Page 34 of Surrender: XXX Maxim
Chapter Eight
Children are so easy to fuck up. Traumatize. Hell, I should know that better than anyone. Melanie left scars on my psyche that probably deserve intense therapy or some shit.
But history has a way of repeating itself. Of rubbing your nose in your own mistakes and taunting you with the aftermath.
Right before she started talking, Ainsley went through a clingy phase—but without her real mother around, she attached herself to me.Separation anxiety, I think one of her social workers called it. Whatever the fancy term was, she’d panic if I wasn’t within reach.
At the height of it all, I had to carry her into the bathroom with me. Eat with her in my lap. Bathe with her. Hell, it got to the point where she would only sleep in my bed.
It went on for four months, being her entire world. At least until I stole a night light from the drugstore, and she stopped having nightmares.
Until now. Roughly a day after being shot at, we’re back at square one.
She’s the first kid to swarm me when I arrive. With hugs at first—then death grips on my arms and eventually my waist until I can’t pull away. It’s nearly an hour before she lets me go just long enough for me to escape into the bathroom.
Finally alone, I splash water on my face and inspect the wound above my eye in its full glory. It’s a thin scratch, superficial like Lucius said, but I can’t stop touching it out of morbid curiosity. It’s going to scar, joining the many already scattered on my skin. I’ve grown accustomed to ignoring my old cuts. The ones made “accidentally” intentionally with a knife or my nails—anything sharp I could get my hands on. They’re mostly silver now, faded with time.
My newer wounds are more severe in both number and brutality. Injuries left by Maxim. Bruises inflicted by Sevastyn. And now this…
“Frankie!” The door shudders, assaulted by someone’s pounding fist, and I nearly jump out of my skin. “Frankie!”
“Coming!” I leave the counter, passing a sunken tub and polished white marble tile to reach the door. My hand shakes as I wrench it open, dreading what I might find on the other end. Broken glass? Another shooter? Maxim?
My knees knock together as I face the inevitable. “W-What’s happening?”
Ainsley is the only one standing on the other end. I barely take a step before she throws her arms around my waist so tightly it hurts to walk, but I don’t go far. The bathroom is just off the open living room on the first floor. Whether intentional or deliberate, the color scheme is night and day to Maxim’s grim monochrome.
If an insanely rich mafia boss were to read a manual on what décor might less alarm six children, this room would be on page one. Beige walls blend in seamlessly with pale hardwood floors, creating a brighter, cozier interior than that of his penthouse. Instead of a king’s perspective from the heart of the city, the view from here is of the night sky, glimpsed from beyond a landscape of palm trees. It dawns on me as I settle Ainsley onto a white leather chaise near the windows, that I haven’t even explored the rest of the property yet.
Even if I wanted to, Ainsley claws at my wrist until I finally relent and sit beside her.
“Don’t go.” Wider than ever, her eyes fixate on the window. “What if bad people come back?”
“No one’s going to hurt you.” I pull her into my arms and run my fingers down her back. She’s shaking. “Ever.”
“Is the man going to protect us?” she asks. “Is that why he’s here now? He can fight away the bad people?”
“The man?”
She buries her face against my chest rather than answer. I have an idea of who she’s referring to, however. Should I be relieved that she associates Maxim with protection? Maybe. Maybe I’m more alarmed that she noticed him at all despite his intermittent presence these past few weeks. I’d been an idiot to hope that they all wouldn’t. Not yet.
Not when I have no fucking clue where he even fits into our lives. Or where I fit into his…
“Close your eyes, baby,” I murmur, running my fingers through her hair. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise—”
“You should get some rest,” a deeper voice suggests. I stiffen, though the speaker’s identity is no mystery—his shadow looms over the polished floor beneath my feet, inescapable. “You need sleep. Both of you. Lucius has coverage on the house from every possible angle. A fly won’t get inside unnoticed.”
“We’re fine.” I tighten my grip on Ainsley and close my eyes, nestling my nose against her scalp. If I inhale her deeply enough, I can ignore everything else—including the masculine musk threatening to invade my nostrils by the second.
My sister smells sweeter. Like sugar and toothpaste. And…
I recoil, my nostrils flaring.Shit.She smells like pee. Like she wet the bed overnight, but no one else had noticed or forced her to wash up well enough. Guilt hits me like a punch to the stomach. I can’t even be angry. It was a habit she had grown out of after a year of constant vigilance and enough pull-ups to last a lifetime. We worked damn hard—the two of us—until she stopped.
My eyes burn, but I blink any new tears back without saying anything. I don’t have the heart to. Not even to drag her into the bathtub. Not yet.
I owe her one fucking night of peace, at least. For now, she’s breathing normally, her hands in my hair, already asleep.
“There is a room for her upstairs,” Maxim continues. “She has a bed. Her clothing has been brought from the—”
