Page 69 of Bound in Possession

"Say whatever you came to say," Maksim responds evenly, his tone unyielding. "Camilla stays with me. I don't keep secrets from her."

Lydia’s smirk falters for a fraction of a second, her jaw tightening before she recovers with a quiet, bitter laugh.

"How cute," she drawls. She says it with casual, venomous intimacy, clearly trying to make me feel small and humiliated in my own home.

My chest tightens, the insult cutting deep beneath my skin, but I force myself to stand tall beside Maksim, keeping my expression completely unreadable and composed. I refuse to give her the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

Maksim feels the shift in the air immediately. He turns his head slightly, his sharp eyes catching the brief flash of pain in my eyes before his gaze snaps back to Lydia, blazing with lethal fury.

"That's enough," Maksim's voice cuts through the foyer like a shattered blade, cold and absolute. "Whatever access or privilege you think you once had here, Lydia, is gone."

Lydia blinks, taken aback by the sheer brutality in his tone. "Maksim, I came here to give you⁠—"

"You either speak to both of us, or you can leave. Now," he cuts her off coldly.

Lydia stands frozen for a breathless second, her cheeks flushing with a mixture of raw embarrassment and blinding anger. Her eyes flash furiously as she looks between the two of us, realizing she has completely lost her ground.

Without another word, she turns on her heels and storms out of the mansion, slamming the massive front doors so hard the noise echoes through the entire house.

As soon as she’s gone, I turn on my heel and march up the grand staircase.

Maksim’s heavy, deliberate footsteps echo right behind me as he follows me all the way into our private suite. I can feel the tension rolling off him—he’s braced for impact, expecting an explosion of anger, sharp jealousy, or another intense confrontation that devolves into heated accusations and physical distraction.

Instead, I stop in the center of the room, turn around, and look at him with complete, chilling calm.

"Thank you for standing up for me and showing her we are partners in this. I will not be just another woman in a line of women you’ve used and dismissed,," I say, my voice steady. "I won't be the current favorite until you grow tired of me."

The accusation hits him with the force of a physical strike. Maksim flinches slightly, his dark brows drawing tight together. "There has been no one since the auction, Camilla," he says, his voice gravelly, laced with a harsh, unyielding honesty. "No one."

I look at him, searching his rigid face, the fierce gray-blue eyes that usually read so unreadable. "I want to believe you," I tell him plainly, the truth hanging heavy in the dim room. "But I genuinely don't know."

I wait for him to close the distance. I brace myself for him to use his towering frame, his touch, or heat to blur the lines and force this conversation into desire like he usually does.

He doesn't step toward me.

Maksim stands his ground, staring at me for a long, quiet moment while his jaw clenches and unclenches. He reads the distance in my posture, and instead of trying to tear it down, he respects it.

"I'll give you space," he says softly, his deep voice carrying a strange, heavy weight. He takes a step back toward the door, holding my gaze. "The choice is yours, Camilla. You come to me when you're ready, or you stay away. I won't force you."

He turns and quietly exits the suite, leaving the door unlatched behind him.

I am left completely alone in the silent room, staring at the empty doorway. The realization sinks in slowly—he respected the line I drew. He didn't push, he didn't demand, and he didn't try to manipulate the moment. And somehow, that restraint unsettles me far more than if he had crossed it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

MAKSIM

It’s past midnight, and I am in the gym.

The heavy leather bag swings under the relentless force of my fists, the dull thuds echoing off the concrete walls. I didn't bother wrapping my hands. Raw skin scrapes against rough leather with every strike, but I keep driving my knuckles into the target until I feel the warm, slick smear of blood across my skin.

I hit it again. Harder.

Fool.

I yell at myself in the quiet dark of my mind. Am I completely out of my mind for walking away from her back in that suite? A man in my position doesn't step back. I should have stayed. I should have taken her in my arms, held her fast, and convinced her—made her understand—that she is the only woman in my life. I don't have the time, the patience, or the desire for anyone else.

Not anymore.