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I settle into the quiet. The Kremlin is big—I only got a glimpse of all the rooms and doorways—and it feels so empty. The place is a masterclass in upper-crust luxury, and yet it feels like nobody’s around to ever enjoy all the amenities and comforts. Last night at the dinner table, I felt the warmth between their family, and the undertone of danger in all their interactions, especially between Maxim and his brother Feliks—but there are only a few of them, and a massive structure to swallow them whole, like keeping a single candle burning in the middle of a cathedral and hoping it can keep back the darkness. There’s something happening between these people, a power struggle I don’t fully understand. I know it’s sibling rivalry, and Feliks probably wants Maxim’s job as second-in-command, the heir to the entire bratva—but there’s something more.
I can’t quite figure it out.
At least his sisters are nice. I like Emiliya and Galina. They’re both stiff-backed and proper, although they’re quick to make fun of their brothers and clever in their own ways, but also beautiful. Sitting near those two ice queens was intimidating, even if they made me feel welcome.
Then there’s Maxim’s mother and father. His mother was kind, if a little distant, but his father looked at me like I was scum between his toes. He sneered and I knew what he was thinking. I’m a Bastone, the daughter of a flesh-peddler, a minor mafia girl from a minor nothing family, not worthy of being at his table.
He’s not wrong, and I hate him for it. I’ve been told a version of that story all my life—that I’m nothing, that I’m worth less than my brothers, that the best thing I can do for my family is to spread my legs for the first eligible man that’s willing to marry me and pump out as many babies as possible. I hate being reminded of that, and there’s so much of Maxim in his father—or his father in Maxim. I see the same twist of lip, the same confidence, the same piercing stare. But where Maxim’s father is distant and icy, there’s something burning hot deep in Maxim’s core.
I get out of bed, shower, and get dressed. The phone’s sitting on the coffee table on top of a note. Maxim’s handwriting is tense and cramped, but legible.Be careful, princess. Remember what I said last night. Maxim.
I crumple the note and toss it into the trash.
The phone’s an old Apple model. It’s slow, and the battery’s probably terrible, but at least I can download some apps. I check the news, log into my email, check my social media accounts, and soon the world’s flooding back. I didn’t have a phone at The Velvet Rope, but Mira did, and I’d sit with her and watch her scroll through Instagram with an envious smile on my lips. People are so good at making their lives seem perfect, even if everything’s a nightmare behind the perfectly selected filter.
My old friends, the influencers I follow, the famous people I watch from afar, it’s like they’re from a different world, one that I’m not a part of anymore. I wish I knew Mira’s number so I could call her. Screw what Maxim thinks. But I don’t know it, and so I flip open the messaging app and send a text to the only number saved in the address book.
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.
