Page 5 of Surrender: XXX Maxim
“Come,” he commands again, but his back is to me, and he starts across the garage without waiting for me to move.
Before he can leave my line of sight, I stagger after him, a slave to his whims even as my brain stalls.
The garage exits into a darkened hallway closed off by a single elevator. When the doors part several floors later, they reveal another door at the end of a carpeted corridor. Here an eerie sense of déjà vu washes over me. I recall that very first day weeks ago when I arrived as a prostitute before a mysterious, wealthy client who lived in a building much like this one.
Beyond this black door lies a fittingly similar suite—but it’s larger than the last. Or so I assume from the echoing, cavernous interior that multiplies our footsteps into a deafening clamor. This layout differs from his old residence in more than just size. The furniture scattered across a spacious entryway is simpler when glimpsed in the dark. Practical.
“We will stay here for now,” he explains as he crosses the drawing room. A series of closed doors line a short hallway leading deeper into the interior. His confident steps betray a knowledge of the layout that makes me suspect he didn’t just buy it on a whim. “I’ve already had your things from the old suite brought here.”
As he speaks, he opens the door to a room that I assume at first is a copy of my old one. But it’s larger. And instead of white or his preferred black, these walls are painted a simple shade of gray. An odd feeling of relief eases some of the stiffness in my limbs.
At least it’s not red.
When I breathe in deep, I smell still, scentless air—no salt.
It’s a welcome change from that cold, concrete room dominated by a table stocked with weapons. Here, the main piece of furniture is a massive bed positioned near a breathtaking view of the city. It’s nearly twice the size of my old one—but it’s the open closet that draws my interest.
Of all things to pop into my head, the first thought is fittingly childish after a night filled with death. Daisy woulddieto own a closet like this—one large enough to fit our entire old house in with room to spare. I can’t take my eyes off of the clothing displayed in meticulous order for some reason, though. Most of the options on metal hangers consist of his customary dark shirts and slacks.
But they only take up one half. The other side of the space contains an array of delicate, lacy gowns and dresses recognizable at a glance.Mine.
And a dangerous thought threatens to disrupt our previous boundaries—this room isours.
Maxim barges into the closet without explanation—as if that little detail means nothing. Sighing, he strips his shirt, and the cadence of his voice snaps me out of my shock. “Take off your clothes. Put them with mine. I’ll dispose of them later.”
He does the same, but tension contorts his body into a series of rippling muscles. And I’m hypnotized. His scars gleam in the glow of moonlight, betraying a mere hint of the horror he’s lived through.
I still haven’t moved by the time he throws his wadded shirt to the floor, and wrenches open his slacks. “Did you hear me,kotyonok?” He cocks his head in my direction, his gaze indiscernible. “Move.”
I jump, too enthralled by his appearance to turn away. Blood speckles his chin. Even more paints his fingers in violent streaks. When he notices me staring, he turns and reenters the bedroom. There must be a bathroom nearby because I hear water running. A few seconds later, he returns, and the blood is gone.
“Look at me,” he demands. But I already am.
He hasn’t bothered to turn a light on, and only the glow from the floor-to-ceiling windows bathes him in bluish definition. The contorts of his body create organized chaos from the hulking mass of bulk and muscle that shape him. He’s beautiful, as if hand-carved by an artist intent on crafting a creature somewhere in between a devil and an angel. The only detail out of place is the black binder cinching his waist, obscuring yet another traumatic souvenir from his past.
“Kotyonok…” His eyes meet mine, and my heart seizes up at what I find in them. More rage? No. Something far more unsettling. In fact, when his nostrils flare with my scent, it’s the most alarming sight I’ve been faced with all night, and I stagger back a step in the opposite direction.
Lust.
In him, it’s an emotion comparable to a match striking a pool of gasoline. Volatile. Like a predator, he advances, herding me into a corner. Within seconds, my back is against the wall, and he’s towering above me, rage smoldering off his skin.
But I’m not terrified of what the anger itself does to him. In a way, it’s beautiful to witness its impact up close.
His features shift and meld, seamlessly transforming him from man to beast. Gone is the cold, dispassionate mask. Teeth bared, he eyes me with a ruthless flick of his gaze, and I know he’s here with me fully—not trapped in the past. But then he laughs, and the sound resonates all the way down to my fucking core.
Sevastyn wasn’t the only one to stoke his temper, it seems.
“It’s always as though it’s the first time. How you look at me,” he murmurs, reaching for my chin. His thumb brushes my jawline reverently, even as his eyes glow with that unsteady gleam that heralds disaster. My heart lurches with every careful stroke, and I know better than to say a damn thing. “Whenever you see me at my worst,” he explains, lowering his gaze to my throat. “You stare at me, with your eyes so fucking wide. Always as though it’s the first time. The first day...”
He laughs again, but it’s a bitter sound.
“Those fucking eyes haunt me. I shouldn’t even give a damn if you’re afraid.” He bares his teeth in torment as his finger presses harder, seeking out the bone beneath my flesh. The second I wince, he withdraws. “But I still see what he did to you. What Ilethim do.”
My barely healed injuries throb at the reminder, but I don’t welcome this biting sort of pain. It burns, summoning tears I have to fight to keep at bay.
“I close my eyes and see it,” he adds thickly. “I can’t sleep without fucking seeing it. Even now, I can still hear that motherfucker, taunting me with the threat of you.”
In a sick way, he resembles someone fighting to stay awake. Like Ainsley when she’s resisting a nightmare—but the phantoms in his head consist of horrors no child should ever face. In frustration, his hands unfurl, the nails drawn like claws, and he resorts to the one tool he’s relied on until now.
