Chapter 19
Maksim
Exile, my club, is silent during the day; just the hum of refrigeration, the faint echo of old bass caught in the walls, and the metallic scent of spilled vodka that never fully leaves the floorboards. A place meant for shadows and noise now feels too bright, too exposed.
My men are already here when we walk in.
Ayla moves beside me, her chin lifted, eyes taking in everything. She walks like someone waiting for the next hit. Like me.
I shouldn’t have brought her.
I know that.
But when she said: You go, I go, something primitive in me woke up and agreed before logic had a chance to breathe.
She heads to the bar at my nod, climbs onto a stool, and settles in. She drapes her arms across the back of the bar, shoulders open, posture loose, legs spread, casual but ready, like she could spring off the stool if she needed to.
She watches the room the way I do—eyes half-lidded, unreadable, tracking exits and angles without turning her head. Absorbing everything. Every voice. Every shift in the air.
The men notice.
Their gazes drag across her like heat. And every time one of them looks too long, something cold slides down my spine.
I step into the center of the room, Vaska at my shoulder.
Business. That’s why we’re here. Not… this.
I start speaking—Russian, for her sake and mine, don’t know if I trust her completely. Plus she doesn’t need to hear any of this. Arms shipments. Money transfers. The usual shit.
But their fucking eyes never leave her.
Even as I talk, I can feel their attention snag on her—again and again, like men staring at a fire they shouldn’t get close to. One taps his cigarette on the table. Another leans forward a little too far. The sound of a chair scraping is too sharp.
My jaw clenches.
Finally one of them—Mikhailov, jerks his chin in her direction.
“Pochemu ona zdes’?”
Why is she here?
I don’t look back at her. I don’t give them the satisfaction.
“Potomu chto ya yeyo privol.”
Because I brought her.
That should be enough. But of course it isn’t.
Another man; Demyan, a stupid son of a bitch who thinks being one of my best enforcers makes him invincible—snorts.
“S kakikh por ty privodish’ svoikh shlyukh na vstrechi?”
Since when do you bring your whores to meetings?
My vision tunnels.
Before the echo of the word shlyukh finishes bouncing off the walls, my hand is already moving.
I don’t think—I react.
I reach to my right, snatch Vaska’s knife straight out of his hand. He doesn’t even have time to blink.
The blade whistles once through the air and I slam it down into Demyan’s hand, pinning it flat to the table.
The wood cracks.
He screams.
Blood fans out in a sharp, bright line across the grain.
I finally look at him.
Then at the others.
“Ona ne shlyukha.”
She’s not a whore.
The room goes dead silent. Every man sits a little straighter. Every set of eyes drops away from the bar.
Good.
I leave the knife in his hand; press down on the hilt once, just enough to make him choke on his breath, then straighten.
“Any other questions…” My gaze sweeps the room, cold and slow. “…or can we finish this shit meeting?”
No one answers.
No one dares look at her again.
Ayla sits perfectly still on the barstool, but from here, I can see the slight rise of her shoulders as she breathes in, steadying herself.
She’s watching me.
And for the first time in a long fucking time, I don’t like being seen.
***
The townhouse feels too quiet. Too clean.
Too domestic.
I don’t know what to do with that, so I busy my hands with food. Steak. Potatoes. Bread. Something to keep her fed and keep me from pacing.
We sit across from each other at the dining table.
She’s changed—wearing the new pajamas I had brought in for her. Soft fabric, dark, simple. They fit her like they were meant to, which annoys me more than it should.
She eats like she doesn’t trust the meal, even though I took a bite of everything on her plate.
I watch her pick at the steak, cutting it into smaller and smaller pieces before she finally takes a bite. Her jaw works carefully, like chewing hurts.
It probably does.
That bruise on her face is fading, but still there. Her hair’s unbraided now—dark waves falling around her shoulders, softer than anything that should belong to someone like her. It catches the light when she moves. Shiny. Almost pretty.
I shake that off.
Doesn’t matter.
I stab my final piece of steak, chew once, swallow, and keep watching her. She’s still eating, small bites, slow as hell.
She notices me staring. Like she feels my eyes.
But she doesn’t stop.
She sits back in her chair like she owns the room, one leg crossed, shoulders loose. Like she’s not in the house of a man who pinned another man’s hand to a table earlier today.
I clear my throat.
“So? Going where I go.” I tilt my head. “Live up to whatever fantasy you had?”
She shrugs without looking at me.
“Better than being stuck here.”
She takes another tiny bite, slow as ever.
I’m done eating. My patience is razor-thin. I lean forward, studying the way her throat moves when she swallows, the way her lips part slightly when she pulls in a breath.
“You always eat this slow?”
She glances up, annoyed.
“I actually ate today, so I can eat at a normal pace, I guess.”
I huff. Sit back again. She’s still chewing.
Fuck it.
“I wanna eat you,” I say.
Her fork stops mid-air.
She looks up, eyes narrowing like she’s not sure she heard me right.
“…excuse me?”
“Not like lick your clit or tongue your hole eat you,” I gesture lazily.
“I mean actually consume you. Bury you under my skin. Swallow you whole so you live in my bloodstream and can never get out.”
She just stares.
A beat.
Her eyes widen. She’s trying to figure out if I’m joking.
I’m not.
The need to literally eat her gets me hard and pisses me off at the same time.
“That’s really fucking weird,” she says finally.
A slow grin pulls at my mouth.
Dark. Certain.
“Yeah,” I say. “But you like that, don’t you?”
She takes a breath and shrugs, like she genuinely considering it. “I mean the clit licking and tongue holing maybe,” she stabs a potato, “but I draw the line at vore.”
I bark out a laugh before I can stop it.
It’s short. Rough. The kind that punches out of my chest like it’s been waiting there too long.
“Good,” I say. “Boundaries.”
She snorts, finally finishing the bite she’s been chewing for the last century. “Didn’t think you’d be the type to appreciate boundaries.”
“I’m not,” I admit, the humor fading before I can stop it. “But I know what I don’t want.”
She raises a brow. “And that is?”
I push my chair back and stand, needing the movement. Needing distance before I do something stupid. Something reckless.
“You leaving pieces of yourself behind.”
That makes her go quiet.
I turn away first. Grab my plate, set it by the sink, then hesitate when I notice she’s still eating.
“Finish,” I say, softer than I mean to. “We’re done for the night.”
Her eyes flick up. “Done how?”
I don’t look at her when I answer. “Bed.”
She stiffens. Just a fraction. I catch it anyway.
“To sleep,” I add. “You’re not healed. And I’m not interested in breaking you worse.”
She chuckles like I was joking then asks, “Pillow barrier?”
I glance over my shoulder.
“No.”
She grunts annoyed, finishes the last bite, and wipes her mouth with her shirt like she doesn’t care who’s watching.
I wait for her.
When we reach the bedroom, I kill the lights without ceremony. The darkness settles heavy and welcome, like a lid closing over the day.
She crawls into bed carefully. I follow, keeping space between us, lying on my back, staring at the ceiling I can’t see.
For a long time, neither of us speaks.
Then, quietly, from the dark—
“Why do you have that blank space over your heart?”
“Notice that did you?”
She exhales roughly. “It’s a genuine question asshole.”
I stare at the ceiling, the darkness swallows me. I can feel her shift. The rustle of fabric. The soft sigh in her breath. I can pin point when her arms fold over her chest even when I can’t see her.
“The spot over my heart is blank because I don’t have one.”
She stops breathing. Her soft breaths, gone the second the words leave my mouth.
“Everyone has a heart.” Her voice is surprisingly soft.
“Not when you’re a weapon. You can’t have a heart when you have to kill. When you have to lead. Discernment, sure, but empathy, grace, a soul? No. Those are not afforded to men like me.”
Silence fills the room.
It’s louder than any gunshot has ever been.
“I’m a weapon too,” she says final, quiet, like a confession.
“I know, Beda. I noticed.”
***
I wake to breath on my neck.
Warm. Slow. Familiar in a way that sets my teeth on edge.
Ayla.
She’s curled into me, head tucked under my jaw, hair spilling over my chest. One arm is slung across my torso. The other—I go still.
Her hand is low.
I peek at her face, eyes closed so her hands not by my dick on purpose.
Just heavy with sleep. Her thigh is thrown over mine, soft skin pressed where I’m already hard.
Fuck.
I don’t move right away. I learned a long time ago that stillness is a weapon. I listen instead. Count her breaths. Feel the rise and fall of her body against mine. She’s definitely asleep.
Or she’s very good at pretending.
“You pretending, Beda? Because you’re curled up on me like you actually like me,” I murmur.
A soft sigh escapes her lips. Goddamn it. She’s hurt. I can’t fuck her.
Can’t fuck her.
Don’t want to fuck her.
I pause.
I exhale through my nose and make a decision. Carefully, I shift, rolling her onto her back. She goes easily, pliant, mouth parting slightly as she exhales. No resistance. No protest.
I study her face in the low morning light. The bruise is fading. Her lashes rest dark against her cheeks. She looks prettier like this. Softer.
Dangerous.
“You sure you’re not pretending, Beda?” I murmur.
Nothing.
I lean closer. “Because if you are… I’m going to touch you.”