by Lana Sky
It’s a trap. I’m sure of it; those haunting eyes are far too soft.
“Sit.” Without revealing any sinister motive, Maxim unhooks the cuffs on my wrists and hands me a spoon. I hesitantly feed myself as he watches, but halfway through, he drags my bowl away. “That’s enough.”
I know better than to ask questions as he fastens my ankles to opposite bedposts before picking up the tray and leaving my room again. When he returns, my heart stops.
He brought me a present: a single flame flickering on the wick of a long, white candle.
Chapter 15
As if taunting me, the flame dances on the wick while Maxim approaches the bed and sets the candle on the bedside table. The single bit of light serves as the sole source in the room. Hell, it would almost make for a romantic touch, if it weren’t for the tension lacing his body. Stiffly, he steps back, and the orange glow spills over his silhouette, throwing his shadow against the wall.
God, he seems bigger now. Huge. Strands of golden hair fall across the chiseled planes of his face, clashing with the darkness clinging to him as he moves to stand before my spread legs. While I watch, he places something else down between them, but I can only make out the vague shape of it once I crane my neck.
A bowl?
“How do you feel, kotyonok?” he asks, drawing my attention.
My heart lurches at his tone—it’s too soft. From this angle, the firelight illuminates the cold gleam in his eyes. I know that look, and I can only lie still as ice runs down my spine.
It’s the same subtle change in him I saw the other night. Like something broke inside him. Inside his head. His soul.
“I…” Any words die in my throat as he runs a hand along my outstretched calf. His fingers feel callused yet insanely soft. Like silk and sandpaper all at once.
“Sore?” he asks.
I force myself to nod. “Y-yes.”
His hand slides between my legs again, lifting something that makes a delicate clinking noise… Something shiny. He lowers whatever it is to my skin and the first brush of it hits me like a jolt of electricity. Cold. Frozen. Like ice.
Actual ice.
Shit! I react out of pure instinct, clawing at his fingers.
He only has to say one word. “Stop.”
I do, just like that, lying back against the mattress. My hands go limp and he continues his assault. Almost lazily, he slides the ice along the outside of my pussy first, pressing so that I feel every firm, curved edge. My knees buckle, and I can’t keep myself from shaking. Both hands clench, my nails digging into the duvet beneath me with every swipe. Just when I think I can’t bear it for a second longer, he begins to thrust his fingers, working the ridge of ice inside me.
All. The. Way.
“Trust me, kotyonok,” he growls as the world falls to fucking pieces around me. The room is a blur, and his face is the only thing I can make out clearly. Pink lips move slowly, stretched tight over ivory teeth. “You will thank me for preparing you.”
Prepare… The ice is still inside me when he steps back. I know that much. My muscles tighten, numbed by the frigid chill. My stomach cramps. I have to shove my fingers into my mouth and bite down hard just to keep from reaching down again.
From the corner of my eye, I see shadows dance across the room, flickering. I blink once and realize why: The flame is in his hand now.
“Look at me.”
The moment I do, he extends his arm over me. Slowly, he tilts the candle, sending a stream of hot, clear liquid onto my stomach. Fire. Ice. I’m drowning between two consuming sensations.
“I want you to ask me something, kotyonok. One of those questions I see burning in your eyes.” His fingers return between my thighs, sliding the ice back and forth. Deeper, harder. “But in return, you will relinquish something to me. There is no choice,” he adds before I can choke out a refusal. “You must participate in this.”
Why? My heart hammers out a warning. Talking with him is just as dangerous as fucking. But still, self-preservation wins out. I know better than to refuse.
“Ask me something,” he commands. The words seem bitten out. Impatient.
Okay.
“Why do you call me kotyonok?”
It seems like a harmless question. To me. However, Maxim’s eyes narrow.
“It means kitten,” he admits. “It is simple.”
Simple. I take it that it’s not a unique nickname, either. What number “kitten” am I on the spectrum of the countless toys he’s played with? My tongue twitches, unwilling to travel down where that question might lead.
“But that is not the question you want to ask,” he adds.
Shit. He caught onto my trick. No harmless topics. He wants me to ask him something real. Personal.
This time, I think I know what.
The moment my gaze drifts down to his torso, his posture changes, stiffening. Tensing. Bingo.
“Ask,” he grates when the seconds pass in twisted silence.
“I…”
His hand returns between my legs. One thick finger rams its way into my pussy and then curls at the last minute, hurting me. Waking me. My thoughts spark, way too sharp.
“Y-your stoma,” I croak, using the actual term. If he’s surprised I know it, his expression doesn’t reveal it. “How… Do you have cancer?”
“No. Intestinal. Damage,” he says finally, chewing on the words. “I’ve been this way since I was a child.”
Before I can even start to wonder why, he has the candle again. One flick of his wrist and more hot wax drips onto my belly, throwing me off-balance. “Next question.”
My brain scrambles to process his words in addition to the searing pain. Next question. But what the fuck are words? It’s all I can do just to clench fistfuls of the duvet on either side of me, if only to keep from reaching down.
The longer I wait, the more impatient Maxim becomes. He lowers his hand, making the flame dance through the air. I feel that dangerous heat draw close, kissing my hip. Closer.
My only warning is a stinging warmth across my side before skin actually sizzles and burns. It hurts.
He’s ruthless.
“Ask.”
“How did it happen?” I stammer, struggling to phrase something coherent.
“Punishment,” Maxim says, withdrawing the candle from my skin. His tone is flat, his eyes distant. In this moment, he’s colder than the ice he tormented me with.
And I prefer the first torture.
“To teach me.” Suddenly, his hand lashes out, spilling wax onto my inner thigh. Too much. Too close to my entrance.
A scream tears its way out of me, too broken to hold back, even as I slam a hand over my mouth. But it doesn’t seem to irritate him. Rather, Maxim’s features freeze over at the sound. And just like that, I know why he’s doing this.
Something upset him again, and for whatever fucked-up reason, my agony is his drug of choice to numb the pain.
“Another,” he grits out, sparring the use of wax this time—but it’s not a reprieve. He’s saving up for one brutal punishment.
And I have no choice but to dig deep and find something else to ask. Something easy again. Simple. Why do you live here? Why do you like black so much?
I try to phrase one of those softball questions, but a different one trickles out over my tongue in the end. “Why me?”
He frowns, still holding the candle at enough of an angle for fresh wax to drip down, splattering the sheets inches away. Searing-hot backsplash speckles my skin, and I can’t stop myself from straining my binds, scooting away.
One heavy palm over my stomach pins me in place before I get very far. “Explain.”
“You don’t like it when I come,” I stammer. “So why—”
“I never said I didn’t enjoy it,” he says over me. “But it is offensive. Everything about you is offensive.”
As crazy as it seems, that doesn’t sound like an insult. Just fact. Fate. He may be the tormentor in this equation, but he makes m
y sins seem so much worse. Unforgivable.
“There is something broken in you, kotyonok. Something damaged. Most men have no trouble leaving out food for a stray kitten every once in a while,” he says—a terrifying analogy, given his own nickname for me. “The creature provides him a companion. The beast eats the mice. Both benefit. But when the cat keeps returning…” His hand drifts above me, delivering more droplets of wax. Hotter. Higher.
Shit. I whine when heat sears through my nipple. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Everything glows crystal fucking clearly.
“The master forgets his end of the bargain, kotyonok,” Maxim continues, his gruff tone driving the severity of the warning in—like a hammer. “He forgets that the kitten was always meant to be free, no matter how briefly it might reside in his barn. It isn’t long before his new possession receives a collar. A name. It will never leave the prison it’s so innocently wandered into.” He shakes his head, and I don’t even want to fully name the emotion shooting down my spine. It’s become a familiar friend lately: terror. “But do you want to know the worst part, kotyonok?” Maxim wonders as his eyes meet mine again. “The silly little kitten still believes that it is free.”
I jump as he reaches for me, but he only grabs one of my ankles and undoes the cuff. After setting the candle on the end table, he lopes around the bed and uncuffs the other. Then he kneels, both of his hands reaching beneath the bed to drag something out from underneath it. A box, I see as he sets it beside me on the mattress.
“And now it is time for you to be taught a lesson, kotyonok.” With a wave of his hand, he commands me to sit upright, though I’m still spread eagle and bound by both ankles.
My eyes burn. I can’t tear them away from his chest—no, his stomach. The twisted hints from his childhood circle my brain on an endless loop. That word he used. A lesson. A lesson?
Slowly, he angles the box toward me so that I can observe the tool arranged on a pillow of black silk. Sharp. Glittering.
A knife.
It’s beautiful in a way: long, with a slightly curved edge. It’s not designed for cutting—it’s made to carve. When I don’t reach for it myself, Maxim picks it up and hands it to me, forcing the hilt into my grip. Nothing has ever felt heavier. Not even him.
“You seem determined to keep coming back,” he says, frowning as the words leave his mouth. Like the thought of it is so offensive. So wrong. It requires a punishment. “Perhaps I should make sure that, even when you are gone, you will never forget for a second…”
“Forget what?” I rasp when he trails off. My vision is a blur now, and warmth trickles down my cheeks. How fucking hilarious—I never cry. After everything I’ve been through, I thought I wouldn’t have any tears left.
His hand falls over my shoulder, anchoring me to the bed. To him. That simple, possessive touch echoes the words he growls into my ear. “Who you belong to.”
My head jerks in a refusal. I can’t control it or the words that slip from my throat. “I…I don’t.”
I don’t want anything from him. I don’t. Just money. Only money. My fingers shake as if to betray me, threatening to drop the knife altogether.
“My mistake,” Maxim corrects. Hot breath trickles across my bare shoulder, closer than before as one of his hands captures mine. As if to prove me wrong, he flips my hand over, revealing the scarred palm. All those cuts. Those “accidental” wounds—some are still open and bleeding. His thumb finds one, stroking the raw flesh. “To you, this wouldn’t be a punishment, would it? No.” He nods to the weapon in my hand. “This is what you want.”
Want. Too much power lurks within that single word. My brain short-circuits. Whenever I blink, warmth spills down my cheeks. I try to wipe whatever it is away, only to have my wrist seized in a stronger grip.
“Like this…”
One minute, the knife is clutched in my fist. The next, its sharp edge grazes my skin, creeping across my inner thigh. The slightest bit of pressure sends the tip right through the skin. I jump at the feeling, even as my wrist flexes, extending the damage. Two more sharp lines. More. More. More.
His hand guides me, but I’m the one doing it. Me. Bit by bit, he makes me sign an entirely different kind of contract. In blood. In pain.
M
A
X
My fingers tighten over the handle of the blade and it’s like I can feel the heat of the flame from across the room, scorching my skin. My hand slips—the edge cuts deeper. Harder. More. The room spins. I have to squeeze my eyes shut to keep from going under and focus on breathing in. In. Out.
Maxim grits out a harsh sound between his teeth before growling something else in Russian. Somehow, I know it’s not an admonishment when he sprinkles in two guttural bits of English. “Fuck…fuck.”
One more mark. Another. Two more. Only one thought flutters across the murky landscape of my brain: More.
“Enough.”
The knife is snatched away and my eyes flutter open to reveal the monster staring back. His eyes glow, tinged dark with bloodlust. There isn’t a shred of humanity in them.
And a part of me—some sick, twisted part—sighs in relief. Finally.
He tosses the bloodied weapon back into the box and then stares down at the mess we’ve made. My vision is too blurred to focus. I just see red when I crane my neck, tiny strips of it seeping in a perfectly straight line. M A X I M
“On your back.”
I let my body go limp, leaving me at his mercy as he brings the candle directly over my fresh wounds. Drop. Sizzle. Drop. Fuck!
Each sensation is too violent to comprehend. I have to close my eyes and ride it out: every searing lick of fire and every salty, burning bit of blood cementing his name into my skin.
My teeth chatter. Sweat slicks my inner thighs. Too much. Too much.
The heat from the wax sinks into my veins, creating an entirely different brand of pain: hellish heroin. I’m barely conscious when I feel another sensation against the searing wounds on my thigh: ice. For what feels like hours, he runs it along my skin, numbing me.
Without warning, he blows the flame out, leaving hot wax to dry on my inner thigh. I hear the sound of a zipper being undone. The bed moves. His weight crushes my body into submission as one of his hands circles my throat. Tightens.
In a sinking, icy panic, I realize I can’t breathe. Dark eyes stare into mine as the seconds trickle by, daring me to react. One. Two.
Five.
The world blurs; I can’t see. I just feel. Him. Heat. Pain. Agony. In one fierce thrust, he’s inside me, fucking deep and hard until I forget everything but the sensation of being filled. I forget my name—and just like he promised, he gives me a new one, grunted into my ear.
“Moya. Mine.”
I forget my fear.
Every goddamn thing.
When he comes, I’m barely conscious. Just a shell, used and filled up.
Only by him and the air he finally allows me to breathe in.
Chapter 16
The next four days are a whirlwind of fucking and tension. It’s like he knows. My own, internal deadline is a blown secret, and Maxim Koslov is determined to rub whatever emotions he can into my skin before then. If I leave, he’ll make sure there’s nothing left of me to walk out the door.
I bathe only with his permission. Eat. Sleep. Breathe. We rarely leave the penthouse—and if we do, he only takes me to the club, making me sit at his feet while he holds court like a self-proclaimed prince in a kingdom of his own making.
In a way, he makes it easy to feel. To exist. He makes it terrifying. What used to take multiple slices of a blade to find, he gives me in one brutal dose. An overdose I don’t even have to ask for.
I beg.
But the most terrifying piece of the puzzle is for how long? That’s the kicker, as they say. Hell, Maxim all but warned me himself, and as the days trickle by, the final clause of the contract is beginning to feel less like a safety net and more like a promise.
In the case of accidental death.
“Did you hear me, kotyonok?”
I wince as a chunk of my hair is yanked, my head jerking back so that my gaze connects with the figure looming above me. Reality returns with a whisper of cool jazz that reaches the farthest edges of the room, contrasting with the gruff voice resonating through my skin. I’m crouched on the floor at Maxim’s side, but how long have I been here? Two hours? Longer?
“I told you to come.” Using my hair like a leash, he hauls me upright, dragging me backward so that the tip of his knee digs into my ass—a violent invitation.
I have no choice but to lower myself onto it, sinking back against his chest. He feels like stone beneath the soft fabric of his gray cotton shirt. He’s dressed casually tonight, even though we’re at the club and he made me wear a dress. Oddly enough, he doesn’t stick out like a slob among all these well-dressed people.
Wearing jeans and a shirt, he’s more magnetic than any other man could ever hope to look in a suit.
“Your mind is wandering tonight.” Warmth clamps over my right earlobe, setting every nerve in my body on edge: his teeth, nipping just once. “You were thinking about something,” he growls, leaving out the obvious crime: something other than him.
“I…” Any pathetic attempt to save my ass sticks in my throat. There’s no use.
The people watching us from every corner of the room seem to know the inevitable. They glance away. I think some of the bastards even smirk. It’s a full house tonight, but the rest of the club seems to hold more interest for the guests; I guess they’re all used to Maxim’s quirks.
I don’t feel so lucky. It’s late. Darkness paints the windows black and the only source of light comes from those blood-colored sconces set into the wall. Across the dark marble, shadows and reflections glimmer like flames of hellfire. Once again, the club has come to life around us—and I didn’t even notice.
“There you go again.”