Page 11 of Surrender: XXX Maxim
He raises an eyebrow. I caught him off guard. No, it’s stranger than that—I’ve amused him. “Not exactly.” His hand shoots out, and he snags one of my curls. As I watch, holding my breath, he tucks the strand behind my ear. “My wife deserves something a bit grander than that.”
Goosebumps rise over my skin at how dangerous that word sounds coming from him.Wife.His tone caresses it like a noose, strangling any warmth from every single syllable. It’s not a title. It’s a life sentence.
“You’re serious about this,” I rasp.
“More than serious.” He grasps my hand, extending the fingers for his inspection. The one wearing his ring trembles beneath his scrutiny. “I told you once, in so many words—I do not offer what I am not willing to give.” He strokes his thumb along the gleaming marble for emphasis. “I am offering you this.”
This.Him. Our lives. The possibility of those two things no longer being mutually exclusive.
The possibility of tethering myself to him in ways more binding than a stupid piece of paper.
The possibility of complete and total surrender beyond the boundaries of sex.
“It’s a lot to consider overnight,” I croak—but it’s another lie. I’ve had days to reconcile my relationship with him well before now. Hours of dwelling on him. Endless minutes of contemplation of what my connection to him means.
And I’ve avoided thinking of anything beyond the here and now.
“Did you think I was lying?” he wonders as if reading my mind. “Or making a boast in the heat of the moment?”
“No,” I say quickly. “But…”
“Or perhaps you don’t understand just what it is I’m offering. Do you think I was my father’s only child?” He stands and storms over to the windows. With every step he takes, tension ripples down his spine, enhancing his bulk until he appears ten times larger. Massive. “Of course, I wasn’t. He had more bastards than a stray mutt drawn to any bitch in heat. ButIam the one with his name. I was the one legitimate enough to supplant him. I am aKoslov.” He makes it sound so much more than a title. It’s his identity. In a way, I think he’s proud of it as much as he hates what that very name makes him.
He is Maxim Koslov. In his world, that gives him meaning. Purpose. Enough for him to adhere to its archaic rules.
And prize its twisted perks.
“Even Anatoli cannot deny that fucking birthright. Once you are my wife, no one will be able to touch you outright. No matter who I kill or what I do. You won’t have to fear a fucker like Sevastyn ever again…” He frowns as if unconvinced of his own words, but the subtle tensing of his jaw reveals that he’s already made up his mind. “I would like your permission,” he adds, clenching his hands so tightly the knuckles crack in unison. “But don’t presume I need it. If need be, I can drag you to the altar.”
“Really?” I feel hot. My body reacts to the warning, tensing up. Unease thickens my throat. All I can choke out is a stupid, pathetic question. “Is that what you really want?”
“No,” he confesses—and for what it’s worth, I believe that he means it.
Regardless, I can’t take my eyes off his ring. Like magic, it morphs, becoming a ball and chain, making my hand impossible to lift.
“Don’t forget that you’ve already accepted this,” he points out. “You’ve accepted me. And yet there it is. Those eyes—” He glowers at me from over his shoulder. “Always so fucking surprised. I kill a man, and you strip yourself naked to assist me with the mess. Only to pretend that you have no idea what staying by my side at allmeans.Have we really come back to this?” He sounds so empty. Maybe because those are the exact words I asked myself last night.
Which brings this whole conversation to a morbid full circle.
Unsure of the answer, I meet his gaze and shiver at the secrets I find lurking inside it. Going off of my experience when he’s angry, he should frown, or flash that disapproving glare I’ve grown accustomed to. Anything but tilt his head away from me, disguising any potential reaction I could decipher.
“Tonight.” Turning on his heel, he starts for the foyer, flexing his arms to adjust his suit jacket. One of his hands brushes his collar, smoothing the lapel flat while he shoots me one last searching glance. “We will discuss this tonight. Everything. Afteryou return from the fitting.”
Even if I felt brave enough to, he doesn’t give me the chance to argue. With his back stick-straight, he marches to the front of the suite. A second later, I hear the door slam.
And I’m alone.
