Chapter 29 Maksim
Maksim
Icrank the music up until the bass rattles the rearview.
It doesn’t drown her out completely.
She’s still kicking, still pounding on the inside of the trunk, muffled shouts bleeding through the metal like she thinks sheer willpower can bend steel.
They said I was vulnerable.
Fucking vulnerable.
Vaska with his calm eyes and quiet judgment. You’re in too deep with her too fast. That makes you vulnerable.
Maybe I am.
Because she has a townhouse that most people would kill for. Clothes. Food. Guards on rotation. My bed. My time.
And her ass is with Fuentes’ crew in a warehouse that smells like rot and regret.
I slam my palm against the steering wheel, jaw grinding.
Of course she ran back to them. Of course she did.
I take the turn too fast, tires skidding, anger tightening my grip until the leather creaks.
The music swells, some Russian track I’m not even hearing. All I hear is her in the back—thuds, kicks, the dull echo of her voice, stubborn and stupid and so fucking her.
“Should’ve left you there,” I mutter under my breath. “Shot all four of you in the skull.”
The thought lands like a punch to my own sternum.
I slam the brakes.
Hard.
The car screeches, nose dipping. From the back, there’s a heavy thud followed by a pained gasp that’s more felt than heard.
Then—Silence.
The music keeps going.
But she doesn’t.
My fingers tighten around the wheel until my knuckles go white.
Good, I tell myself. Maybe she finally passed out. Easier to deal with. Easier to carry without all the kicking and screaming.
Except the image that hits me isn’t her yelling.
It’s her sitting on Moronov’s exam table. Skin mottled with bruises, purple and yellow and sick blue over ribs that weren’t knitting right. The way she flinched when she pressed on her skin.
And she still won’t tell me who did that to her.
“Fuck,” I snarl, slamming my foot back on the gas.
The car lurches forward, engine growling as I push it harder, faster. Streets blur—sidewalks, neon, the city’s rotten heartbeat pounding against the windows. I cut through traffic without thinking, every second she stays quiet in that trunk scraping down my nerves.
If she hurt herself when I hit the brakes—if I hurt her…
Another curse tears out of me, low and rough.
I take the alley behind Exile on instinct, tires spitting gravel as I whip the car into the lot. The back of the club looms ahead, brick and metal and the faint thump of bass vibrating through the walls.
I kill the engine.
For a second, I just sit there, hands still locked on the wheel, pulse hammering.
She’s still quiet.
I climb out, the cold night air slapping my face, and round the back of the car. My chest feels too tight. I thumb the latch.
The trunk pops with a soft click and lifts a few inches.
I don’t even get the lid fully open before she explodes out of it.
She lunges like a spring released, hands locking onto me—shirt, shoulders, anything she can grab. Her weight hits my chest hard enough that I rock back a step on instinct.
She doesn’t waste it.
She uses the momentum, legs snapping up, thighs clamping around my neck. She twists, body flipping with that feral, desperate grace she gets when she thinks it’s her last chance.
She pulls me down.
I could plant my feet and fight it.
I don’t.
I let my knees bend with the force, guiding the fall, taking it into the pavement in a controlled drop instead of letting us both crack skulls. The world tilts, and then I’m on my back on the asphalt with Ayla on top of me, breath hot and ragged, hair wild around her face.
Her hand is already moving.
She pulls her knife from God knows where and brings the blade to my throat in one smooth, trembling motion.
Cold steel kisses my skin.
Her eyes are wild.
There’s a heartbeat where we just breathe at each other, the knife pressing just enough to let me know she’s serious.
Then I move.
My hand snaps up, palm striking her wrist. The knife jerks aside. Before she can adjust, I knock it from her grip with a sharp, practiced hit, the blade skittering across the pavement with a metallic scrape.
Her eyes flare.
I catch her other wrist before she can swing.
She startles, but I’m already rolling, using my weight, flipping our positions so fast her breath leaves her in a shocked sound. I pin her to my chest instead of the ground, hauling her tight against me.
She squirms, furious, breath coming fast.
“When you pull a weapon,” I growl into her ear, voice low and lethal, “you use it or you run.”
She goes still.
I squeeze once, hard.
“Now cut the shit,” I continue. “I have to be here. Which means you’re going in with me.”
She’s breathing hard, chest heaving against mine. I can feel her pulse hammering at her throat.
“You can walk in,” I say, loosening my grip just enough that she knows I’m giving her a choice, “or I can drag your ass in. Your choice.”
She lifts her head, eyes locking on mine in the dim lot light.
Angry.
She looks furious. Jaw tight, lips pressed together, nostrils flared.
But under that, in those deep brown eyes, there’s something else.
Fear.
Fuck.
I hate it.
I hate that I can tell now. Hate that I can see every crack in her armor like it’s been wired into me.
“Fine,” she bites out finally.
I hold her for a second longer, just to make sure.
Then I let go.
She scrambles up first, dusting off her jeans with shaky hands, chin up like that will erase the fact she just busted out of my trunk and tried to slit my throat.
I get to my feet more slowly, watching her. Measuring the distance between us. Measuring the distance from the back door to the street.
If she runs, I’ll catch her.
I jerk my chin toward the rear entrance of Exile.
“Walk,” I say.
She glares at me, but her feet move.
Smart girl.
I fall in step just behind her shoulder, close enough that if she stumbles, I’ll feel it. Close enough that anyone watching from the shadows will think twice.
The bass from the club grows louder as we approach the door. I punch in the code, metal clicking, and push it open.
She hesitates for half a heartbeat on the threshold.
Then Ayla steps into my world, and I follow her in. The club’s bass pulses through the walls, vibrating up through my boots. My hand finds the small of her back, her body trembles slightly. I direct her up the stairs and down a hall to my office. I punch the code and open the door.
“In,” I clip.
She walks in I follow her and slam the door behind us.
She spins on me immediately, eyes blazing. “You put me in the fucking trunk.”
“You ran,” I snap back. “What did you think would happen?”
“I went to see my friends—”
“Without permission.”
Her jaw drops. “Permission? Are you fucking serious right now?”
I step closer, forcing her back until her spine hits my desk. “You’re mine, Ayla. That means I know where you are. That means you don’t disappear into some shithole warehouse in the middle of the night.”
“They’re my friends!”
“They’re criminals.” The words come out harsher than I intend.
She freezes. “And what the fuck are you?”
“I’m the fucking Pakhan,” I growl, advancing on her again. “And you just left the house I put you in to visit a warehouse full of thugs. Why, because you’re fucking Fuentes?”
She stiffens, eyes widening for a fraction of a second before narrowing again. “Yeah, in the ten minutes between the time I got there and the time you showed up.”
“Then why the fuck were you there?” I demand, voice dropping lower. “Why sneak out? Why run back to that shithole when you have everything you need right here?”
She laughs—a bitter, sharp sound that scrapes down my spine. “Everything I need? You mean clothes you picked, food you bought, a house you own? But I’m not allowed to leave.”
“You go, I go, Ayla. That’s what you said, that’s what you wanted.”
“And yet, where the fuck were you?” She steps closer, defiant. “Because the only reason I could leave was because you didn’t take me where you went!”
“I was with my family—”
“And I was with mine!” she bites.
“They’re going to get you killed,” I mutter. “Or worse.”
Ayla’s eyes narrow. “Worse than what? Being thrown in a trunk? Being dragged away like property?”
I step closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off her skin, see the pulse jumping in her throat. But she doesn’t shrink.
“I put you in that trunk,” I say slowly, “because I was five seconds from putting a bullet in Fuentes skull for looking at you like he owned you first.”
Her breath catches. I watch the realization spread across her face—the anger in my actions wasn’t just possessiveness.
“Ricky is my friend,” she says, quieter now. “That’s it.”
“The way he stepped in front of you says otherwise.”
“The way he stepped in front of me is what friends do.” Her voice wavers slightly. “They protect each other.”
I lean in, bracing my hands on the desk on either side of her hips, caging her. “And what am I doing?”
Her eyes meet mine, steady and unflinching. “I don’t know Maksim, what are you doing?”
The question lands like a blade between my ribs.
“You’re ruining me,” the words scrape from my throat.
“Then let me go.”
My fingers curl against the wood. “Don’t say that.”
Her face hardens. “Let me go.”
My jaw flexes, anger and hurt twisting together. Before I can stop myself, I’ve got her face in my hands, fingers threading into her hair, tilting her chin up.
“Tell me you regret me,” I challenge, voice rough. “Tell me you want to go back to that warehouse and back to that fucking life. Tell me you don’t want this.”
She doesn’t answer. Her eyes search mine.
“I just want a choice,” she whispers finally.
I press my forehead to hers, breathing in that fucking sweet scent slowly. “I don’t think I can give you that, but I’m…”
I can’t finish the sentence. I don’t have the words to explain myself. My thumb traces the line of her jaw, pressing into the softness of her skin.
“I shouldn’t have put you in the trunk.”
I take a breath.
“I saw red.”
Her hands come up to grip my wrists, holding. “What is this? I’ve never seen you like that before.”
I close my eyes briefly. “I don’t know. I don’t know what this is. But it makes me so fucking violent. I’m a weapon, Ayla, I was forged like this and I won’t share you. Not with friends, not with family. Not even with yourself.”
The admission costs me something. I can feel it tear free, leaving something exposed.
When I open my eyes again, she’s staring at me with an expression I can’t read. Her fingers tighten on my wrists. Her eyes don’t have fear anymore.
“If I’m a weapon, Ayla... then I’m yours.”
Something in her eyes shifts.
Her mouth slams into mine. And all I taste is war in her surrender.
Blood and fury and the sweet copper tang of everything she’s been holding back. I don’t kiss her—I devour her. Teeth clashing, tongue forcing past her lips like I’m trying to crawl inside her soul and never leave.
My hands are already punishing: one fists her hair so hard I feel strands snap at the root, the other clamps around her throat, reminding her windpipe who owns the air she breathes.
She moans into my mouth, the sound raw and broken, and it snaps the last leash I had on myself.
Her nails dig into my shoulders, but she’s not pushing me away; she’s pulling me closer, her body arching into mine.
I growl low in my throat, the sound vibrating between us, and shove her harder against the desk.
Papers scatter, something metallic clatters to the floor, but I don’t give a fuck.
Nothing matters except her heat, her mouth, the way her thighs part instinctively when I press between them.
I break the kiss just long enough to bite her lower lip, hard enough to draw a whimper.
“You drive me insane,” I rasp against her skin, trailing my mouth down her jaw, her throat.
I suck at the pulse point there, feeling it hammer under my tongue.
Her hands claw at my shirt, yanking it up, nails raking over my abs.
The sting goes straight to my cock, already straining against my jeans.
“Fuck, Maks,” she breathes, voice breaking. It’s not a plea; it’s a demand.
She shrugs out of her jacket.
I tear off mine, pull off my shirt, drop it before I’m on her again.
I grab the hem of her top and rip it up over her head, tossing it somewhere into the shadows of the office. No bra—she’s going to kill me.
Her tits are perfect, nipples already hard, begging. I dip my head and take one in my mouth, sucking hard, teeth grazing. She arches off the desk with a cry, her fingers twisting in my hair, pulling. Pain sparks pleasure, fueling the fire.
My free hand works her jeans open, shoving them down her hips along with her panties. She kicks off her boots, helping me strip her.
Her legs wrap around my waist as I straighten, grinding against me, wet and ready. I can feel her cunt through my clothes. I shove her back onto the desk, sweeping my arm across the surface. The laptop teeters and crashes to the floor with a shatter—fuck it, I’ll buy a new one.
She’s sprawled out beneath me, chest heaving, eyes dark with want. I undo my belt, my zipper, freeing myself. She’s watching, lips parted, and when she reaches for me, I catch her wrists and pin them above her head with one hand.
“No,” I say low and final, positioning myself at her entrance. She’s slick, clenching already, and I thrust inside in one brutal stroke.
She cries out.
The stretch is brutal—hot, slick walls gripping me like a fist, every rung catching and dragging fire along her inner muscles.
I feel her pulse fluttering around each barbell, her heat soaking me, dripping down my balls.
The desk groans louder than the bass thumping through the walls, wood cool under my palms as I brace harder. Fuck, she’s trouble.