Surrender

by Lana Sky

  A frown distorts Milton’s otherwise emotionless visage. “You claimed Sevastyn was the one disrupting your supply lines. You sure of that?”

  “It makes sense.” Maxim returns to his full height and tosses my bloodied dress aside. Concentration consumes him, tightening the line of his jaw. He doesn’t even seem to notice or care that I’m entirely naked, without even a pair of underwear. “Why? Have you learned new information?”

  “Maybe.” Milton looks down at his hands, flexing them one by one. “I didn’t want to bring this to you until I was absolutely certain, but my men may have made headway in discovering the true culprit…” He looks up to meet Maxim’s gaze directly. “I don’t think it was Sevastyn.”

  “Fuck. Then who?” Maxim’s upper lip pulls back from his teeth as he strokes a bloodied finger along his chin. “A rival? No. If it were someone well known, I would have narrowed it down by now.”

  “Someone we both always seem to underestimate.” Milton’s gaze drifts toward me and then back to Maxim. “Someone who might enjoy disrupting your supply lines if only to prove that he could.”

  “No…” Maxim shakes his head. “No. Even he wouldn’t dare.”

  “Wouldn’t he?” Amusement tilts the corner of Milton’s mouth. “You never could predict Vadim. Though, maybe it’s about time you finally set aside your—”

  “I said no.” The crunch of clenching teeth cuts the silence like a gunshot. “Don’t even say his name—”

  “Which is why I wanted to be sure,” Milton says smoothly. “But even if it is him, he won’t take it further.”

  “Or he could be working for Sevastyn?” Maxim interjects, his voice rasping. “Don’t pretend like you haven’t kept tabs on them both this entire fucking time.”

  “No.” Milton inclines his head, his lips pulled tight. “He’s a clever son of a bitch, I’ll give him that, but if anyone wanted to drive a knife into Sevastyn more than you, or myself, it’s Dima—Vadim.”

  “I told you not to say his fucking name.”

  “Fine.” Milton extends his arms in a gesture of surrender. His bloodied hands are a chilling reminder of the current situation, almost appearing like a ghoulish pair of gloves to compliment his ebony suit. “Consider the discussion over. For now. We have more important things to do, like focus on getting rid of this wanker. The sooner we finish, the sooner I can call in a team to erase any physical traces.”

  Wordlessly, he and Maxim refocus their attention on the grisly mass nearby. They both take a corner of the plastic tarp and drag the body into the hall inch by inch, grunting with the effort.

  I’m left behind, trembling in the frigid air, naked without my dress. Before I can attempt to move, Maxim’s voice reaches back to me. “Stay.”

  I do, my vision blurring. The only sounds are my ragged breaths scratching at the air as I inhale. Exhale. Faster. God, salt is all I can smell. All I taste.

  Maybe I’m overreacting?

  Because despite Maxim’s comfort with death, this isn’t my first time facing it either—a terrifying concept I can’t dissect just yet. No. So I wait, listening to the scraping of plastic over concrete, desperate for relief.

  I find my escape in snippets of murmured conversation.

  “You’re sure about this?” Milton says, his accent distinct. “We could always attempt to stall. Forge rumors about his whereabouts.”

  “Like you said, Anatoli is no fool,” Maxim replies. “After tonight, it’s not like I have a choice regardless.”

  “So, what now?”

  “Now…” Maxim sounds fainter, his words interspersed with muffled grunts and more hissing plastic. “Now, we beat the motherfucker at his own game...”

  When approaching footsteps return moments later, I recognize their heavy, ominous cadence before their owner appears alone in the doorway. Bathed in shadow, Maxim inclines his head for me to follow. “Come.”

  I lurch after him on unsteady, jellied legs. My thoughts are too scattered to make out our surroundings—only he has any definition against a formless, colorless landscape of shadow. Hunched over with my arms around myself, I’m freezing until a layer of warm fabric falls over my shoulders—his jacket, reeking of salt and damp in places…

  I gag—but his scent dominates the luxurious fabric despite the wetness. Somehow breathing it in keeps my roiling stomach at bay.

  I can resist the terror. He alone is my anchor to sanity, guiding me in deliberate commands and stern touches.

  “Kotyonok,” he prompts as we reach a familiar destination, his car. “Get in.”

  He opens the door on my end, and I climb woodenly into the passenger’s seat. Once we’re secured within the confines of black leather and metal, I can finally breathe normally again.

  But I’m not brave enough to ask more questions. Like where the body is. Or Milton. Or what happens next.

  I close my eyes to shut out the world entirely as Maxim starts to drive. Only now do I realize that I have no fucking clue where he’s headed. Despite everything—even the ring on my finger—paranoia sets in, gnawing at my fragile composure. There is one fear I can’t ignore when it comes to him…

  The unsettling knowledge that he’s always on a hair-trigger. Is this the moment when I meet my own end on a wad of sheet plastic? The fear of that fate should bite deeper into my psyche than it does, though. This stupid, internal voice resists it, too naïve to believe but persistent, nonetheless. He won’t hurt me…

  “We’re almost there,” Maxim declares, breaking the string of morbid thoughts. Like a puppet master adept at his craft, he knows just when to reassert his presence. “Look at me.”

  When I reopen my eyes, I don’t recognize the cluster of buildings around us. They’re too tall. Too bright. So we aren’t heading toward his usual suite, then. But this isn’t the neighborhood where my family is either.

  Though, I’m not left to wonder for very long.

  As if on cue, he turns a corner, and the car comes to a stop amid unfamiliar scenery. Gripping my seatbelt, I race to piece together our surroundings. Somewhere dark. Enclosed. A garage? Fresh panic sets in, scattering imaginary butterflies in my stomach. Dark spaces have terrible connotations where he’s concerned. Especially when he looks like this…

  Smoldering in silence. Tense, harboring fire within his gaze as white-knuckled fingers clench in and out of fists.

  “Come.” He’s already exiting the car, oblivious to my reaction. Either that or he’s deliberately ignoring the terror I know is etched on my face.

  “Come,” he commands again, but his back is to me, and he starts across the garage without waiting for me to move.

  Before he can leave my line of sight, I stagger after him, a slave to his whims even as my brain stalls.

  The garage exits into a darkened hallway closed off by a single elevator. When the doors part several floors later, they reveal another door at the end of a carpeted corridor. Here an eerie sense of déjà vu washes over me. I recall that very first day weeks ago when I arrived as a prostitute before a mysterious, wealthy client who lived in a building much like this one.

  Beyond this black door lies a fittingly similar suite—but it’s larger than the last. Or so I assume from the echoing, cavernous interior that multiplies our footsteps into a deafening clamor. This layout differs from his old residence in more than just size. The furniture scattered across a spacious entryway is simpler when glimpsed in the dark. Practical.

  “We will stay here for now,” he explains as he crosses the drawing room. A series of closed doors line a short hallway leading deeper into the interior. His confident steps betray a knowledge of the layout that makes me suspect he didn’t just buy it on a whim. “I’ve already had your things from the old suite brought here.”

  As he speaks, he opens the door to a room that I assume at first is a copy of my old one. But it’s larger. And instead of white or his preferred black, these walls are painted a simple shade of gray. An odd feeling of relief eases some of the stiffnes
s in my limbs.

  At least it’s not red.

  When I breathe in deep, I smell still, scentless air—no salt.

  It’s a welcome change from that cold, concrete room dominated by a table stocked with weapons. Here, the main piece of furniture is a massive bed positioned near a breathtaking view of the city. It’s nearly twice the size of my old one—but it’s the open closet that draws my interest.

  Of all things to pop into my head, the first thought is fittingly childish after a night filled with death. Daisy would die to own a closet like this—one large enough to fit our entire old house in with room to spare. I can’t take my eyes off of the clothing displayed in meticulous order for some reason, though. Most of the options on metal hangers consist of his customary dark shirts and slacks.

  But they only take up one half. The other side of the space contains an array of delicate, lacy gowns and dresses recognizable at a glance. Mine.

  And a dangerous thought threatens to disrupt our previous boundaries—this room is ours.

  Maxim barges into the closet without explanation—as if that little detail means nothing. Sighing, he strips his shirt, and the cadence of his voice snaps me out of my shock. “Take off your clothes. Put them with mine. I’ll dispose of them later.”

  He does the same, but tension contorts his body into a series of rippling muscles. And I’m hypnotized. His scars gleam in the glow of moonlight, betraying a mere hint of the horror he’s lived through.

  I still haven’t moved by the time he throws his wadded shirt to the floor, and wrenches open his slacks. “Did you hear me, kotyonok?” He cocks his head in my direction, his gaze indiscernible. “Move.”

  I jump, too enthralled by his appearance to turn away. Blood speckles his chin. Even more paints his fingers in violent streaks. When he notices me staring, he turns and reenters the bedroom. There must be a bathroom nearby because I hear water running. A few seconds later, he returns, and the blood is gone.

  “Look at me,” he demands. But I already am.

  He hasn’t bothered to turn a light on, and only the glow from the floor-to-ceiling windows bathes him in bluish definition. The contorts of his body create organized chaos from the hulking mass of bulk and muscle that shape him. He’s beautiful, as if hand-carved by an artist intent on crafting a creature somewhere in between a devil and an angel. The only detail out of place is the black binder cinching his waist, obscuring yet another traumatic souvenir from his past.

  “Kotyonok…” His eyes meet mine, and my heart seizes up at what I find in them. More rage? No. Something far more unsettling. In fact, when his nostrils flare with my scent, it’s the most alarming sight I’ve been faced with all night, and I stagger back a step in the opposite direction.

  Lust.

  In him, it’s an emotion comparable to a match striking a pool of gasoline. Volatile. Like a predator, he advances, herding me into a corner. Within seconds, my back is against the wall, and he’s towering above me, rage smoldering off his skin.

  But I’m not terrified of what the anger itself does to him. In a way, it’s beautiful to witness its impact up close.

  His features shift and meld, seamlessly transforming him from man to beast. Gone is the cold, dispassionate mask. Teeth bared, he eyes me with a ruthless flick of his gaze, and I know he’s here with me fully—not trapped in the past. But then he laughs, and the sound resonates all the way down to my fucking core.

  Sevastyn wasn’t the only one to stoke his temper, it seems.

  “It’s always as though it’s the first time. How you look at me,” he murmurs, reaching for my chin. His thumb brushes my jawline reverently, even as his eyes glow with that unsteady gleam that heralds disaster. My heart lurches with every careful stroke, and I know better than to say a damn thing. “Whenever you see me at my worst,” he explains, lowering his gaze to my throat. “You stare at me, with your eyes so fucking wide. Always as though it’s the first time. The first day...”

  He laughs again, but it’s a bitter sound.

  “Those fucking eyes haunt me. I shouldn’t even give a damn if you’re afraid.” He bares his teeth in torment as his finger presses harder, seeking out the bone beneath my flesh. The second I wince, he withdraws. “But I still see what he did to you. What I let him do.”

  My barely healed injuries throb at the reminder, but I don’t welcome this biting sort of pain. It burns, summoning tears I have to fight to keep at bay.

  “I close my eyes and see it,” he adds thickly. “I can’t sleep without fucking seeing it. Even now, I can still hear that motherfucker, taunting me with the threat of you.”

  In a sick way, he resembles someone fighting to stay awake. Like Ainsley when she’s resisting a nightmare—but the phantoms in his head consist of horrors no child should ever face. In frustration, his hands unfurl, the nails drawn like claws, and he resorts to the one tool he’s relied on until now.

  Anger.

  “Did you take my ring out of fear?” he wonders, his accent thickening, his baritone deepening. He’s hunting for a line of attack, I think—desperate for anything to feed his rage. To distract from the truth—he’s losing control. “Is that it?”

  “No.” He flinches at the sound of my voice, but I finally regain control of my limbs before he can reply. There is only one way to reach him when he’s like this—the only language we both understand.

  A startled grunt escapes him as I brush my hands over the front of the jacket draped over me. A tailored silk, the fabric easily slides from my shoulders to the floor.

  His eyes narrow, tracking the flesh bared with ravenous interest and that wavering darkness slowly fades in favor of a new emotion. He’s here again, alone with me in this room—not the past.

  I swallow back my relieved sigh and brace. Maybe he’s right. In some ways, it really does feel like that very first day all over again. My first exposure to the taste of his brutality. I’m unsure of what to expect from this massive creature who radiates power and control.

  And yet for whatever reason, I’m drawn to the flame, even if it burns.

  This pain doesn’t hurt the way it should.

  “Say it,” he demands, recapturing my chin in his grasp. With gentle pressure, he pries my jaws apart. “You are mine. Say it.”

  I rush to obey. “I’m yours—”

  “Body and soul,” he prompts, each word grated through clenched teeth. His tone alone betrays that they mean more to him than a selfish boast of possession. So much fucking more. They’re the reason why I can watch him at his worst, on the brink of madness, and keep what little shreds of sanity I still have left. Why his hands shake as they grasp handfuls of me—whatever he can reach. Nails drawn, he claims every inch of flesh, his eyes fluttering as I flinch.

  “Body and soul,” I tell him, fighting to form a coherent response.

  “And you won’t run from this? From me?” He grinds his hips into mine, igniting a tendril of fire in my core. Clamping my thighs together is the only way to stave off the inevitable inferno.

  “I won’t.”

  In a blur of motion, he moves in, claiming my mouth as his hands grip my waist. His tongue barely slips between my lips before he draws back and wrenches me around to face the wall. I suck in a breath, the sound nearly drowning out his appreciative groan. His palm smooths over the flat of my belly, aiming between my legs. In an expert motion, he spreads me open, teasing me with the broadness of his thumb.

  I barely adjust to the substitute before the real thing batters against my throbbing skin.

  One thrust, and he’s so deep I can’t even cry out in response. I gasp instead, my lips parted, air trapped in my lungs. Overwhelmed with the feel of him, my brain conjures a million words to describe the sensation—full, so full. Thick. Heavy. Everywhere.

  Then he moves, bucking into me, forcing my cheek against the ice-cold wall as his body pins me in from behind. He’s slow at first, ensuring every thrust stings. Burns, so deep I’ll feel him for days. Just as the pain fad
es into a delicious ache, he moves faster. Harder.

  The rhythm lacks the brutal tempo I’m used to. My world narrows to sin and skin, and the wet heat of his mouth latched onto my shoulder, muffling the animalistic grunts he makes with every single thrust.

  My nails uselessly scramble over the surface before me, seeking out stability. Security. Anything.

  I find neither.

  Nothing in the world is stable enough to anchor me against him. I have to endure—every ounce of frustration and fury, slammed into me, straining the confines of my body. The emotions roused by the night’s events seep from him, betraying more than words ever could.

  Sevastyn rattled him.

  Infuriated him.

  But what happened after confused him.

  And the sight of that marble ring on my finger…it scares him?

  There’s almost too much to make sense of—too much for him to process alone.

  So he spills them all into me one by one, until his release drags both of us under. His grip on my hair tightens painfully as he rams into me one final time, so hard my knees buckle.

  He’s left holding me, sweeping his hand beneath my knees as he pulls out and lifts me into his arms. Boneless, my head lolls against his shoulder as I find myself focusing on his face first, marveling at what I see. Gone is that twisted, pained expression. I can’t resist stroking my fingers along the corner of his mouth, tracing its shape when devoid of a scowl or frown.

  For once, he moves free of tension, crossing the room to another door that I hadn’t noticed. The bathroom? He shoulders the door open, and I realize that my suspicion was horribly off base.

  “I will admit that I prefer to use the club whenever I can,” he admits as he steps over the threshold. “But in the interim, this will make do for when I need you.”

  This. A space enclosed by ebony walls and gray marble floors, containing more careful details than the rest of the suite. There are no windows to the outside world. Just closeness and shadow and him. The only real item of furniture is a table in the center made of solid black marble, polished enough for me to make out my reflection as he sets me onto it.