by Lana Sky
“I know.” I brush my fingers along her delicate cheek. “But you should have told me. I would have helped you. You know that.”
She shrugs, sending water sloshing over the rim of the tub. “You weren’t there.”
I freeze, still holding the cloth against her back. “I’m sorry.”
Maybe I’d assumed that Daisy would have been watching her more closely all this time. Or that one of the maids Maxim supplied would know how to coax a six-year-old who didn’t understand the concept of soap and body odor fully.
Assuming as much might have eased some of the guilt for staying away.
But not anymore.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper near her ear. “I’m not going anywhere ever again.”
“Really?” A small smile shapes her lips. “Promise?”
“Yes, baby…” I run my fingers through her damp, tangled hair and sigh. “I promise.”
After I dry her off, I help her dress in clean clothes and carry her downstairs. Someone else is already in the living room, peering from a section of windows that overlooks a different view of the outside.
“Hey, Frankie,” Mikie calls to me despite his face being practically pressed against the glass. “Have you fucking seen this? Holy shit! I know that guy is loaded as fuck, but damn!”
“What?” Alarm spurs me over to him, only for my mouth to drop open once I reach the window.
I don’t even have the sense of mind to scold him for cursing. “Holy shit.”
The house has a massive pool that pales in comparison to the view of a sandy beach and the ocean beyond it—but I barely notice those features. Because on the lush green lawn below the terrace, someone dropped a random carnival.
I rub my eyes. I’m delirious, that explains it. But when I look again, nothing’s changed.
“This is insane,” Mikie exclaims. “The twins are gonna lose their shit. They’ve been begging to go to shitty Fun Mountain for weeks—” He eyes me from over his shoulder, suddenly serious. “If this is your rich boyfriend’s attempt at buying our affection, then consider me fucking bought. This is insane!”
Insane is one way to put it. Colorful tents stand erect in the morning light, bathed in the shade of massive palm trees. An actual fucking carousel and some kind of spinning ride add to the impossible illusion. Staff in fitting costumes mill about, setting up machinery and equipment.
And standing stoically amongst it all, I spot a lone figure directing the chaos.
“He gets mad points for this,” Mikie adds, his voice dripping awe. “Even if he is in the fucking mafia—”
“Watch your mouth!” I flinch, pressing Ainsley to my chest, though she’s seemingly too busy eyeing the scene beyond the glass to listen. “What are you even saying?”
“Frankie. I’m not fucking stupid.” He shoots me another brutally honest glance, and my cheeks catch fire. “Normal people don’t dress like him. He has a private jet. Armed security. And…” His eyes skim the length of me, surprisingly sharp, missing nothing. “You’re always on edge around him—”
“Here.” I do my best to hand Ainsley to him. “I’ll be right back.”
“No! Don’t go!” She squirms, but Mikie’s strong enough to hold her. Regardless, I have to rip myself away, and her nails sink into me one final time, drawing blood.
“Go ahead. I’ve got her,” Mikie insists, wincing as she claws at his arm next. “It’s okay. Right? All of this is okay?”
I turn away, unable to answer him. My heart pounds as I race deeper into the house and eventually find a set of French doors that exit onto the terrace. A wall of heat hits me like a slap, and sweat instantly slicks my skin. My brain buzzes with the scent of sea salt, and I sway, blinking to adjust. It’s like I’m in a different world entirely from the cold, gray realm of Fair Haven.
One presence serves as my anchor to this reality, however. He stands near the edge of the pool, his back to me. Presumably, due to the heat, he wears a crisp white linen button-down and slacks instead of a suit.
“You’re awake.” I stiffen at the formality of his tone. He barely inclines his head in acknowledgment as I approach. “How did you sleep?”
“Fine.” I cross my arms over my chest, self-conscious of my rumpled clothing and messy hair. At his subtle reminder, my back throbs in full force, sore after sleeping upright. “But what is this?” I gesture to the scene unfolding before us. “Where did you even—”
“This?” He sounds as though waking up to find a popcorn machine in your backyard is a totally normal occurrence. A boring one, even. “This is…amusement,” he says. “Though I hope you realize why a visit to a real park is out of the question.”
“What?” I stare, stunned. Then it dawns on me, what I said to him in the club. My kids should be in a fucking amusement park or something…
“No.” I shake my head, tearing at my hair. “You didn’t…” The insanity of it all is harder to process when viewed up close. The scent of cotton candy and popcorn taint the ocean air. It’s as if he really has transported an amusement park here, to only God knows where. Just for the kids?
No. A telltale pinch in my chest warns me that isn’t the only reason.
“I was just… I was being hysterical,” I croak. “You didn’t have to—”
“Get dressed. I need to ensure everything is in order.” He turns his attention to one of the passing workers, leaving me behind.
I watch him go, my throat tight. A man of his resources is capable of making the unbelievable possible daily. Like committing murder undetected. Or making problems disappear. Moving families across the world on a whim seems to be his favorite pastime lately. But of all of those actions…
I can’t fathom this one.
Confused, I return to the house and enter one of the bathrooms. I wash up at the sink, but without any fresh clothes, I keep on the same dress and comb my hair with my fingers. By the time I return outside, all of the kids are already fully dressed, descending on the lawn. Racing past me, they fan out, rushing from attraction to attraction, all while laughing. Fucking around. Taunting each other in a way they did back in our shitty living room while fighting over video games.
I didn’t realize until now how long it’s been since I’ve heard them like this…
They actually sound happy.
And the lone figure responsible stands apart from them, silently watchful. The heat is affecting him as well, gluing the hair to his shoulders and making him glisten beneath a sheen of sweat. He doesn’t look anywhere near as rough as I do, though. It’s like he thrives within the change of environment, dominating the world even beyond the city. Untouchable. Unfazed.
Unreadable.
Lucius stands beside him, speaking intently. From this distance, I catch snippets of what he’s saying. “…Mr. Hood called again this morning, sir.”
Maxim grunts in acknowledgment, but he doesn’t turn his attention from two workers currently setting up some kind of machinery.
“He was insistent, sir,” Lucius adds. “He said if you didn’t return his call by this evening—and he specifically accounted for the time difference—then he would, and I quote, ‘take matters into my own hands.’”
“I’ll handle him,” Maxim says, still surveying the surrounding activity. When his eyes find me, he stiffens. “That will be all, Lucius.”
“Yes, sir.” Lucius nods and crosses the terrace, entering the house.
Alone, Maxim says nothing, but he doesn’t turn away. An odd feeling thickens my throat as I take a tentative step in his direction. Gratitude? Guilt? I only make it halfway to him when another voice rings out.
“Frankie?” I bite back a groan as Ainsley spots me from near the carousel and races over. The closer she comes, however, the more relieved I feel. Her eyes are bright, a crooked smile shaping her mouth. “Do you see? There’s ice cream!” She excitedly points to a booth across the lawn, staffed by a smiling server. “Can I have some now, even if it’s breakfast?”
“Yeah… Just this once.” I let her take my hand and follow her over. Not only is the ice cream booth fully stocked, but with an impressively vast selection. So much money must have gone into this. And effort.
I remember something Lucius said in the car after collecting us from the airport. Everything is in place.
Were they in on this together?
“I don’t know which one,” Ainsley whines, drawing my attention back to her. “There’s so many. I can’t pick!”
I crouch beside her, reading the advertised flavors. “Just pick whichever one you like the best, baby.”
“Or…” It’s only when a deeper voice replies that I realize she wasn’t talking to me. “You can try more than one.” Maxim stands nearby, just beyond physical reach—and I can finally put a name to his tone. Cautious. “As many as you like.”
“Really? Okay!” Beaming, Ainsley turns to the server and proceeds to order a cone topped with five different flavors. The resulting creation is a massive stack she struggles to hold upright. After a few careful licks, she turns to Maxim and flashes a crooked grin. “Yummy! Which one is your favorite?”
“I don’t know.” His dark eyes scan the ice cream menu, devoting far more attention to the deliberation of dessert flavors than I suspect he usually would. “I admit that I’ve never tried it.”
“What? No ice cream? Never?” Ainsley’s eyes go bug-wide as melted chocolate dribbles down her chin. “You should try vanilla, right, Frankie? It’s my favorite, and it’s the safest bet—”
“Ainsley!” Mikie shouts from across the yard. He, Daisy, Eric, and the twins stand before a toy shooting range, complete with a selection of stuffed animal prizes. “Come see this! I’ll win ya whatever you want.”
“I want that bear!” All thoughts of ice cream forgotten, she races off, a different girl from this morning.
Four months of progress in four minutes. I know this won’t last, but still… A wave of gratitude nearly knocks me over. I have to grip the edge of the ice cream counter for balance. In an instant, I sense a presence nearby, and someone’s hand brushes my shoulder.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.” Damn. My voice echoes back to me, so fucking bitchy. “I’m sorry.” But should I be? In frustration, I rip my hands through my hair. “I mean, I’m sorry for what I said last night. But I have to think about what’s best for—”
“I could leave now,” Maxim suggests. There’s no anger in his voice. It’s not a threat, but an offer. “Say it, and I will be on the next plane within the hour. You can stay here.”
Here in paradise, freed from his presence. But would the distance prevent another attack in the name of his grandfather?
“I…” My mouth is suddenly too dry to speak. I have to moisten my lips with the tip of my tongue, weighing my potential answer. And as I do, Lucius’ words come back to haunt me once again. He can handle rejection…
“Ainsley thinks you can protect her,” I rasp, jerking my head in her direction. I could blame her newfound attitude on the random carnival—but that’s not it. My sister isn’t that fucking fickle. In the presence of Maxim, she feels safe for whatever reason. Safe enough to let her guard down. “Can you?” I demand. “Can you let her get attached to you without revealing what you do in your spare time? Can you give her stability—and you know I’m not talking about an army of strangers with guns camped outside our house, or a million fancy mansions. I come with them. All of them. Do you really understand what that means? You won’t open up to me—” Gritting my teeth, I choke down my own hurt in favor of what really matters. “But can you include them into your world? If you can’t, then maybe it’s best if…”
“If?” His eyes narrow a fraction, fathomless in the sunlight. The more seconds of silence that tick by, the dizzier I become. My chest feels tight, like my heart might explode after the events of the past forty-eight hours.
Should he leave? Stay? I’m on the verge of deciding either way when a guttural voice cuts the tension.
“I will try vanilla,” Maxim declares. He’s speaking to the server, apparently to order a single scoop of ice cream on a cone.
My breath sticks in my throat at the sight. For a man who can wield a chisel as a weapon, it’s nearly impossible to fathom how awkward he looks now. He eyes the cone warily as if skeptical of the purpose of dessert as a whole. Regardless, he brings it to his mouth anyway.
“I confess that I never found the appeal of the concept,” he says, this time to me. “Vanilla.” His tone betrays a different context for that word, far beyond ice cream.
Without elaborating, he extends his tongue. At the same time, his eyes flick up to mine, and something inside me tightens. I choke down a lump in my throat, incapable of reading his expression. Not even as he tilts his hand, silently offering the cone to me.
“I… I’m good,” I stammer, shaking my head.
“You don’t appreciate the taste of vanilla, after all?” He definitely isn’t talking about a shitty frozen treat anymore.
“I-I do.” My fingers shake as I curl them over the base of the cone, overlapping his. If I aimed to prove him wrong, I fucking regret it instantly. The heat of his hand is a furnace, melding with the scorching sun.
“Then taste,” he commands.
Sweat beads over my forehead as I copy him with my own brief lick. Vanilla? This is a version of it I’ve never experienced, that’s for damn sure. The taste flooding my mouth feels anything but safe.
“It’s good,” I agree, drawing back.
He samples another taste for himself. “It’s sweet,” he declares after swallowing. “I could see how some men prefer this overall.”
“For some people, that’s all they need,” I point out. My gaze drifts beyond him to where Mikie and Ray swing Ainsley between them, while Daisy carries Eric on her back. “Boring. Easy. Safe.”
“Safe? Appealing to some, yes. Though I think I will always prefer another taste…” A low sound resonates in his throat as he laps up an entire section of ice cream in one ravenous swipe. Another. His gaze doesn’t leave mine once, feeding a dangerous curiosity.
What taste could appeal to him more?
The dessert is already starting to melt, dripping in rivulets down his knuckles, conjuring sinful imagery. Glistening fingers, assaulted by his tongue, coated in a liquid far different from this...
I exhale sharply as he takes a step back. I can breathe again. But the reprieve comes at a cost. His entire posture shifts. In an instant, he towers above me, no longer the aloof carnival director. In his gaze lurks a dare he doesn’t pose out loud.
Come. His chin tilts, beckoning me closer. Closer. Closer.
I comply before I truly register advancing toward him. Eventually, we wind up yards away from the commotion centered around the kids, and I’m faced with the sheer size of the property. A row of swaying palm trees and a wooden shed obscure us from view now. Happy squeals and joyous shouts make me suspect we won’t be missed for a while.
“Maybe your sister had the right idea?” Maxim proposes. His voice sounds closer to its usual baritone, though still cautious. “More than one flavor. A mix. A harmony—” He offers the melting cone to me again. “Taste.”
I lick.
He inhales, his eyes gleaming in the sun.
“Would you really be okay with that?” I swipe my hand over my mouth. “Adding vanilla into your life?”
“I am not unwilling…” He steals another bite of ice cream, his expression contemplative. “But there will always be parts of me that I cannot change. Certain tastes I cannot compromise for anyone. Can you understand that?”
The cone returns to my mouth. I barely feel the chill wafting off it amid this heat. The suffering mass of ivory symbolizes so much more—no match for satisfying Maxim’s true appetite. A wolf can’t subsist on vanilla ice cream forever.
But the fact of him even trying it at all might be enough...
“Yes,” I whisper. “I understand.”
; He nods to his hand. “So taste.”
I lean in, but at the last second, he moves the cone out of reach, and our lips meet instead. I stiffen at first, only to relax into him. Groaning, he shoves his tongue inside me, snatching me against his chest. The cone falls, but he turns his attention to savoring a different taste. Sugar and sin.
Me. He licks at the sweat dripping down my throat. Down my chest. Between my breasts. My dress is a cumbersome obstacle, no match for him. Fabric rips, and his hands eagerly replace the material, groping. Grasping. Taking.
But even from here, Ainsley’s laughter tickles the air. Too close.
“Wait—” I barely voice the plea as he tugs me into an enclosed space. Somewhere hot. Stuffy. The shed?
I only make out a row of hooks on the wall, sporting an array of clothing before his fingers are inside me, his mouth near my ear. “Relax,” he growls. “We’re alone. Fuck… Always so wet for me.”
He’s right—and the intensity of his touch takes my breath away. There is no restraint to each violent, brutal thrust of his thumb. No care to disguise the lust edging every hoarse sound to leave his throat.
He devours me.
And some sick part of me is desperate to be consumed. My inner muscles clench around him. I’m wetter by the second, melting in his fucking hands.
“My little kitten,” he grates as if in agony. “Always so fucking greedy.”
Our eyes meet. Lips again. Panting, I tug at his shirt. His pants. The second his cock is free, I rock my hips, and he enters me. It’s fire. Gasoline meeting a lit stick of dynamite.
He feels so good. Too good—despite there being no pain to feed off of. No nipping nails. No bitten flesh. Just him, slamming inside me in a ruthless rhythm. Like he’s too drunk off the feeling to crave the violence.
His fingers, slick with ice cream, paint a trail up and down my hips, grazing my nipples, heightening every sensation. Marking me.
Maybe it’s the heat or the sweat, but I’ve never been so wet. He’s never felt harder. Deeper. We move in sync, my body gripping him in desperate, grasping convulsions. And yet at the same time, there’s a rightness to it. A knowledge deep within that every quivering, yearning inch of flesh belongs to him.