Page 15 of Surrender: XXX Maxim
“I said leave.” He shifts onto the balls of his feet, ready to storm away himself.
“Talk to me,” I beg, switching tact. “If something is wrong… If my family is in danger, I need to know. Just talk to me.”
“Now, you want to talk.” He strokes his chin with one hand while the other tears through his hair. “Are you sure you don’t want to tremble and stare and cower? Like you don’t knowwhoI am…”
This is about more than a mysterious case or a phone call.
Images from last night flood my brain in ominous snippets. How easy it is to lose him to anger, contrasted with the only method capable of bringing him back. In some ways, Lucius’ words feel more like a warning now than a comfort—you’ve changed him.
But not for the better.
“Tell me what’s wrong.” Before he can reply, I approach the table containing the case. My rebellious fingers brush the metal surface, and his reaction makes me suspect that I’m not the source of his unease after all. “What does it mean?”
“You want to know?” Finally, he faces me, devoid of any expression whatsoever. No hate. No anger. No mercy either. “Open it.”
An ominous thrill shoots down the fingers I use to pry the ends of the case apart. As the lid rises, I hold my breath…
Only to release it in a puzzled exhale. The inside of the box is lined with gray velvet, betraying a formal purpose, but all it contains is a single strip of blood-red fabric. Confusion displaces some of my fear. Enough that I can eye the item objectively. It’s silk, cool to the touch, and deceptively luxurious.
I flip it over and notice a design embroidered on the other side in a slightly darker shade of scarlet—an intricate series of conjoined circles resembling a cross.
“What is it?” I ask. A scrap slightly too small to be a handkerchief or anything useful from what I can tell. Almost like a sample swatch, one might use to order a couch or carpet. Or a dress. I look up at Maxim only to find him watching me. But the look on his face now…
His eyes are black holes constricting even darker pupils.
“Thatis a death sentence,” he says. “Krasnyy konets, the ‘red ending.’ An old archaic tradition, but one still alive and well in certain circles. Within families. My family.” He extends his palm—a silent command for me to relinquish the cloth. When I do, he eyes it with an expression that makes every hair on the back of my neck stand up. I’ve only witnessed him deploy that glare at his uncle.
Or his grandfather.
“This is a mere symbolic token. At its core, the purpose is to signify a bounty. An insurmountable one, no amount of money, can outweigh.” He forms a fist, crushing the fabric within it. “And it should have come forme. I was expecting it. He should have… No one would confrontmeout in the open, blood price or not.”
I swallow hard, eyeing the case again. From what little I know of his family, I sense grand displays of murderous threats are nothing new. But this… This is different. It’s evident in Maxim’s hostile posture. The rage spilling from his eyes, barely contained by his obsessive restraint.
He’s more than angry. I think…
I think he’s terrified.
“What does that mean?”
“It came foryou. And the bastard doesn’t truly want you dead. Oh no…” He exhales a growled chuckle and turns, lumbering toward the far corner of the room. A virgin section of the white wall draws his notice, and he braces his hand against it. Then he forms a fist and strikes the surface, so hard cracks appear in a spidery web. Lashing out a second time, he shouts in a way I’ve never heard. A howl. A hiss. A broken, maniacal laugh all in one.
His following sigh resonates like the first raindrops falling in a breaking storm. One I’m naked in the face of. My only course of action is to brace at the mercy of the tempest.
And pray, I survive it.
“If it came for me, I could resist him. Fight him,” he explains. “He would be declaring war, and no one would get in my fucking way if I went for his throat. I could rip him apart at my own fucking discretion, and not even God could say a damn thing.” He laughs again, his body locked in the violent pose, his knuckles trembling against the wall’s surface. “But now? He doesn’t have to kill you. He doesn’t even have to lift a finger. You’re already as good as dead. So much for my protection. I couldn’t even fucking outsmart him.”
He turns, crossing the room in an instant. I don’t even have the sense of mind to run.
“No one will acknowledge you,” he snarls, snatching my wrist, his focus honing on my ring. “No one will accept you. With this, you will never be a Koslov, and I couldn’t even avenge you.”
He rips the ring from my finger and throws it so hard it ricochets across the room, its progress tracked by faint musical pings.
“So much for a fucking wedding,” he growls amid another unstable bit of laughter. “In my world, you no longer exist.”
Fear weighs me down, almost too powerful to overcome. Inhaling shallowly is the only way to combat it. One deep, slow breath right after the other.
Until eventually, words form, escaping my throat before I even register them. “What are you saying?”
