Page 47 of Surrender: XXX Maxim
And I don’t know whether to sigh in relief or despair. The true cost of our bargain hadn’t been put into explicit terms until now. His silence, for my comfort.
Closing my eyes, I contemplate sleeping again, but a scent tickles my nose, and confusion draws me upright. Food? Either Maxim hired another private chef, or Daisy—the only kid brave enough to tackle the stove—is trying to cook again. Though fuck, burning this fancy house down could be her latest act of rebellion.
Morbid curiosity outweighs my exhaustion, and I take a quick shower before throwing on a light linen dress. Then I head downstairs only to find everyone in the kitchen, camped out around a center island.
Everyone.
Maxim stands at the heart of the commotion, as stern as a drill sergeant—though one wearing gray slacks in lieu of a uniform. Armed with a pair of tongs, he dishes out various portions of pancakes and scrambled eggs to the eager troops jockeying for position around him. When his eyes find mine, there is no hint of the coldness from last night. He merely nods in acknowledgment while balancing a platter of food on his opposite hand. “You’re awake.”
“Frankie!” Ainsley rushes to me and throws her arms around my waist. “He made pancakes! And they were good and not burned like Daisy’s—”
“Shut up,” Daisy snaps, but she eyes me sheepishly. “Morning, Frankie.”
I blink. The lack of a scoff directed my way might even be her attempt at an apology. Is this a hallucination? I resist the urge to pinch myself.
“Have a seat.” Maxim pulls out the stool beside him and ladles food onto a plate for me. If I were sleeping, I figure the shock of this moment might snap me awake. He actually made pancakes, not steak, or some variation of bleeding meat. “Eat.”
My gaze darts around the room as I chew mechanically, uneasy for reasons I can’t name. Maybe the feeling has something to do with the mischievous way Ainsley keeps eyeing Maxim from over my shoulder?
It’s fucking weird. Normal even?
Once I’ve cleared my plate, Ainsley nearly bounces off her seat, and the jig is apparently up.
“So can we ask her now?” she pleads, batting her eyelashes. “Please?”
Maxim eyes her and sighs. “Your siblings were wondering if you would consent to a day at the beach,” he says.
And that simple phrase triggers all six kids to start speaking at once.
“Please?” Ainsley whines.
“He said he has a boat,” Mikie pitches in. “And a jet ski—”
“And there’s a cabana,” Daisy adds hesitantly. “I could tan, and—”
“Okay.” I hold up my hands in surrender. “Okay.”
“Yes!” They race off, clamoring for the stairs while I try to process the concept with more scrutiny. A day at the beach, like a real fucking family. Have we ever had one of those?
It doesn’t take long to settle on an answer.No.
“Lucius is a trained swimmer, as is Tomas,” Maxim explains while piling dishes into the sink. “Both will accompany them for now.”
I frown at the phrasing. “We won’t?”
“No.” It takes me a second to classify his expression.Wary?After rinsing the last of the dirty plates, he dries his hands and then heads for the stairs. My only clue as to his intent comes in the form of a single phrase uttered from over his shoulder. “We need to talk.”
Left with no choice, I mount the stairs in his wake and trail him down the hall. As we enter the bedroom, I can’t suppress a shudder. My eyes find the door to the “other” room. Will he insist on a round two, even in broad daylight?
Rather than head for that door in the corner, however, he steps onto the balcony. It’s hot as hell out, and the sun beats down ruthlessly, illuminating everything in view for miles—from the terrace, to the beach, to a good portion of the open ocean.
“We will be able to see them from here,” Maxim explains. As if on cue, a stream of tiny figures darts from the house to the beach, led by a taller person with a body shape suspiciously like Lucius’. “We can hear them as well…” His breath scorches the nape of my neck as he leans in closer to add, “But they cannot see us.”
I’ve barely processed what that fact could implicate when his fingers find my shoulders and dig into the sore, tense muscle. Groaning, I relent to the pressure. He’s damn good with his hands, kneading stiff flesh the same way he works his stone carvings. Before I know it, we’re seated on the wide lounger, and he’s massaging me in full.
Despite slipping his hands beneath the neckline of my dress, he keeps the contact purely clinical, focusing his attention where I ache the most.
“You’re tight here.” A rare hint of emotion colors his tone, leaving me reeling. Sympathy? Or maybe resignation at his handiwork.
