Chapter 28 Ayla #2
“You can’t talk to her like that,” he says, anger flaring, protective and stupid and so very Ricky.
I feel his body angle slightly in front of mine.
Maksim’s eyes flicker to him, then back to me, something lethal sparking there.
Perfect.
Now he thinks there’s something going on between us.
“Move,” Maksim says.
The word slides through the room like a blade. Kay goes still by the door. Jace sets whatever he’s holding down very carefully on the table.
Ricky doesn’t move.
“I said,” Maksim takes a step forward, “move.”
Ricky’s chin lifts. “She’s not your dog, man.”
Oh, fuck.
I feel Maksim’s temper snap like a live wire.
He doesn’t reach for his gun.
He just goes.
One second he’s beside the door, the next he’s closing the distance in a few long strides, all controlled violence and coiled muscle, shoulders bunching like he’s going to drive Ricky straight into the concrete.
I react before I think.
“Stop!” I shove myself in front of Ricky, palms out, catching Maksim’s chest.
It’s like hitting a wall. The force vibrates up my arms.
His momentum checks, barely. His breath slams out of him, hot against my face. He doesn’t step back. Doesn’t give me space. He just… redirects, looming over me instead.
His eyes never leave Ricky.
Not once.
I’ve been close to him—too close. Pressed to cold metal and leather and expensive fabric of that damn couch.
But this is different. His breathing is rough, harsh, like it hurts him to hold it in.
There’s something almost monstrous in his expression, carved sharp and cold, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle ticking.
I don’t understand it.
“Maks,” I say quietly, fingers curling in his shirt. “Look at me.”
He doesn’t.
His gaze stays locked over my head, on the man behind me, like he’s already calculating angles. How hard he needs to hit, what bones he’ll break first.
“Maksim,” I try again, louder this time.
His hand snaps up so fast I flinch.
It clamps around my arm. Hard.
“Ah,” escapes me before I can register it.
His grip is harder than he’s ever held me. His fingers bite into my bicep, thumb pressing against the bone. Not enough to break, but enough that I know I’ll see his grip in purple tomorrow.
My breath stutters.
“Let go of her,” Ricky snarls behind me, starting forward.
Jace moves too, a step to the side, shoulders tense like he’s ready to pull Maksim off me if he has to.
“No.” I jerk my head at them, eyes wide. “Don’t. I’m fine.”
I’m not sure I am.
My pulse is a jackhammer in my throat. Fear and something else tangling under my skin.
Maksim’s attention finally drops from Ricky to me. Just for a second.
His eyes are burning.
“Fine?” he repeats softly, like the word is a joke only he can hear.
I swallow. “Just…stop.”
He doesn’t.
He shifts his grip, hand sliding from my arm to the back of my thigh in one brutal, efficient motion. Before I can process what’s happening, I’m airborne.
“Maks—”
He hauls me up and over his shoulder.
The world flips.
My stomach lurches as my view turns into his back, the warehouse floor, the tops of crates. My hands slam into his spine on instinct. I grab his jacket to keep from falling, my cheek pressed to the hard line of his shoulder blade.
“Ayla!” Kay squeaks somewhere to my left.
“Put her down,” Ricky snaps.
“Stay out of this,” Maksim growls, voice edged with something that makes the hair on my arms lift. “This is between me and her.”
His arm locks across the backs of my thighs, iron and inescapable. Each step jars through me as he storms toward the door.
Usually, I’d be kicking, clawing, doing anything to get away. Usually, I’d make a scene just on principle.
But Kay’s eyes are huge and shiny. Ricky looks like he’s about to get himself killed. Jace is tense and silent, jaw clenched.
I don’t want to drag them deeper into this.
So I grit my teeth and stay still.
For now.
The warehouse air falls away as Maksim shoulders through the door into the night. The sudden change in temperature slaps my bare skin, cool wind knifing under my jacket. The sounds inside—fan, quiet voices, tension—cut off as the door swings shut behind us.
The second it does, I explode.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I start pounding on his back with both fists. “Put me down, Maksim!”
He ignores me.
I hit harder, knuckles stinging.
“Stop fucking manhandling me like I’m cargo—”
“Keep hitting me,” he grinds out, voice dark and low. “See how that goes for you.”
The threat isn’t even specific. It doesn’t have to be.
His whole body is vibrating with anger. Not the cool, collected rage he uses in meetings.
Not even the flirtatious primal taunt he usually uses with me.
This is something rawer. Older. Like whatever he’s holding back is scraping his insides bloody.
He heads for the car parked near the loading dock—a black sedan. He stops at the rear. I hear the soft mechanical click of the trunk releasing.
My blood turns to ice.
“No.” I twist against his hold, finally kicking, boots thudding against his chest and stomach. “No. Maksim, don’t you dare. Do not put me in the trunk.”
He shifts me higher on his shoulder when I start to slip, his grip a band of steel over the backs of my legs.
“I’ll get in the car,” I rush out. Panic strips the edge off my voice. “I’ll get in the fucking car, okay? I’ll sit where you want, I’ll go where you want. Just—don’t put me in there.”
He lowers me then.
For one stupid hopeful second, I think he’s listening.
My feet barely brush the bumper before his hand hooks behind my knees and sweeps them out from under me, sending me backward. I grab for him and catch nothing but air.
I drop into the open trunk, spine hitting the carpeted floor, breath knocking out of me in a shocked grunt.
I stare up at him, pulse roaring in my ears.
His face is a mask. Shadow and fury and restraint. His breathing is still hard, chest rising and falling under the dark fabric of his shirt.
“Too late, Ayla,” he says, voice flat and lethal. “You’re pissing me the fuck off.”
“Maks—”
The lid slams.
Darkness swallows me.