Page 70 of Surrender: XXX Maxim
Chapter Eighteen
After we dress, Maxim makes a single phone call. To Milton, I presume. Their conversation passes quickly, surprisingly devoid of a shouted argument.
“It will happen here,” Maxim announces once he hangs up. “Soon. Before I come to my senses and change my fucking mind. Come.” He takes my hand, and we return to the main club, finding it empty.
In our absence, someone rearranged the furniture, leaving a single table in the center of the room, set with two chairs.
“He has an hour,” Maxim warns as he leads me to one of the chairs and holds it out for me. “One fucking hour. He can’t touch you. And I have my men watching…” He hesitates, as if he wants to say more. Demand I reconsider, maybe? In the end, he retreats, presumably returning to his private room. “I won’t be far,” he calls back to me. “Him, I do not trust. But you? I trust that you can handle him. And I trust that if you feel that you cannot, you will call for me…”
I shiver beneath the weight of his newfound confidence. Do I deserve it? I won’t know for sure until the time comes when I’ll have to pull the trigger in this ultimate game of roulette.
It isn’t long before I sense the entire atmosphere in the building shift with the arrival of my opponent. Dima. For him to arrive so quickly...I can’t escape the feeling that he knew well in advance this moment would come. Maybe not the exact time or day—but with enough certainty to stick around closely, awaiting Maxim’s summons.
Oozing confidence, he strolls into the club dressed in a gray sweatshirt, with a red beanie crushing his curls to his skull. When he spots me, he flashes a grin, wiggling his fingers.
“I’m impressed,” he exclaims, taking the chair across from me. “Very impressed. I’d assumed it would be at least a few months before Maxim would break down enough to humor my little request.”
I fight to keep control of my expression. Do I smile and aim for politeness? Or do I copy Maxim’s inherent hostility?
I mull over both options only to settle on neither. Something warns me Dima would see through the act either way.
So all I do is ask, “You were willing to wait that long just to talk to me?”
He smiles. “Oh, no. By then, Anatoli would have already beaten his favorite boy back into submission. I would be speaking to you through the iron bars of your cage after the old man tired of you and Maxim had already moved on to another pretty fool.”
A shiver runs through me, constricting my throat. So much for uncertainty as to how to treat him—I’m starting to agree with Maxim. This is pointless, humoring a psychopath whose main goal only seems to be sowing chaos.
But I’m the idiot who decided to play the game. All I can do is see this round through to the end.
“So, what do you want?” I ask, making my tone as neutral as I can.
“Let’s not waste time discussing such boring matters!” He snaps his fingers, beckoning a waitress who appears from nowhere with a bottle of wine. Her hand shakes as she sets two glasses onto the table and fills them to the brim. I try to meet her gaze, but she avoids me and scurries back down the hall the second Dima dismisses her. I watch her go—she isn’t heading toward where I assume the kitchen to be.
Will she report to Maxim that I’m unscathed so far?
“Ah, dear Maxim has supplied us with the absolute best,” Dima exclaims, drawing my attention back to him. He lifts a glass and hands it to me.
“Thank you,” I say while setting it aside without taking a sip. “So why did you want to talk to me?”
“This is a marvelous establishment,” Dima admits, eyeing our surroundings with an approving nod. “Such a unique atmosphere.”
One he obviously doesn’t feel comfortable within. It’s warm enough inside that I feel fine, even in my short-sleeved dress. He, on the other hand, seems to sink into his sweatshirt, and a slight tremor in his jaw draws my notice. He’s shivering.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just cold,” he says offhandedly. “Nothing abnormal. I am always cold. My therapist tells me that it’s partly psychosomatic. All in my head,” he explains, tapping his skull with his finger. “Mostly, it is due to medical reasons. Alas, you could stick me in the middle of a raging inferno, and it would never be warm enough. Anyway, as for why I am here?” He shrugs and shifts to face me directly. “I must admit you fascinate me.”
“Why?” I counter, unnerved by the way his eyes flicker across my face as if missing nothing. Not my unease. Not a single fucking pimple.
He chuckles, eyeing his own glass. “You think you’re special to him, don’t you? You think you’re the only woman to tempt him. The only woman to soften him. The only one…” He lifts his gaze to mine. “And you would be right. He’s been through women the way most men change out socks. Rarely the same one twice. None of them have lived with him. None of them have desired to. But have you stopped to ask yourself why?”
“No,” I lie. “But why does it matter to you?”
“Why?” His eyes widen in disbelief. “Maybe it’s because Maxim doesn’t love. He’s incapable of it, as am I. We are similar in this, you see—and I came to that realization years ago. Living within that family has damaged us both. Even Milton, to an extent. Whiletheymay have forgotten that, alas, it can’t be helped.” He shakes his head, sending his curls bouncing beneath the rim of his beanie. His smile doesn’t disguise the glimmer of darkness lurking beneath the cheerful expression. He’s angry.They have forgotten…
“Perhaps I seek to warn you?” he adds.
I hate how confident he sounds. Smug. As if I’m an idiot he’s decided to take pity on and inform that the sky is indeedblue.
