Chapter 49
Ayla
Maksim is literally radiating heat. The drive from the reception to Exile was silent torture.
He throws himself into the leather chair behind the desk, papers scattering under his palm as he drags a hand through his hair.
Red strands fall forward, messy, untamed.
He looks dangerous like this; unbuttoned collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie long gone.
The man who just walked out of a wedding without a backward glance.
I lean against his desk, arms folded. “You good?”
He doesn’t look up. “No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
His gaze flicks to me then—dark, burning. “They want fucking kids. In this.”
“I heard.”
“And you don’t see how insane it is?”
I shrug one shoulder. “It’s their funeral. Literally, maybe. But it was their wedding. You could’ve waited five minutes before dropping the liability bomb.”
His laugh is short, humorless. “They need to hear it.”
“Maybe. But you didn’t have to be the one to say it.”
He stares at me for a long beat. Then he leans back, thighs spreading slightly in the chair, the movement deliberate. “Come here.”
Maksim never asks for things he needs. He demands wants, but never needs.
Not really. Maksim Korsakov doesn’t beg, doesn’t plead, doesn’t even hint most of the time.
But I know him.
I push off the desk, heels clicking softly. When I reach him, I don’t wait for permission. I slide between his knees, hands resting light on his shoulders, feeling the muscle jump under my palms.
His eyes lift to mine—burning.
I don’t say anything at first. Just lean in and kiss him slow. Once on the corner of his mouth. Once on the sharp edge of his jaw. Then lower, my lips brushing the side of his throat where his pulse is hammering.
His hands settle on my hips. A low sound rumbles in his chest.
“Ayla—”
“Shh.” I press a finger to his lips, then replace it with my mouth. “You’ve been carrying a lot. Let me take some.”
He exhales through his nose, the sound rough. His fingers flex against my hips, but he doesn’t stop me.
I sink down slowly, knees finding the floor between his spread thighs.
My hands go to his belt, unhurried. The buckle opens with a quiet snick.
I tug his pants down just enough, dipping my hand into the waistband of his underwear and pulling him out, he’s already half-hard, the silver rungs of his piercings catching the desk lamp’s low glow.
I wrap my fingers around the base, stroking once, slow. He hisses through his teeth.
“Open,” he murmurs.
I lean in, lips parting. The first touch of my tongue against the head makes him twitch.
Then I drag down with purpose, letting the flat of my tongue trace the underside.
The bars roll against it—cool metal warming fast, each rung catching slightly, bumping, sliding.
It’s textured in a way nothing else is. The first one nudges my bottom lip, then the next, a steady rhythm as I take him deeper.
They drag and catch on the soft insides of my cheeks, the sensitive underside of my tongue, sending little sparks every time I move.
He groans low, hand sliding into my hair, not forcing, just holding. Guiding.
“Fuck. Just like that.”
I hollow my cheeks, sucking harder, letting my tongue play between the rungs—flicking, swirling around each bar.
The metal rolls with every pass, a steady, addictive friction that makes my jaw ache in the best way.
He’s leaking now, salty on my tongue, mixing with the faint metallic tang of the jewelry.
His hips lift slightly, pushing deeper. I relax my throat, take him to the back, feeling the ladder press and slide all the way down. The bars massage, relentless, textured pressure that has him cursing under his breath in Russian.
“Fuck!”
I pull back slow, letting my lips drag over every rung, tongue tracing the lines between them. His grip tightens in my hair.
“Look at me.”
I lift my eyes. His are dark, pupils blown, watching my mouth stretched around him.
“Show me,” he rasps. “When I fill this mouth, you’ll keep it open and let me see before you swallow.”
Heat floods my face, my core. I nod once, barely, mouth too full to speak.
He starts moving then, small thrusts, controlled, fucking my mouth with careful brutality. The ladder drags with every slide, bars catching my tongue, rolling, bumping. I moan around him, the vibration making his thighs tense.
It doesn’t take long. He’s too wound up, too raw from the night. His breathing turns ragged, hand fisting my hair tighter.
“Fuck—now.”
He pulls out just enough, hand stroking fast over the slick length. I open wider, tongue out, waiting.
The first pulse hits my tongue—hot, thick. Then more, spilling over my lips, my tongue. I hold it there, careful, letting him see: white streaked across the pink of my tongue, pooling, some dripping down my chin.
His thumb brushes my lower lip, smearing it. “Beautiful,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Swallow.”
I close my mouth, throat working. The taste of him lingers, salt, heat and him. I swallow it down, slow, eyes never leaving his.
He exhales hard, thumb stroking my cheek now, almost tender.
“Perfect.”
I rest my forehead against his thigh for a second, catching my breath. His hand stays in my hair, petting absently, the way he does when the storm inside him finally quiets a little.
After a minute, I tilt my head up. “Feel better?”
His mouth curves, small, wicked, but softer at the edges as he tucks himself away. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”
I smirk. “I know.”
He pulls me up into his lap without warning, arms banding around me. My dress is wrinkled, lipstick probably gone, hair a disaster.
He doesn’t care.
“Do you want babies?” he asks almost so low I barely hear it.
I pull back just enough to look at him. “I had a mother only for eight years. I don’t think I’m exactly built for that.”
Something in him loosens.
Not all at once. Not enough to be noticeable. But I’m close enough to feel it, the slow exhale against my skin, the way some of the steel leaves his shoulders.
Relief.
Ugly, real relief.
His hand slides up my thigh, warm and heavy. “Good.”
I lift a brow. “Good?”
“For now,” he says.
There it is.
I study him for a second. “For now?”
“Eventually, I’ll need an heir.” His mouth twists like he already hates the words. “The Amatos are not wrong about that.”
I study him. “You say that like it disgusts you.”
“It does.”
“Because of tonight?”
He gives a short shake of his head. “Because children don’t stay children in this life. They inherit wars they didn’t start. Debts that aren’t theirs. They get used for leverage. They grow up in the middle of shit like the Armenian mess.”
I go quiet for a beat. “That happened before I was old enough to understand any of it. I just know Gabriel and Arsen had ties.”
His expression turns flat. Closed. “It’s my fault that war happened at all.”
I blink. “How?”
A pause. Then, bluntly, “Angelo and I started that fire.”
My whole body stills. “What?”
“We didn’t know Arsen and Vartan were going to be there. We were trying to get trafficked girls out of that warehouse.”
My stomach drops. “You killed Vartan?”
His jaw shifts. “Vartan was dead before we even got there.”
That lands hard. A strange, cold puzzle piece sliding into place.
If Vartan was already dead, then who—
I don’t say it.
Maksim stares at the ceiling like he can still see flames there. “When I saw Arsen, I told Angelo to go. Then I dragged his ass out.”
He lets out a humorless breath. “Should’ve left him there.”
His face is hard, but there’s something tortured underneath it. Something cold.
“If I’d known what that fucker would do after—what he’d come after, who he’d come after, I would’ve let him burn.”
My hand slides over his shoulder, thumb pressing into the hard knot of muscle there.
“For a second there you almost sounded human.”
He snorts.
I keep rubbing slow circles into his skin. “Didn’t know there was a decent man buried under all this asshole.”
He turns his head, one brow lifting. “Buried deep.”
“Clearly.”
His mouth twitches. “I’m good when it suits me.”
I hum. “That so?”
“Good to you.”
“Debatable.”
His hand slides into my hair, tipping my head back just enough. “Yet you still come in my bed.”
“For now.”
“For as long as I want.”
I smile. “Cocky.”
“Realistic.” His thumb drags along my jaw. “There won’t be anyone else, Ayla.”
That does something dangerous and warm to my insides.
“And if I ever decide I need an heir,” he says, voice low, steady, inevitable, “it’ll be you giving it to me.”
I grin. “Oh hell no. I—”
He cuts me off by hauling me closer and kissing me hard enough to steal the rest of it from my mouth.
I laugh against his lips before he swallows the sound, one hand fisting my hair, the other still spread hot over my thigh like he can’t decide whether to punish me or keep me there.
Probably both.
When he finally pulls back, his mouth brushes mine once, twice, rougher than tender but close enough to count.
“Yes, you will,” he says.
I tilt my head. “Will I?”
His gaze locks on mine, dark and absolute. “Yes. Because you’ll want to.”
That makes me shiver.
So I do the only thing I can.
I smile, slow and sharp. “Doubtful.”
His phone starts vibrating in his pocket. The change in him is instant.
His arm tightens once around me before he reaches for it, already irritated, already gone colder at the edges. I catch the name on the screen just before he answers.
Vaska.
Maksim presses the phone to his ear. “What.”
I can only hear the low murmur of Vaska’s voice on the other end, but whatever he says drains the last of the heat out of the room.
Maksim’s hand leaves my thigh.
“When?” he snaps.
Another pause.
His jaw hardens. “Who knows?”
I go still in his lap.
He listens, eyes turning flatter with every second, something dark and controlled settling over his face.
“Fine,” he says at last. “Don’t do anything until I get there.”
A beat. “No. We set it up now.”
He ends the call and shoves the phone back into his pocket.
The silence after feels heavier than before.
I search his face. “What happened?”
His gaze lands on mine, unreadable now. Closed.
“My men know who you are.”
For a second, I just stare at him.
Like if I do it long enough the words will rearrange themselves into something less bad.
They don’t.
The office feels smaller all at once. His lap under me. His arm around my waist. The taste of him still in my mouth and the ghost of something almost soft between us turning sharp so fast it makes my skin prickle.
“Your men,” I repeat, because that’s the part my brain catches on first. “As in all of them?”
“Enough of them.”
My stomach drops. “How?”
His jaw flexes. “Kaya’s gone AWOL, we’ve been hunting him. One of his men got picked up by ours trying to sell information.” His eyes stay on mine, cold and hard now. “Your name was in his mouth.”
I go very still. Of course Gabriel would do this. Ruin this for me. For Maksim.
“But I’m Bratva now—” The thought dies as soon as it leaves my mouth.
I’m not Bratva.
I’m a secret. A mistake. The hidden thing my father tucked out of sight and Gabriel used when it suited him.
Maksim’s hands bracket my face. “Hey—”
“No,” I stand, suddenly too aware of my wrinkled dress and pain in my toes from these stupid fucking heels. “What do they want? What do your men want?”
“I—”
“Do they want me to burn this damn thing off?” My voice raises as I gesture to the tattoo on my back. “Want me to leave? Do they want you to kill me? What? What do they want?!”
He’s up and in front of me before I can get another breath in.
One second I’m standing there shaking in his office, the next my back hits the edge of the desk and Maksim’s hands are on my face, hard enough to steady me, careful enough not to bruise.
“No one wants you dead.”
I laugh once, sharp and ugly. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“You don’t—”
His fingers tighten at my jaw. Not pain. Command.
“Ayla.”
That one word cuts straight through me.
I stop talking.
His eyes lock on mine, cold and bright and absolute. “Listen carefully.”
My heart is beating so hard I can feel it in my throat.
“They know whose blood you come from now,” he says. “They know Gabriel used this. Us. They know he tried to turn it into leverage.” His mouth goes hard. “They also know you’re under my roof. Under my protection. Under my mark.”
I swallow.
“And if any one of them is stupid enough to think where you come from changes anything,” he says, voice dropping lower, rougher, “I’ll put him in the ground myself.”
The room goes very quiet.
I stare at him.
He means it. Of course he means it. That’s the problem with Maksim—when he says something violent, it never sounds dramatic. Just decided.
My hands fist into the fabric of my dress. “That’s not the same as them accepting it.”
“I don’t need acceptance.”
His thumb drags once over my cheekbone, slow and cold.
“I need obedience.”