15. Zoya
ZOYA
M aksim's apartment sits on the top floor of a building that overlooks the Moskva River.
The elevator ride up feels endless, and I use the time to pop another peppermint into my mouth.
The sharp taste helps with the nausea that's been creeping up on me for days now.
I tell myself it's nerves, that anyone would feel sick when their brother's life depends on how well they can seduce his executioner.
Maksim opens the door before I can knock. He's dressed casually—dark jeans and a black sweater that shows off his lean frame. His hair is still damp from a shower, and when he steps aside to let me in, I catch the scent of his soap.
"You came," he says, and there's relief in his voice that I didn't expect.
"You asked me to." I step into his living room, taking in the sparse furniture and clean lines.
Everything here is functional, expensive, and cold.
The only personal touch is a single photograph on the mantel—him and his brothers at some family gathering, all of them looking serious in expensive suits.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, moving closer.
"Fine." I turn to face him, working to keep my expression steady. "Why?"
"You've seemed tired lately." He reaches out and touches my cheek, his fingers cool against my skin. "Are you sleeping well?"
The concern in his voice throws me off balance. I've been preparing for this moment, planning how to use his attraction to me, how to make him see me as more than just Damir's sister. But the way he's looking at me right now—like he actually cares—makes my chest tighten in ways I didn't anticipate.
"I'm fine," I repeat, but my voice quavers.
"You're beautiful, Zoya." His thumb traces along my jawline. "Do you know that?"
The compliment should feel calculated, part of the game we're both playing. But when he says it, his voice drops to that low register that makes my stomach flip in ways that have nothing to do with morning sickness.
"Maksim—"
"I know this is fast," he says, his other hand coming up to cup my face. "But I'm sure about this. About us. Are you?"
I should say yes, should lean into the role I've been playing, let him think I'm as invested as he is. But standing here in his apartment, with his hands on my face and his eyes searching mine, the words stick in my throat.
"I think so," I whisper, and it's closer to the truth than I want to admit.
He leans down and kisses me then like he's asking permission. When I don't pull away, he deepens it, his hands sliding into my hair. The kiss tastes dangerous because it is, but I find myself kissing him back despite every rational thought screaming at me to stay focused.
When we break apart, I'm panting. "This is happening so fast," I tell him, because even if it means Damir lives, it also means I'm walking into something I can't possibly understand. Maksim makes me feel things, but that doesn't mean those things are good things for me in the long run.
"It doesn't have to be complicated." His forehead rests against mine, and I can feel his breath warm against my lips. "Tomorrow, we'll be married. Tonight, we can just be ourselves."
The word "married" sends a jolt through me. Tomorrow, I'll walk down an aisle and promise to love and honor a man I'm supposed to be manipulating. Tomorrow, I'll wear white and smile for photographs while hoping that becoming his wife will make him show mercy to my brother.
But tonight, in this apartment that smells like his soap and feels like a sanctuary, I can let myself want him.
"Okay," I say.
He kisses me again, deeper this time, and I let myself fall into it. His hands move to my waist, pulling me closer until there's no space left between us. When he lifts me up, I wrap my legs around his waist and hold on.
The bedroom is as sparse as the living room, dominated by a king-sized bed with dark sheets. He sets me down gently, his hands already working at the buttons of my blouse. I should feel exposed, vulnerable, but instead I feel wanted in a way that makes my pulse race.
"You're incredible," he murmurs against my neck, and the words send heat spiraling through me.
This time, when he says it, I believe him completely.
He kisses the hollow of my throat, then lower, dragging his mouth across my collarbone like he’s memorizing it.
One hand cradles the back of my head, the other traces slowly down my ribcage.
There’s nothing hurried about the way he touches me.
No sharp edges. No demands. Just heat—low and rising—and the steady unraveling of whatever shield I thought I had left.
“You always do this to me,” he says quietly, lips brushing my skin. “One look, and I forget everything else.”
I bite down on a sound that feels too close to guilt and pull him in, burying my fingers in his hair. “Then stop looking. Just fuck me already.”
He groans low in his throat, and the way he kisses me after that is different—rougher, less careful. His hands find my waist, dragging me flush against him, his body solid and warm through the layers of our clothes.
I feel the pressure of his hard cock against my jeans, and I reach between us, unfastening his belt with fingers that tremble more than I want them to.
He doesn’t stop me. He helps, pulling his sweater off over his head, tugging his shirt free, and his skin—marked with dark ink—is already glistening with sweat.
My blouse is already open. He pushes it off my shoulders, then drags the straps of my bra down just far enough to expose me. His mouth is on me a second later—no hesitation, just heat. He sucks one nipple into his mouth and groans when I arch into it, my fingers tangling in his hair.
The sensation is erotic, my hand on his dick, his mouth on my bare flesh. I should be ashamed, but I’m hungry, desperate for him. He’s the only man who has ever made me feel this needy and yet so alive at the same time.
“Always so fucking responsive,” he mutters. “You know what that does to me?”
Maksim's hand slides down my stomach, under the waistband of my jeans.
His gaze leaves me breathless, and I can't look away from the hunger in his eyes.
He's so close now, his heat enveloping me, his scent invading my senses. He dips his head and kisses me again, and I’m lost in him.
This time, there's need—desperate, all-consuming need in the way his mouth meets mine.
His tongue slides against mine, claiming me as his, and I find myself responding in kind.
“Off,” he says, already tugging my jeans. “Now.”
I lift my hips, and he strips them down with my panties, not bothering to be careful.
The denim catches at my knees. He pushes it the rest of the way and spreads me open with both hands.
He seems captivated by the sight of my bare body spread out before him.
His eyes roam over every inch of me, as if he can't believe I'm really here, really his.
“Look at you,” he breathes. “So fucking wet.” He brushes his fingertips along my thighs, sending goosebumps dancing across my skin. My breath catches in my throat as he leans in to trail kisses along my inner thighs, his tongue swirling patterns that leave me weak in the knees.
“Is this all for me?” he asks, dragging his mouth higher. His breath is hot against the slick center of me. “All this moisture? I make you do this? Tell me.”
I thread my fingers into his hair. “It’s all for you,” I whisper because it’s true. He does this to me—fucks with my head, makes me want things I should hate.
His tongue slides through me, slow and deep, until my hips jerk against his mouth. He groans like he’s starving for it, hands gripping my thighs as he pins me to the bed and eats me like he has no plans to stop.
“You taste so fucking good,” he mutters between strokes. “You’re already shaking.” He sucks my clit into his mouth, tongue flicking hard and fast, relentless now. The pressure builds sharp and fast in my core, my body writhing under his hold.
“Maksim—” My voice cracks. “Fuck, don’t stop.”
“You gonna come for me like this?” he growls. “On my mouth?”
“Yes. Right there… Fuck, right there.”
His tongue dances mercilessly over the sensitive bundle of nerves at my center, each flick a torment of pleasure that unravels my composure strand by strand.
I clutch at the sheets beneath me as if they are the only things anchoring me to this world, the fabric twisted in my fists.
His relentless attention on my clit becomes its own rhythm, a pulsing, driving force that I can neither escape from nor want to.
The sensation builds with devastating speed, a crescendo of heat and sensation that blurs the lines between pain and ecstasy.
My breath comes in ragged gasps, lungs burning from lack of air, yet I cannot seem to remember how to breathe properly.
It feels as though an electric current binds us—his hands firm on my thighs, holding me in place for his eager exploration.
Every stroke of his tongue sends sparks shooting up my spine, each one a promise of something exquisite just beyond reach.
When the waves of pleasure slow, I find myself breathless and panting for air, still aching between my legs for more as he stands and shoves his pants down, stroking his thick cock as he eyes me. Its head is sticky and glistening with desire.
His thumb rolls over the tip, spreading precum with a slow swipe that makes my mouth go dry. His eyes stay locked on mine as he steps closer.
“You going to lie there shaking,” he murmurs, “or are you going to let me fuck you now?”
I reach for him. “I’m not going to beg, Maksim.”
“You don’t have to,” he says, climbing over me. “You already look ruined.” His cock drags against the inside of my thigh as he settles between my legs. I shift to guide him in, but he grabs my wrist and pins it beside my head.