10. Maksim
MAKSIM
T he Metropol's dining room glitters under crystal chandeliers.
I chose this place deliberately—not for the food, though it's excellent, but for the atmosphere.
The sort of people who come here are another class of their own.
I'm hoping it will send a message to Zoya that this is the sort of world she could belong in.
Zoya sits across from me in a black dress I had delivered to her apartment this afternoon, along with matching shoes and a pearl necklace that cost more than she makes in six months.
She's beautiful in it, but there's tension in her shoulders, in the way she holds her wine glass.
She's performing again, playing the role of a woman swept off her feet by luxury and attention.
"You look stunning," I tell her, and I mean it.
The dress fits her perfectly, hugging her slim frame in all the right places.
The pearls catch the light when she moves, drawing attention to her collarbones, her neck.
She's trying to look overwhelmed and flattered, but there's intelligence in her eyes that she can't quite hide.
"Thank you. This is... it's too much, though. The dress, the jewelry, all of this." She gestures around the dining room with its painted ceiling and gold fixtures. "I don't know what to do with generosity on this scale."
"You don't need to do anything. Just enjoy it."
She takes a sip of wine, and I watch her throat move as she swallows. "It's hard to relax when everything feels so... grand. I'm not used to places that require reservations months in advance." She catches my words and her eyes sharpen slightly before she looks down at her plate. "Will I?"
The waiter appears with our main course—duck for her, lamb for me—and I leave her question unanswered.
We eat in comfortable conversation, discussing books, music, travel.
Safe topics that let me gauge her responses, her interests, her reactions.
She's well-read despite her limited formal education, curious about the world beyond Moscow despite having never left the city.
There's depth to her that goes beyond the quiet money counter she pretends to be at the track.
"Have you traveled much?" she asks, cutting into her duck carefully.
"Some. Business takes me to various places. St. Petersburg, Kiev, sometimes farther west."
"What's it like? Being able to just... go wherever you want?"
"Liberating. But also lonely. Travel is better when you have someone to share it with."
She glances up at me, and for a moment, the performance slips. There's genuine curiosity in her expression, maybe even longing. "I've never been anywhere. Never had a reason to leave Moscow."
"Maybe that will change."
"Maybe." She returns to her meal, but I can see her thinking, processing. "Do you ever get tired of it? The constant movement, the... business obligations?"
"Sometimes. But it's the life I was born into. Family obligations don't disappear because you find them inconvenient."
"No, they don't." There's something in her voice, a note of understanding that makes me wince internally as I realize I've pointed this back toward her brother and the way she protects him. "But there has to be more than obligation. There has to be something you want for yourself."
The question surprises me with its directness. Most people don't ask what I want. They assume they know, or they're too afraid to care. "What makes you think I don't already have what I want?"
"Because you don't seem... settled. You seem like someone who's waiting for something."
Perceptive. Dangerously so. "And what am I waiting for?"
"I don't know. Maybe for someone to see past the surface. Maybe for a reason to stop moving."
The conversation is getting deeper than I expected, venturing into territory that feels too real, too honest. I reach across the table and take her hand, turning the moment physical instead of emotional.
"Is that what you're offering? A reason to stop moving?
" I have to stick to my purpose of extracting information from her and not getting sidetracked.
Her breath catches, and she looks down at our joined hands. "I don't know what I'm offering. This is all new to me."
"What part?"
"All of it. The attention, the gifts, the way you look at me. Men don't usually..." She trails off, shaking her head.
"Don't usually what?" I'm getting to her, just like Grisha told me to.
If I push a little harder, she'll be eating out of my hand and when I ask her to tell me where her brother is, she will tell me anything, do anything to keep him safe.
My promise to protect Damir will have her spilling her guts and lead me right to the man I'm hunting.
"Notice me. I'm good at being invisible, at staying in the background. It's safer that way." Zoya sighs softly and flicks a glance away from me. She's feeling uncomfortable, but it's because I think even she realizes how intimate this conversation got so quickly.
"Safer from what?"
She meets my eyes, and for a moment, I see something raw and vulnerable in her expression. "From getting hurt. From getting involved in things that are bigger than me."
"And yet here you are."
"Here I am."
I lift her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles, watching her reaction. Her pupils dilate slightly, and she doesn't pull away. The gesture is calculated, designed to blur the line between business and pleasure, but there's something genuine in the way she responds to my touch.
"I have a room upstairs," I tell her quietly. "If you'd like to get away from the crowd."
She hesitates, and I can see her weighing options, calculating risks. "I don't know if that's a good idea."
"Why not?"
"Because things will change between us." Her shoulders tense. She tries to pull away, but I hold her hand tightly.
"Things have already changed between us."
Instead of answering, she nods slowly. "All right. But just... be patient with me."
I take her hand, and we stand and head out of the dining room.
The elevator ride to the fifteenth floor is quiet, tension crackling between us.
She stands close enough that I can smell her perfume, feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
When the doors open, I place my hand on the small of her back, guiding her down the hallway to the suite I booked this afternoon.
The room is elegant without being ostentatious—cream walls, dark wood furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the city. I've stayed in places more luxurious, but this feels intimate, private. A place where barriers can come down.
"This is beautiful," she says, moving to the window. Moscow sparkles below us, lights stretching to the horizon. "I've never seen the city from this high up."
"It looks different from here, doesn't it? Less overwhelming."
"More manageable. More... comprehensible." She turns to face me, and there's something different in her expression. Less guarded, more present. "Thank you for this. For all of it. I know I haven't been the easiest person to get to know."
"You're worth the effort."
"Am I?"
The question is soft, vulnerable. I cross the room to stand in front of her, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes. "You are."
I reach up to cup her face, my thumbs brushing across her cheekbones. Her skin is soft, warm, and she leans into the touch slightly. "Zoya."
"Yes?"
"I want you to know that you're safe with me. Whatever happens, whatever you're afraid of, you're safe." The words taste like poison because I know what my brother expects, but they somehow feel sincere. Damn if my heart isn't so conflicted, I can barely think straight right now.
Something shifts in her expression—surprise, maybe, or recognition. "Why would you say that?"
"Because I can see that you're scared. You're trying to hide it, but you're scared of something. And I want you to know that as long as you're with me, nothing will hurt you."
Her eyes search my face, looking for deception or manipulation. "How can you promise that?"
"Because I don't make promises I can't keep."
She reaches up to cover my hands with hers, holding them against her face. "I don't know how to believe that."
"Then let me show you."
I lean down and kiss her, slow and careful, giving her time to pull away if she wants to. She doesn't. Instead, she kisses me back, her hands sliding up to grip my shoulders. There's still hesitation in her response, but less than before. The barriers are coming down, piece by piece.
When we break apart, she's breathing hard, her cheeks flushed. "Maksim."
Her breath fans across my jaw as I lower my mouth to hers again.
She parts her lips, and I take full advantage, sliding my tongue against hers as my hands move from her face to the zipper at the back of her dress.
She shivers when I pull it down, exposing the smooth curve of her back.
I step closer, pressing against her, letting her feel what she’s doing to me.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” I murmur against her mouth. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you."
Zoya’s hands grip the front of my jacket, then slide underneath, pushing it off my shoulders. It hits the floor without a sound. Her fingers move to my buttons, clumsy at first, then more sure as the heat between us grows.
“I don’t do this,” she whispers. “I don’t go to hotels with men I barely know.”
“You know me well enough,” I say, brushing my lips along her neck. “And you want this. Just say it.”
She exhales sharply, her dress slipping down her hips. It pools at her feet, and she steps out of it, wearing only the necklace and a thin scrap of lace for a pair of panties. Her nipples are already hard, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.
“I want it,” she says. “I want you.” Her eyes aren't lying, pupils blown wide in desire as she looks up at me.