17. Zoya #2
“I want to feel you come,” he snarls. “Right now. Make a mess all over my cock.”
My orgasm tears through me. My legs buckle.
My body clenches around him, every nerve ending lit up in fire.
I scream his name, nails scraping the wall for something—anything—to hold on to.
He doesn’t stop. He drives into me through every wave, hips slamming against my ass, until he spills inside me with a savage groan.
He keeps moving, slower now but just as deep, grinding into me as his cock pulses inside me.
My body jerks with each aftershock, overstimulated and raw, but I don’t tell him to stop.
I don’t want him to. His hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back until my cheek scrapes the wall.
He licks the sweat from my neck, breathing hard, still buried in me.
“Messy fucking girl,” he mutters, biting down on my shoulder. “You needed that, didn’t you?”
I nod, too wrecked to speak. His other hand slips down and spreads me wider, keeping me open for him as he pulls out slowly. His cum spills out with the motion, dripping down my thighs. He watches it happen.
“Stay just like that,” he says, voice low. “I’m not done looking at you.”
Maksim turns me around, uses my fingers to wipe the sex from my thigh and then pushes them in my mouth, where I suck him off me. When I'm done, he leads me through the living room, past the open kitchen, and down a dark hall into his bedroom.
He pulls me onto the bed and sheds his clothing, curling around me and saying nothing.
His breathing evens out first, and within minutes, he's asleep.
I listen to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, feeling the rise and fall of his ribs beneath my cheek.
In sleep, his face loses its hard edges. He looks younger, almost vulnerable.
I wait until I'm sure he won't wake, then carefully extract myself from his arms. The apartment is dark and quiet as I pad barefoot down the hallway, wearing nothing but one of his shirts.
The living room is still illuminated by the city lights streaming through the windows, my wedding gown still piled on the floor.
I step carefully over the crumpled material and make my way to his desk in the corner. The top is neat, organized—a few papers stacked in precise piles, a laptop closed and charging. I open the first drawer and find pens, paper clips, the usual office supplies. The second drawer is locked.
I try the laptop next, but it's password protected. His phone sits beside it, screen dark. I pick it up, my heart pounding. The screen lights up with a swipe, but it's also locked. I try his birthday, then mine, then random combinations. Nothing works.
The filing cabinet beside the desk is my next target. The top drawer slides open easily, revealing folders labeled with names I don't recognize. I flip through them quickly, scanning for anything related to Damir or the drugs. Most are business documents, contracts, financial records.
The bottom drawer sticks at first, then gives way with a soft click. Inside, I find a folder marked "Mirov, D." with today's date. My hands shake as I open it.
The first document is a photograph—Damir leaving an apartment building I don't recognize. The second is a surveillance report detailing his movements over the past month. The third makes my blood run cold.
It's an order. Three lines of text in Russian, stamped with an official seal. I have to read it twice before the words sink in.
"Damir Mirov. Termination authorized. Immediate execution upon location."
My brother is going to die. And Maksim—my husband—is the one who's going to kill him.
The next document is worse. A toxicology report stamped with the Ministry’s seal confirms the composition of the drug batch that killed Alexei.
Fentanyl-laced ketamine, dosed far above the lethal threshold.
I flip the page, expecting more lab data—but instead I find a series of printed surveillance stills.
The first image shows Damir in an empty garage, crouched beside a black crate marked with the Karpin crest. He’s wearing nitrile gloves.
His head is down, but there’s no mistaking the tattoos or the white tank clinging to his back.
The next photo zooms closer—his hands are sorting through vials, one of them labeled Z-083R .
A sealed bag rests beside it, red marker scrawled across the front, TEST CUT – Petrov . Use with caution .
Then a transcript. A phone extraction. The number belongs to Damir’s burner, confirmed by the SIM card serial.
DM: 01:52: Vetrov crew won’t trace it. Rolan will think it was them.
UNKNOWN: 01:53: And the cousin?
DM: 01:55: He’s a bonus. They take the fall. We take the territory.
There’s a list below that—shipment dates, weights, target zones. All of it cataloged in someone else’s neat handwriting. But this part—the plan, the signature—this is Damir.
The papers slip from my fingers and scatter across the floor. I sink to my knees, my vision blurring. Damir didn’t just make a mistake. He killed someone. He killed Maksim’s cousin.
I don't know how long I kneel there, staring at the evidence of my brother's crimes. When I finally move, it's to gather up the papers with shaking hands and put them back in the folder. I close the drawer, but the sound carries too loudly in the quiet apartment.
"Zoya?"
I freeze. Maksim's voice comes from the bedroom, rough with sleep.
"I'm here," I call back, my voice barely above a whisper.
His bare feet move across the hardwood floor, and I quickly move away from the filing cabinet. When he appears in the doorway, I'm standing by my rumpled wedding gown, my arms wrapped around myself.
"What are you doing out here?"
"I couldn't sleep. I wanted some water." The lie comes easily, but my voice shakes.
He takes in the scene—me in his shirt, the desk area behind me. His eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn't ask more questions. Instead, he crosses to me and pulls me against his chest.
"You're shaking," he says.
"I'm cold."
He holds me tighter, and I let him. Because in this moment, after what I've learned crushed me, I need something to hold onto. Even if it's the man who's going to kill my brother.
"Come back to bed," he murmurs against my hair.
I nod against his chest, not trusting myself to speak. He guides me out of the living room and back down the hallway, his hand warm and steady at the small of my back.
In his bedroom, he pulls me back under the covers and wraps his arms around me. I lie rigidly against him, my mind racing. The order was dated today. How long do I have before they find Damir? How long before my brother is dead?
"Sleep," Maksim whispers, his lips against my temple.
But I know sleep won't come. Not now. Not ever again.
Because now I know the truth. And the truth is that I've married the man who's going to destroy everything I have left. Except, maybe my brother deserves it. Maybe Damir really did murder that man, and if so, how can I tell Maksim not to take an eye for an eye?