out of fists.
He’s a live wire.
And I know better than to test him now. My fingers find my pussy and sink into the folds. I feel nothing. Just dry, sore flesh, throbbing and tender. It’s like my own body rejects me—and I don’t know what the hell he expects me to do.
After a few awkward minutes, he steps forward, his gaze fixated between my legs. “Spread them,” he grits out, the muscles in his shoulders flexing as his hands clench again. “Wider. Wider.”
I fling my thighs apart, forced to prop my upper body back on
my elbows while Maxim stalks closer, observing the motions of my fingers.
“Remove the panties,” he says. “Give them to me.”
When I do, he crushes them in a fist before tossing the wad of lace into a corner of the room.
“Now, get yourself off,” he repeats, “but you tell me everything you think. Everything you feel. Don’t fucking pretend like you don’t know damn well what I mean.”
Maybe I do.
Images pop into my head and I instinctively bite my lip to push them back. Away. I don’t want to focus. I don’t want to feel. But fuck, it’s like he’s in my head. I hear him growl, and the floorboards creak beneath the weight of two dangerous steps.
So I panic. I give in. One of my fingers drifts up to strike my clit. Shit. The reaction that swirls in my belly serves as a match—but the image that worms its way into my head is the gasoline. Just like that, the air gets harder to breathe: I pant.
“Tell me,” Maxim growls, his tone alone warning me not to lie. “Is it the money? I know that’s it, you greedy little cunt. Say it.”
It’s disgusting how even his hate feeds the flames. My fingers move faster. The fire grows hotter, and the image in my head? It gets sharper. More detailed. Him. The floor. The bed. His hands. His teeth.
“Tell me!” Two more ominous thuds snap my thread of concentration.
I blink, my vision unfocused until I find Maxim looming above me.
“What is in your head?” he wonders, his voice a tenuous rasp. Control, his favorite drug, is running out. I sense it, and suddenly, my fingers are so goddamn slippery that I can’t get any leverage. His nostrils flare at the increase in arousal, his eyes flashing, demanding an answer. “What the fuck is getting you off?”
“You…” I squeeze my eyes shut, hating the sound of my own voice. So fucking pathetic. High-pitched, needy. If he were anyone else, I’d know the right shit to say: You get me off, baby. You drive me wild. It would all be fucking lies.
But him?
Maxim.
Koslov.
