Chapter 17
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
KIRA
What alien has taken over Maxim's body and replaced him with this .
.. caveman? Sure, the touchy-feely act is just for show, but earlier tonight at dinner, he didn't seem interested in any display.
He barely looked my way. Maybe the alcohol helped him loosen up enough to realize we weren't acting like a newly married couple. Then again, Maxim doesn’t care about others' opinions. He doesn’t need to.
I glance across the room where he’s engaged in conversation with Tim, the younger man hanging onto his every word. Shivers run down my spine as I recall the rough warmth of his hand sliding down my leg and his whisper in my ear.
“Let them see how your husband affects you. How much you crave his cock. Don’t you, lastochka?”
My pussy clenches thinking about his dirty words whispered against my skin in a roomful of people.
He’s finally abandoned his suit jacket and his tailored white shirt is casually unbuttoned at the top, with sleeves pushed up to his elbows revealing powerful forearms. The way he sits back, knees apart, causing the fabric of his pants to pull taut. .. My goodness, is it hot in here?
As if he senses me staring, his intense eyes connect with mine. An amused expression hints he's aware I was enjoying the view. I glare back at him.
I’d like to say I didn’t appreciate his wandering lips and hands, but it wouldn’t be true. I may hate him, but my body did not get the memo.
I’ve missed everything Grigor has said to me in the last two minutes, but I do catch him saying, “You must see this Valentin Serov piece.”
He gently takes my elbow, guiding me towards the foyer, where several art pieces adorn the walls. Among them are some rare Russian masterpieces.
God, I had no idea the mayor was so stinking rich, but then again, if Pyotr is doing business with Maxim, it means he has his hands in all kinds of pots. As we’re admiring the Serov painting, a slithery presence enters into the room.
I know immediately who I will find when I turn around.
The creepy-ass mayor who has been throwing me lusty looks all night.
Even if he’s a sleazeball, he’s also the man I need to talk with if I'm going to learn about Maxim’s involvement in my aunt’s death.
Maxim warned me against being alone with him, but I can handle myself.
I’ve certainly dealt with my fair share of assholes.
Anatoly’s revelation still burns beneath my skin. Why would Maxim neglect to tell me about his connection to my father? I know we haven’t had deep talks, but it’s highly suspect that this never came up between us.
Turning on a megawatt smile, I turn to the mayor approaching us and carrying two full glasses of champagne.
“I noticed your hands were empty, my dear.” He passes me one of the glasses and keeps the other for himself. “We can’t have that.”
“Thank you. So thoughtful,” I say, trying not to puke in my mouth. “About that antique sword collection—I’d love to see it if you have the time.”
The man’s eyes widen like he won the lottery. “I’d like nothing more.”
Grigor clears his throat. “I’d be interested in taking a look myself if you don’t mind—”
“Sorry, not much room down there.” Pyotr shrugs. “I try to control the humidity. Too many bodies… You know how it is.”
Grigor shoots me a concerned look, but I don’t want him to worry so I wink and murmur so only he can hear, “If I’m not back in twenty minutes, send help.” It’s a joke meant to disarm him, but he laughs nervously.
Great.
Pyotr leads me down a long flight of stairs, the sound of our footsteps echoing in the narrow hallway. We arrive at a heavy wooden door that Pyotr pushes open to reveal a cozy room with an arched ceiling. Swords of every size, shape, and vintage are hung meticulously.
Maybe it would be kind of cool if the mayor wasn’t standing so close to me I can feel his breath on my neck. I move further into the room, wanting to put as much space as possible between us.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Pyotr walks slowly along the display, a reverent touch on each piece, as I feign interest. "Each sword has a story, a part of our rich history."
"It's magnificent,” I say with forced enthusiasm, which naturally Pyotr takes to mean I want to hear the history of each piece.
Twenty minutes later, I know more about Damascus steel sabers and the curved Cossack shashkas, than I’ll ever need to.
“Come sit. Let’s have a drink.” Pyotr gestures to the far side of the room, where a little sitting area is set up—a plush burgundy sofa in front of a grand fireplace.
The mayor moves to a small bar cart and pours two glasses of amber-hued cognac. Not that I have any intention of drinking around him—I’ve long abandoned the champagne from earlier. But this is my chance to pump the man for information, so I lower myself onto the cushion.
No sooner have I made myself comfortable than Pyotr is right beside me, handing me a glass. His proximity is unsettling; he sits too close, his thigh almost touching mine.
There’s an intensity in his eyes as he raises his glass for a toast. “To new friendships,” he says, his voice low and too intimate. “Now, I want to hear all about you. Maxim has said very little about his new bride.”
I smile demurely. “Oh, I’m not very interesting. But since you’re such good friends with my husband, I was hoping you can tell me more about him. He’s so tightly guarded, even with me.”
The mayor chortles. "That's Maxim for you, a mystery. But I'd be more than happy to help in any way I can..." His fingers brush lightly along my leg.
I have to suppress a shudder of revulsion. His touch elicits the exact opposite effect of my husband's.
I clear my throat and shift out of his reach. “I hear nothing happens in this city without Maxim's approval, is that true?”
“He's is not the only powerful man in this city.” He puffs out his chest as if he can compete with Maxim’s raw masculinity and commanding presence. “There’s plenty that happens without his knowledge. In fact, as the mayor, I wield considerable power.”
“Maybe you can help me then…” I pause and give him my best sweet-and-innocent look. “I’ve always wanted to know what happened with Masha Antonov. She’s a relation, and I never really got a straight answer about how she died.”
“Ah, yes. Masha.” Pyotr’s hand comes to rest on my thigh again.
I swallow down my disgust for a hot minute because I need to hear his answer.
“It was a shame the way she was killed, wasn’t it.”
Impatience blasts through my veins. “How did she end up at that warehouse in the first place? Who lured her there? It had to be someone with considerable power to hide their involvement—” The words die in my throat as the mayor’s fingertips brush the inner seam of my panties.
I freeze, bile filling my throat.
“I’ll share what I know … but what will you do for me?”
"Nothing!" I try to push his hands away, but he holds firm. “I’m serious,” I gasp, struggling against his grip. "I’ll scream.”
“Just you try,” he snarls.
I sink my nails into his forearm and he bites out a curse, when the door suddenly swings open.
Maxim stands there, radiating an aura of barely-contained rage that drops the room’s temperature by several degrees.
"Get your fucking hands off my wife." Maxim's voice is a deadly whisper, each word dripping with menace.
Pyotr visibly pales. He withdraws his hand and scrambles to sit up straighter. "Belov, we were just discussing—"
"How I’m going to kill you?" Maxim cuts him off, stepping further into the room, his tall frame casting an imposing shadow.
“How, if I ever find you with your hands on my wife again, I will string you up by your dick and make sure you dangle there until it rips straight off of your body? Then I will personally remove each and every one of your appendages with a hacksaw until you bleed out. Is that what you were discussing?”
I'm shaken, my stomach churning with nausea from everything that’s happened, yet there's a sliver of relief in knowing how fiercely Maxim is willing to protect me. But is it really about me, or a possessive claim over what he considers his?
Pyotr's face reddens with a mix of fear and humiliation. For all his bluster and bravado, the mayor looks ready to piss himself.
"Maxim—" I begin, but he stops me with a raised hand.
“Did he hurt you?” His eyes close, and he swallows hard. “Did he do more than what I saw?”
I shake my head, and a muscle in his jaw twitches. The stoic mask he always wears slips, exposing a rare glimpse of something deeper. There's a fierceness in his eyes, but it's not about possession. Could it be that he’s actually concerned?
“It was nothing,” Pyotr says hastily, getting to his feet. He takes a handkerchief from the inner pocket of his jacket and dabs at the sweat now running down his face. "You can’t be serious. Since when have you ever cared for a woman?”
Maxim smiles, and it’s frightening. “Since now.” His eyes flicker towards me, a softening in his gaze that contrasts the harshness of his words. “We’ll call this a misunderstanding. Now you know better.”
The mayor nods frantically, like one of those bobbleheads people put on their car dashboard. At least he’s smart enough to take the out Maxim is providing.
"In that case," Maxim continues, "we will bid you a goodnight." He extends his hand to the mayor to end the night with a handshake. It's a Trojan horse if I've ever seen one.
Unfortunately for Pyotr, he doesn't see the warning signs.
As their hands meet, Maxim's clasp quickly turns from cordial to crushing.
His tightening grip is swift, ruthless, and calculated.
Pyotr's face contorts in pain, his eyes widening in a mix of shock and agony as the unmistakable sound of bones crunching under the pressure echoes through the room.
Pyotr's knees buckle, his other hand instinctively reaching out to cradle the one being crushed, trying to pry Maxim's fingers away. But it’s of no use.