Siena: I hope work is going well, my loving future husband.
I smile to myself. Let him enjoy that one. I’m about to get up and explore when he texts back.
Maxim: Work is work. It isn’t as fun as pinning you against the wall and watching you squirm.
I blush a little and my smile grows. Memories flood me. That first night in the hotel room when he fucked me deep and raw. Later, at The Velvet Rope, when he got me off in the stairwell. And again, last night, when he dominated me and made me come with his name on my tongue.
Each time we came together, it was like magic coursed through my veins. And each time made my life just a little bit harder.
That’s Maxim. He’s pleasure and pain. Hate and love. I don’t know which I’ll end up embracing.
I shiver and release a soft purr of desire.
Siena: That’s all you think of, isn’t it? You can’t help yourself. You’re no knight in shining armor. More like a barbarian coming to ravish me.
Maxim: You’re absolutely right, princess. I’m a savage with only one desire, and that’s to desecrate you in every deliciously wrong position I can imagine.
I chew on my lip. What am I doing right now? Am I seriously flirting with him via text? It feels safe somehow—like doing it through the phone keeps the real Maxim at a distance. I can pretend for a little while that the man at the other end isn’t the bastard that made my life a living hell.
Siena: And what exactly are you picturing?
Maxim: You on all fours, your legs spread wide, your ass pink with my palm prints, your teeth biting down on the sheets as my cock slides deep into your soaking wet pussy. I want to see sweat roll down your back as I fuck you into submission. I want to hear you moan and beg before I let you come.
I read his message, release a shocked yelp, and throw the phone across the room like it electrified my fingers.
I’m burning hot. I feel a sharp tingle between my legs and my cheeks are bright red—pink, like what he wants to do to my ass. I tug at my hair and stare at the phone lying on the rug and I contemplate picking it up and telling him to come home, right now—
But no, god, no, this is stupid. I stand up and shake my head. “Come on, Siena,” I say out loud, like hearing the words might help snap me out of this. “He’s a bratva asshole. He ruined your life. Well, he ruined it even more. Don’t give him what he wants.”
I take a few deep breaths to calm down, which doesn’t help much because I’m a mess, before I march to the door and step into the hall.
He told me to stay in the room, and so I’m going to do the exact opposite.
The Kremlin looks like one of those houses in a movie about rich Victorian people, except it’s larger, with better lighting, and it doesn’t smell like smoke and mildew and various cancer-causing chemicals that people thought were somehow safe back in the day. There are paintings on the walls and the carpet is plush with geometric shapes, and I’d bet it cost more than my father’s entire house. I walk slowly and it’s like the sounds of my footsteps are sucked away into the ceiling and the floor.
I pass closed doors. None of them are marked, and I’m too afraid to knock or open any. Maxim’s warning resonates loudly in my skull until I turn the corner and reach an opening up ahead on the left. I approach and step inside, my mouth wide open.
It’s a library. It’s big, with tons of fancy books lining the shelves. There’s a big fireplace, dead and quiet, with a few chairs and couches set up in front. The place is cozy, and smells like old book glue, charred wood, and fresh leather.
I walk to one of the shelves and run my fingers along the spines.
Books. So many books. My father has books—but he never reads them. He thinks books are a good marker of sophistication, but he’d never bother wasting time trying to actually move through one cover to cover. He thinks that sort of thing is for people that don’t live out on the streets, like he does—as if he’s some sophisticated homeless man, instead of a rich pimp.
But I like books. I pick a few titles out at random. Charles Dickens, Leo Tolstoy, Anton Chekov. Lots of Russian old masters, mostly in the original language, though I spot a few English translations. I heft a copy of War and Peace in my hands and it feels like a huge concrete brick.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for the literate type.”