by Lana Sky
“Now,” he commands as I wheeze. “The car is waiting out front.”
I cling to the wall when he lets me go, my legs already twitching to obey. But something holds me back, strong enough to outlast even my fear of him. I can hear Ainsley laughing at the television from here, completely oblivious to the danger lurking at her doorstep.
“My family…”
His eyes darken, swallowing up the shadows in the hall. “Go. Leave it to me.”
“But—”
“That wasn’t a request, kotyonok.” His posture alone promises one hell of a punishment should I dare disobey. “Unless you want to use your safe word.”
He waits, but I don’t say a damn thing.
“Then go.” He jerks his chin toward the end of the hall. “Now!”
I shouldn’t. I should stay, fight on my own, handle shit alone, the way I have for so long.
But go fucking figure, Melanie’s genes kick in this time: I leave. I put my trust in a man who likes to keep me on a leash. I put my family’s lives in his hands.
I’m a terrible sister. A terrible person. The worse offense of all?
Even as I escape the hotel and slip into the back seat of the car waiting out front, I don’t feel a single ounce of regret.
I don’t feel anything.
He does the thinking for me.
I just obey.
I wait in my room, but he doesn’t return to the suite until after midnight, storming into the foyer like a creature ascending from hell. I hear his loud unsteady footsteps over the marble flooring. Wait, make that two sets of footsteps.
Is Lucius with him?
“Come here.”
The command draws me out of my bedroom and into the hall. I’m still wearing the pair of crumbled sweats from this morning and an oversized tee. There’s no time to even consider whether I should change. Maxim is waiting for me at the mouth of the hallway, but behind him…
Rather than his trusted butler, a trail of red paints a path toward the sculpture room. My nostrils flare, recognizing the telltale hint of salt on the air.
Oh shit.
“Come,” Maxim growls when I stop moving.
Dread floods my stomach. I can hear my pulse in my ears—it’s that damn loud. The steady thump plays like a backdrop to every slow, deliberate step I take. The only other thing I seem capable of doing is watching him. He’s wet, dripping moisture onto the floor. It must be raining outside. The dampness slicks his hair back away from his face, leaving every feature in stark detail. Like always, his eyes are the most beautiful, terrifying part of all: they’re narrowed, his mouth tight. When I’m close enough, he grabs me by the throat, dragging my body against his chest, lowering his mouth near my ear.
“You know what I am. Who I am.” Without waiting for me to respond, he growls, “So do you want to see what happens to someone who dares to touch what is mine?”
My heart shrivels up at the grated quality to his voice. He sounds barely fucking human. Before I can answer, he steers me around, forcing me to face the mess streaking the marble. Together, we follow the ruby smears all the way to the mouth of the studio.
A pool of orange light cast by a chandelier illuminates the scene before us. There’s a man crouched in the center of the floor, bloodied and bound, both hands tied behind his back. His forehead is bleeding, marred by a single gash that looks fresh. Other than that, he doesn’t seem too worse for wear, though a bit of red has seeped through the sleeve of his raggedy tee shirt. I guess I cut him deeper than I’d thought.
“You bitch,” Melanie’s Fuckface snarls at me the moment he sees my face. He spits at the floor, aiming for my bare feet, and misses. The act is all for show though; he’s scared. He keeps cutting his gaze over to Maxim, watching him warily.
I take it that their introduction wasn’t a pleasant affair.
“What the fuck is this?” Fuckface demands. “Do you know who the fuck I am?”
“Your mother has chosen a Skinhead as her lover this time,” Maxim says behind me. His voice is a cruel imitation of its usual polished cadence. He’s a wolf, barely fitting within the sheep’s clothing he’s trying to wear—but it’s all part of the game. There is no honesty in Russian Roulette.
Like an expert player, he steps around me, cutting a breathtaking silhouette. Black and gold gleam against red: his trademark colors. I expect him to glower, as in control as always, but when he finally turns to face me, I don’t know how to process the look on his face.
So I dissect it in tiny, bite-sized pieces. Haunted, empty eyes. Hollowed-out expression. He’s a ghost. A monster. A demon.
I take an instinctive step back, but deep down, I know there’s no use in running. I’ve already sold my soul to him, after all. Still… A question wheezes out of my dry, sore throat. “What is this?”
“It was easy to find him,” Maxim says without elaborating. “I tracked him down but I had Lucius arrange to bring him here, just so that I didn’t kill him too soon.”
My heart stops beating when he laughs, each bellowed sound trickling to the farthest edges of the room.
“He belongs to an upstart MC,” he adds. “The Saints. They typically run in street drugs, but lately, they’ve taken to rounding up young women and selling them off for sex. Pretty girls.”
I think of Daisy and flinch. My mind skips ahead: her face. This motherfucker. Her eyes without their typical innocent gleam. He had his hand on her leg. If I hadn’t come home then, only god knows what would have happened. But that’s a lie; I know.
She’d have wound up just like me, and it fucking hurts like nothing I’ve ever felt to picture it. I can’t.
“So tell me, kotyonok,” Maxim says over Fuckface’s shouted curses. Those black eyes find mine, hollow and endless. “How should he suffer? The choice is yours.”
I can taste the dare lurking behind his expression. The taunt he doesn’t voice out loud: You think you can crave me? Fuck me? Accept me? Think again. This is what I am. A monster.
I know the reaction he expects from me. Maybe at any other moment, I’d give it to him: shiver in the corner, shake my head, cower, scream. I’d beg him not to do the big, bad things I know he’s capable of. I’d make a game of it.
But tonight, my mind is too damn fuzzy. I attempt to rake the hair away from my face and realize I’m shaking. From head to toe. I can’t stop.
“Tell me,” Maxim warns, sounding miles away. “Tell me what is in your head.”
What a fucking question. My lips part on command, but a torrent of nonsense spills out.
“Melanie’s done this before,” I croak, hugging myself tight. “That stupid bitch. She did it before—”
“Did what?” he presses, suddenly patient. That uncharacteristic note in his voice sets my nerves on edge like nothing else. It’s…comforting.
“She has messed with a drug dealer before,” I say in a rush. “Or fucking gang member. When she cuts them loose, they never stop. For months after, they’d come by the house, looking for her, looking for payback. Once…”
I swallow hard and stagger aimlessly as the room starts to spin around me. Shit. My hand flies out, my palm flattening against the wall for enough leverage to stay upright. Only now does the memory descend with full force.
“Tell me,” I’m commanded.
Voice shaking, I obey. “Once, three of them came looking for her and found me instead, sleeping on the couch while the others were passed out upstairs.”
The words die as I re-live that moment in chilling fucking detail.
They wanted fun and there were too many of them to fight off alone. Mikie was only a kid back then, Daisy even more naïve than she is now. I had no choice but to let them in. No choice but to do whatever they wanted just to make them leave. No choice… So I shoved a sock inside my mouth to muffle my own screams. I survived. I always fucking survive.
But once again—like always—there is another threat. And I know that, no matter what Maxim does, it won’t be enough. This new
Fuckface will always come back. His friends will return. And considering how long it’s been since I’ve done laundry, I don’t have any clean socks left.
And Daisy…
She will never be put in that position. Ever. Not if I can fucking help it.
“Kotyonok.” Maxim’s tone sounds different now. Less mocking, more curious. Even more unnervingly gentle.
I look up and find him watching me, his eyes narrowed, his mouth twisted up in confusion. I haven’t run. He isn’t sure why, and this time, his question isn’t a taunt.
“Tell me what to do.”
After everything he’s dragged out of me these past few days, there are some secrets even he can’t command me to tell. I have to show him.
My hand slides up along the wall until my fingertips brush something sharp hanging from a hook. I grab it, pulling it lose, and when my eyes drift up, they meet midnight. Once again, he does that thing: seep into my brain without permission, picking apart my thoughts and my fears before I’ve even admitted them to myself.
He stiffens when I take a step toward him, his nostrils flaring, his fingers flexing. The moment I come close enough, he reaches out, ready to take the offering in my hand.
But somewhere along the way, I mess up. I keep going, turning my attention to the man on the floor. Obeying Maxim would be the easy way out; I’d keep my conscience intact. But then I see that motherfucker’s face and he’s grinning. Laughing at me.
So I think of my sister.
And then I stop thinking altogether. I do what I always do: I survive.
My arm flies out and the blunt end of the chisel hits bone. Skull. The sound it makes: sharp, cracking. God. Someone cries out.
Him or me? I can’t fucking tell. The next blow smashes one of his eyes in its socket though. I know that much. The third hits his mouth. The next… I lose count. I lose my fucking mind. My arm throbs as I strike over and over and over. The air is thick with salt and copper. My face is wet.
But I can’t stop—not until someone grabs me around my waist, dragging me back and lifting me off the floor. The chisel falls from my grip, scattering into a distant corner. And Maxim…
His mouth is on my neck, his fingers running through my hair—not tugging this time. Petting. Through blurred vision, I see our shadows flung over the wall, like one distorted monster.
“Moya,” he rasps into my skin when I try to pull away. “Moya angel. You were made for me. Mine.”
I don’t know what he’s saying, but I recognize how he says it. His voice is thick. Gritted. Strained. It’s the rare bit of emotion I’ve seen from him other than anger, and I don’t know what name to put to it.
“Shhh,” he murmurs, turning me around to face him before I can try. His eyes scan my face, his fingers stroking away the fresh drops of blood and tears. Is he angry?
I wait, shivering, but he caresses me, dragging his palm over my tangled curls.
“Mine. You were made for me.” He’s rambling, speaking to himself more than anyone else. “I knew it. I didn’t want…” He shakes his head, cutting the thought off. Both of his hands come to land on my shoulders, dragging me closer so that his mouth can hover over my parted lips. Close enough to touch. Inhale. “You are mine,” he tells me, sealing the confession with a harsh, bruising kiss that leaves me gasping for air. “Mine.”
When he draws back, I look over my shoulder, too numb to process any of this. I see the man lying there. What’s left of his fucking head. Oh god. Oh god.
“What did I do?” The question spills out of me, a broken howl. I’m on my knees, rocking back and forth. “What did I do? What did I do? Oh my god, what did I do?”
I look down at my hands. They’re red. No matter how hard I rub them into the cotton of my shirt, I can’t clean them off. I can’t get it off!
“Look at me.”
I blink and he’s there, sinking to one knee while his hand cups my chin. His grip is strong; I can’t turn away. I just stare up into his gaze and drown.
Golden hair frames his features like a halo, while his shadow stretches over the floor in a way that resembles broken wings.
My devil.
My deliverer.
My doom.
“You killed him,” he tells me, shaking his head when I moan in disbelief.
No no no no no.
“Yes.” His grip tightens over my chin before I can turn away, forcing me to face him. “There is no denying that—you would only hurt yourself. You killed him. In your mind, I suppose you had to. But do you know the secret behind committing sin?” This time, he doesn’t wait for an answer. “It is absolution. Punishment in exchange for release. So let me deliver it to you.” He tilts my head back, exposing my wet face to his gaze. “Tell me how.”
The gist of his words resonates with what little sanity I have left: Pick your punishment.
My eyes go to his belt, and he stands and nearly rips the damn thing in half, wrenching it from the belt loops. I’m already on my hands and knees when he gets it free. I drop to my elbow, my free hand reaching back to wrench up my shirt.
He doesn’t bother with tearing my panties off. The first blow hits me through them, biting deep down into the skin. I cry out, wailing into the flesh of my wrist. The slapping pinch isn’t enough, and my teeth clamp down, causing enough pain to help me ride it out.
He doesn’t hold back. I’m punished, blow for blow. Sin for sin. Each lash rips flesh open, making me bleed before I’m stitched back together. With pain. With agony.
That word he chose makes crystal-clear fucking sense now—he absolves me. And I can think again, feeding on the burning ache, blocking out the mental image of everything else. Nothing in the world exists but this. But him.
I’m lying flat on the floor when he finally ceases his assault. My eyes overflow with tears, my sobs catching on the air. I’ve never cried like this. Never felt like this. Broken. Damaged. Free.
“Come here.” Rough fingers fist in my hair, dragging me upright and into the living room. When he lets me go, I hit the leather couch facedown, too weak to hold myself upright.
“You have a lot to be punished for tonight,” Maxim tells me, breathless and ragged. The gruff tone doesn’t match the reverent way his fingertips rake my flesh though, aggravating old bruises. “Do you know for what?”
I can’t help the laugh that trickles out of me and ends up smothered into the leather. I know. My heart lurches, but I don’t say anything until he flattens his palm against my throbbing ass. “I didn’t come—”
“You came back to me the first time,” he tells me, his big body resonating with the words, driving the vibration of each one into me. Through me. “Then the second. I could have thrown you away, even after the second.” He flips me over so that I’m facing him fully. “Even the third time,” he says as he scans my body. “I believed the lie that I could let you leave whenever I fucking wanted.”
I’m prepared when he reaches for the hem of my pants and yanks them mercilessly down my legs.
He sniffs the fabric. Growls. Tosses it aside.
“But the fourth?” His fingers dip into the waistband of my panties, dragging. Tearing. “No. The fifth? Never. It’s too late now.”
His fingers bat my thighs apart and plunge inside me. He’s ruthless. My thoughts splinter, my hips jerk, and my spine curls. Even as my head detaches from my body, I hear every word he says.
“I will never let you go now. Do you hear me, Francesca? You belong to me.”
There’s no chance to resist. His body moves over mine, his hands stripping me down to nothing but bare skin. One thrust takes him deep. My body surrenders, letting him in, clinging to every inch of his cock. With each brutal shove, he takes me higher.
Fucking me. Biting me. Swallowing me.
Even after he finally comes, filling me up, he doesn’t stop. He flips me over. Rams in with his fingers. Makes me cry out. Makes me scream.
It isn’t until I’m shaking, brainless, and half-numb with pain and lust
that I realize just what he wants from me. Something he can’t even ask for.
It has to be given.
“Maxim.” His name tears from my throat as he enters me again, sinking in to the hilt. Deeper than I ever thought he could reach. He’s beyond my body. He’s in my soul. “Max…Maxim.”
After one last bone-shattering thrust, he collapses on top of me, pressing me into the couch with his weight, breaking in the leather surface once and for all. “You are mine, kotyonok,” he swears into my ear. “I will never let you go. Even if… Even if they rip you from my goddamn hands. Never.”
They? My splintering thoughts can only come up with a faceless army of enemies. Melanie and her future fuck-ups? His mysterious Anatoli?
“Mine,” he says, smothering every other concern but him.
Deep down, I know this is not a heartwarming confession.
It’s a promise.
A threat.
This man will never let me go.
And maybe…I don’t want him to.
~ TO BE CONTINUED ~
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Maxim and Frankie’s story continues in Maxim: Obey! To be updated on the release, join Lana’s Mailing list!
About the Author
Lana Sky is a reclusive writer in the United States who spends most of her time daydreaming about complex male characters and legless cats. She writes mostly paranormal romance, in between watching reruns of Ab Fab and drinking iced tea. Only iced tea.
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