Page 41 of Surrender: XXX Maxim
God, he’s a creature formed of beauty…
And brutality.
My heart lurches the more of him I explore—awed and terrified at the same time. I tentatively trace a stretch of his inner thigh, emboldened when he growls in appreciation. But then my fingers catch a gnarled, near-invisible scar, and I recoil. It’s so jagged, betraying a long, agonizing healing. God, I can’t even begin to guess what could have made it. Somethingpainful. So painful…
“A whip,” he explains as if reading my mind. His fingers find mine and force me to touch the scar again. It’s as if my curiosity enthralls him almost as much as it consumes me. “Anatoli,” he adds. “He liked to embed metal in the tip. That time, I served him a meal without showing the proper respect—I didn’t kneel deeply enough.”
He sounds so cold. Like someone telling a normal, boring anecdote from his childhood. Not a snippet of horrific, traumatic abuse.
“This upsets you,” he deduces, fingering my fluttering pulse. “I will spare you any further—”
“No!” I grasp him in return and tilt his hand, revealing the calloused palm. It’s as brutalized as the rest of him—a map of a million unknown injuries. “I want to know.”
A deep sound rumbles from his throat as if questioning.Oh?I sneak a glance at his face, surprised to find him watching me, an eyebrow raised in confusion. Could that be why he’s so fucking secretive? Not because he’s trying to hide his past, but because he can’t fathom the idea of someone wanting to know about it. About him.
“I want to know everything about you.” I hate how it sounds when uttered out loud. So desperate and pathetic. But he doesn’t scoff or hiss in annoyance. Taking a risk, I finger a scar slicing across his palm and propose my first request, “Tell me what caused this one.”
“A blade, I think.” The rising water around us sloshes as he shrugs. He’s skeptical of this game of show and tell, but still willing to play along. For now. “He made me train with them. It is easy to cut yourself if you aren’t careful.”
“What about this one?” I finger a crescent-shaped mark across his knuckles.
“Glass,” he says without elaborating.
“And this one?” I turn to face him and place my hand over the center of his chest.
He sighs. “That one… Some of them I don’t remember the cause of.” His eyes darken, revealing his surprise at that fact. I wonder if he’s ever stopped to tally up his marks before.
Or those inflictedbyhim.
Another question worms into my mind, and I don’t bother swallowing it down. “How did Vadim get his scar?” I’m not brave enough to meet his gaze, but his fingers find my jaw and lift it anyway.
Anger isn’t what colors his expression for once as far as that name is concerned. Just exhaustion. “Vadim?” The lines around his mouth strain, more pronounced than ever. He looks so worn. So tired. So alien from everything I know about the depth of human emotions and how normal people express them. He’s more wolf than ever.
“Forget it,” I croak. “You don’t have to—”
“I tried to cut his throat.” He lets me go and hones his gaze on the window.
“Why?” I whisper.
“We were children. I had a knife. I won’t lie to you—” He snatches my hand, pressing it to the side of his face as if forcing me to feel the truth in every uttered word. “I wanted to kill him. It was only due to my inexperience that I didn’t. Why? Because he stood in my way.” His tone chills me to the core, despite the steam wafting from the water. “He was an obstacle since birth. A potential replacement always compared to me. Always. By our father. By Anatoli. If I slacked for even a second, Vadim’s name was on their lips. In some ways, they preferred him. He was smarter. More cunning. Charming in his own way. But when it came to a direct challenge, he always lacked the strength.” He bares his teeth in a feral snarl, still trapped in that competitive cycle—even if it leaves him fighting against a memory. “Only one of us would be deemed worthy of carrying the Koslov name. I couldn’t fail, not even for him. I refused to…”
He blinks as if forgetting where he is. Then his eyes fixate on me, and some of the tension constricting them eases.
“My entire life, I have fought forthis.” He nods as if to indicate his entire being. His identity. “I’ve won—” He grips my chin in return, inspecting my expression. Whatever he finds, makes him recoil in disgust. “And yet, you are the only person in the world to ever look at me as you do. Withpity.”
“It’s not pity.” I lunge for him before he can push me away. Trembling, my lips brush his chest, sensing the heart racing within. His taste is a world apart from melting ice cream. Dangerous. Enticing. Addicting. Alarming. And I lick my lips to savor every drop. “I do not pity you—”
“So what is it then?” he gruffly demands. “Disgust?”
“I… I feel for you,” I find the space above his heart with my fingers—coincidentally where one of his worst scars is. He goes rigid every time I graze the ropey, uneven flesh. Regardless, I can’t stop touching him. “I know what it feels like…”
To fight.
To sacrifice.
To suppress.
“Oh?” He laughs. “You know what it’s like to stab your own fucking ‘sibling’? I respect your intent, Francesca—” His use of my name stings, anything but an endearment. “But, I strongly suggest you avoid comparing yourself to me in this instance.”
