Page 45 of Conquer
“No. It’s like she appeared from thin air. And I’ll be honest…” He rakes one of his hands through his hair, sighing in exasperation. “Hiram was the one behind most of the arrangements in those early days when I was alerted to her existence. I still don’t know many of the details. I doubt Magda remembers much, either—though how can I ask her to? She was so young.”
Meeting his gaze, I flex my fingers over his chest. “I think Magda remembers her,” I tell him. “I think… I think she’safraidof her. Terrified. I can’t really explain it in much detail, but I think Irina abandoned her the second she became diagnosed with diabetes.”
Or, in her twisted, sick opinion—flawed.
“It’s possible,” he grates, his eyes flashing. “But what makes you say that?”
“Call it a hunch,” I say wistfully. “Or, to be more accurate, fairytale logic. You know how Magda likes to play games of the queen and the princess? What if they aren’t games to her at all?”
And one overarching theme becomes painfully apparent the more I think on it.You’ve been poisoned, she declared to preface almost every one of her “tea parties.”Poisoned by the queen…
Could Irina have drugged her? Or, given her a drink of some kind that her childish brain interpreted as much. I’m so lost in the thought that I barely notice I’m in Vadim’s arms until his voice drips into my ear, sensually low.
“I say that Magdalene’s past is the past,” he growls, his tone both stern and husky. “I will strive to make her future so bright she looks back on any prior memories as a faint shadow. A beautiful future. One in which she has everything she could ever ask for or need—while her parents are forced to sneak away every now and again to indulge in their filthiest desires.”
I swallow hard. Parents? Not to mention the way the man can utter the word “filthy.” An answering ache resonates down my spine, and I pout. No fair.
“Where will we sneak to?” I ask him, reaching up to run my fingers through his abused, wild curls.
His lips twitch thoughtfully. “I may have to declare my renewed interest in the club,” he suggests, nuzzling at the nape of my neck. “I’m envisioning a private suite filled with those apparatuses I ordered for you.”
My toes curl. I could squeal in excitement, and the potential of healing has never seemed better. “Well then, you better get building,” I tell him, slapping his chest playfully. “Though I insist on watching. But, that means you may have to make up with your brother, if only to prevent the off chance of you killing each other should you enter the same vicinity.”
His eyes darken at the prospect, though I figure I’m more amused than alarmed at the display. He reminds me almost of a stubborn child, refusing to end a grudge too soon, if only to salvage his pride.
“I once promised I’d smooth things over between you two, didn’t I?” I point out. Poor, naïve past Tiffy. She had no fucking clue. “What happened between you and him? Maxim?”
That muscle in his jaw twitches, his gaze drifting away from me—at the last second, however, something draws him back. “We grew up in hell,” he states, encasing me in his arms. “But for whatever reason, Maxim showed me kindness more than once.” His voice is gruff, as if the confession physically hurts him to voice. “But unlike you, he didn’t boldly acknowledge his actions. It’s more like…he strived to punish me for them. For wanting to reciprocate them. As a result, we’ve spent almost thirty fucking years spitting on each other. I don’t think even he understands why.”
It’s such a raw admission from him. One I don’t take lightly. Bracing my hand over his chest, I risk planting a kiss over his heart, letting my breath warm that precious space.
“I willalwaysacknowledge you,” I tell him. “Always. As long as you keep me well supplied with sex—but it won’t be transactional. What you give, I will gladly reciprocate.”
He laughs in that beautiful, haunting way. “And what you wish, you shall receive.”
I nestle against him, lulled into a daze by the thrum of his heartbeat. I know that—despite all of our pillow talk—there’s so much more between us awaiting to be addressed. Nuances, we need to put into words. Boundaries that need adjusting.
But, as I allow him to redress me and then drift off, I have to admit that I’m more than looking forward to it.
Each grueling, sweaty, sensual bit of “negotiation.”
