17. Zoya
ZOYA
T he apartment building rises above us as the car pulls to the curb, all concrete and glass that cuts against the Moscow sky.
I'm still wearing the dress from the ceremony—cream silk that feels foreign on my skin, too clean for what I've become.
My hands shake as I smooth the fabric, remembering the vows I spoke only hours ago.
Words that bound me to a man sitting inches away from me.
Maksim opens my door without waiting for the driver.
His eyes don't meet mine as he offers his hand.
Even he knows what I am now—property, a transaction completed.
I walk across the sidewalk on unsteady legs, the marble lobby ahead gleaming under harsh fluorescent lights.
The elevator ride to his floor passes in silence, both of us staring at the climbing numbers.
Inside, the apartment is quieter than a tomb.
Maksim moves directly to the window in his living room while I stand near the door, unsure of my place here.
He's still wearing his suit from the ceremony, but the tie is gone and his shirt is unbuttoned at the collar.
Two glasses of champagne wait on the table beside him, bubbles rising in the amber liquid.
He turns when he realizes I haven't moved.
"So," he says, and his voice carries something I can't identify. Relief, maybe. Or resignation. "We're married."
"Yes," I say, though the word feels strange in my mouth. "We are."
He crosses to me in three strides, his movements fluid and controlled. When he reaches me, he doesn't speak. He cups my face in his hands, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones, and leans down. His lips find mine before either of us has said another word.
The kiss is different from the one at the altar—deeper, hungrier. His mouth moves against mine with an urgency that makes my knees weak. I taste champagne on his tongue and something darker underneath. When he pulls back, I notice the split in his bottom lip again.
"You're bleeding," I say, reaching up to touch the cut. He catches my wrist before I can make contact.
"It's nothing."
"It's not nothing. What happened?"
His jaw tightens. "Your brother paid me a visit after the ceremony."
My stomach drops. "Damir was there?"
"He was waiting in the parking lot when I came out. Made his feelings about the marriage very clear." Maksim releases my wrist and turns toward the champagne glasses. "Then he left."
"He hit you?"
"Among other things." He hands me one of the glasses, but I don't drink. I watch his face, searching for more, anxious to know Damir is alive and okay. So Maksim's plan to draw Damir out worked, but that doesn't mean they were successful in hurting him.
"What did he say?"
"That I should stay away from his sister. That you deserve better than this." His eyes meet mine over the rim of his glass. "That you deserve something bigger."
The words sting, but I feel honored that Damir stood up for me. "And what did you tell him?"
"That maybe he's right." He sets down his glass and steps closer. "Maybe you do deserve something bigger. Maybe you always did."
I want to pull away from him, want to put distance between us and this conversation. But my feet won't move. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't try to make this into something it's not. Don't pretend this is about what I deserve."
His hand finds the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. "What if it is? What if I want it to be?"
I should step back. Now is when I should remind him that Damir is my brother and that what happens to him affects me. I should ask for his life... But when Maksim looks at me this way, with those cold hazel eyes turned warm, I forget all the reasons this is wrong.
"Maksim..." I start, but he silences me with another kiss.
This time, I don't resist. I let him pull me closer, let his hands roam down my back and settle at my waist. The champagne glass slips from my fingers and shatters on the hardwood floor, but neither of us stops to look.
"I need to know," I whisper against his mouth. "About Damir. About why he really came here."
He pulls back just enough to study my face. "Why do you think he came?"
"Because he's my brother. Because he's family." I press my palms against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my hands. "And if he's family to me, then maybe... maybe you'll show him mercy because I'm your wife now."
His expression shifts, becomes unreadable again. "Is that what you want? Mercy for your brother?"
"I want the truth."
"The truth is complicated."
"Then uncomplicate it."
He stares at me for a long moment, and I can see him weighing his options. Finally, he speaks. "Your brother is in deep with people who don't forgive mistakes. The batch that killed Alexei—it wasn't random. Someone wanted him dead, and they used Damir's supply to do it."
"You think Damir knew?"
"I think Damir has been playing a game none of us understood." His hands tighten on my waist. "And now he's running scared."
Damir, my brother who raised me, who taught me to survive in this world—could he really be capable of murder? Could he have looked the other way while someone used his drugs to kill?
"I don't believe it," I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know they sound hollow.
"Belief doesn't change facts."
"And facts don't change family."
He studies me for another moment, then nods slowly. "No. They don't."
The admission feels fragile between us, a small crack in the wall he keeps around himself. I want to push further, want to ask more questions, but something in his eyes stops me. Instead, I reach up and touch his split lip again, and this time, he doesn't pull away.
"Does it hurt?"
"No."
"Liar."
His mouth curves slightly at the corners. "Are you going to kiss it better?"
The question is teasing, but his voice carries an edge of something deeper. Heat spreads through my chest, settling low in my belly. "Maybe."
He backs me against the wall, his hands braced on either side of my head. The plaster is cool against my shoulders through the thin silk of my dress. His mouth finds mine again, and this time there's no hesitation. I taste blood from his split lip, metallic and sharp, but I don't pull away.
His hands slide down to my waist, then lower, gathering the fabric of my dress. The silk whispers against my skin as he lifts it, his knuckles brushing against my thighs and when his fingers trace the edge of my underwear, all rational thought disappears.
"Zoya," he breathes against my neck, and my name sounds different in his mouth. Not the harsh consonants I'm used to, but something softer. Something that makes my chest ache.
I reach for the buttons of his shirt, my fingers clumsy with need.
He helps me, pulling the fabric over his head and tossing it aside.
His chest is lean and defined, the tattoos on his arms extending across his shoulders in intricate patterns.
I trace one with my fingertip—a skull wrapped in thorns—and feel him shiver under my touch.
He steps back and runs his palm down the front of my dress, eyes fixed on where the silk clings to my skin. “Take it off.”
I reach for the straps and ease them over my shoulders, letting the fabric fall to the floor in a soft puddle around my feet. The lace beneath feels too delicate, too bridal. He stares like he’s already stripping it away in his mind.
“Turn around.”
I shift under the weight of his voice and pivot slowly, letting him see me from every angle. His hand lands at the base of my spine, firm and possessive as he walks me toward the nearest wall. I plant my palms against it when he stops behind me.
His hand slides over the curve of my ass, then slips lower. He peels the lace down with slow precision, baring me fully before stepping in. The rough press of his slacks against the backs of my thighs makes me shiver.
His hands spread steadily across my hips, and I feel the hard press of his cock through his slacks, thick against my ass as he leans in close. His mouth brushes my ear.
“Stay just like that.”
The sound of his zipper breaking open sends a bolt of heat straight to my core.
I hear the rustle of fabric, the low hiss of his breath as he frees himself.
One hand slips between my legs, fingers sliding through my slick folds.
He doesn’t tease. He just grunts low and pulls back to line himself up.
Then he drives into me in one brutal thrust.
My palms slap the wall. My body jolts forward, stretched wide around his thick length. He fills me completely, hips locked against mine, and I cry out—half in shock, half in pleasure.
“Fuck,” he growls. “You feel that? This pussy was made for me.”
He withdraws slowly and slams back in, and this time, my body takes him deeper.
The rhythm he sets is ruthless, his hands gripping my waist hard enough to bruise as he pounds into me from behind.
Every thrust forces a sound from my throat, every drag of his cock knocks the breath from my lungs.
I brace against the wall, legs shaking, moaning his name.
His rhythm turns punishing, deep... unrelenting.
Each stroke slams into the softest parts of me, dragging heat up my spine until my entire body hums with it.
My breasts brush the wall with every thrust. The rough plaster scratches lightly at my skin, grounding me in the overwhelming sensation of being used and taken.
“Listen to you,” he growls behind me. “You love this.”
I can’t speak. I can barely think. All I can do is take it—his cock driving into me again and again, his breath hot at my neck, his fingers digging into my hips as if he’s trying to leave his mark on me forever.
His hand slides between my thighs again. He finds my clit, rubbing in tight, filthy circles as he keeps fucking me from behind. The tension that’s been coiling low in my belly snaps tight. I pant against the wall, eyes fluttering shut as the pressure builds, unbearable and perfect.