24. Maksim
MAKSIM
S tomping into the estate, I slam the front door hard enough to rattle the windows, and the sound echoes through the marble hallway.
The rage burns in my chest, fed by three days of dead ends and empty rooms. My knuckles are split open from the last interrogation, blood dried black under my fingernails, and I can still taste the copper in my mouth.
I pace the upstairs hallway, my footsteps harsh against the marble. The estate feels too small, too confined, and I can't seem to catch my breath. Damir is still out there, still moving through the city, still breathing when he should be dead. The thought makes my hands shake with fury.
"Where have you been?"
I turn to find Zoya standing in the doorway of the guest room, her dark hair falling around her shoulders. She's wearing one of my shirts, the fabric dwarfing her small frame, and her hazel eyes are sharp with accusation.
"Go back to bed," I growl. I am not in the mood for questions, and I'm not sure how to interact with her anymore.
"Answer me." She walks into the hallway with silent footsteps. "You've been gone for three days. I want to know where you've been."
"Drop it, Zoya."
"No." Her chin lifts, and I see the stubborn set of her jaw that I've come to recognize. "I'm not going to drop it. You disappear without a word, you come back covered in blood, and you think I'm just going to pretend it didn't happen?"
I stop pacing and face her fully. "What do you want me to say? That I've been hunting your brother through every hole in this city? That I've burned down buildings and killed men looking for him?"
"Yes," she says simply. "I want you to say that."
The honesty in her voice catches me off guard. "Why?"
"Because I'm tired of being kept in the dark. Because I'm tired of being treated like I'm made of glass. Because I'm not just bait in whatever game you're playing."
The word "bait" makes something dark twist in my stomach. "You're not just anything," I snap. "You're in this now whether you like it or not. You're my wife, you're carrying my name, and you're going to deal with the consequences."
"Your wife?" She laughs, but there's no humor in it.
"Is that what you call this? Because from where I'm standing, it looks a lot more like you're using me to get to Damir.
I asked you to have mercy." Her lower lip trembles as she speaks, and I deflect, changing the subject so I don’t have to answer that question.
"You think I'm using you?" I take a step closer, and she doesn't back down. "You walked right up to me outside your apartment. You're only here to get mercy. You used me first."
"That was different."
"How?"
"Because I actually care," she heaves out, chest rising and falling in rapid breaths. "Because somewhere along the way, this stopped being about finding out who Damir really is and started being about you. About us."
The vulnerability in her voice makes my chest tight. "Zoya." I want to reach for her, but I know how it will affect me, the things that will happen if I allow myself to truly love her.
"Don't," she says quickly. "Don't tell me it's not real. Don't tell me it's just part of the mission. Because I know what I feel, and I know what I see when you look at me."
I cross the space between us and kiss her hard, cutting off her words before she can take them back. And when her hands fist in the front of my shirt, I feel something in my chest break open.
We stumble backward into the bedroom, her mouth hot against mine, her fingers fumbling with the buttons on my shirt. I kick the door closed behind us and press her against it, my hands tangling in her hair.
"Is this what you want?" I ask against her mouth. "Is this real enough for you?"
"Yes," she breathes, and then we're tearing at each other's clothes with desperate hands.
She pulls at the buttons on my shirt, cursing under her breath when they don’t come loose fast enough.
I shrug it off and reach for the hem of hers—my shirt, stretched over her frame like it doesn’t belong to either of us anymore—and drag it over her head.
Her bare skin meets the cold air, and her breath catches.
I watch her chest rise and fall as she looks at me, unflinching, like she’s daring me to hesitate.
I don’t.
I back her toward the bed, kissing her again—rough, hungry, too many teeth.
She responds in kind, tugging at my waistband with impatient hands, and I hear the metallic clink of my belt hitting the floor.
My pants drop around my ankles. Her fingers slide down my stomach, grip tight around my cock, and I groan into her mouth. Every thought disappears.
I lift her again and drop her onto the mattress.
She lands with a soft gasp, hair spread out over the pillow, eyes locked on mine.
I crawl over her, dragging my hands up the backs of her thighs, spreading them apart so I can settle between them.
Her legs wrap around my waist like they were always meant to.
Her skin is warm under my palms. Her pulse beats at her throat, steady but hard. I brace my hand beside her head, run the other down her ribcage, and pause at her hip.
She bites her lip as I slide my hand lower, brushing over the curve of her thigh.
"You gonna take your time with me," she murmurs softly, her voice a sultry whisper, "or are you just trying to make me beg?
" As I drag my lips slowly along the graceful curve of her neck, my teeth lightly grazing her delicate skin, I reply, "Your begging wouldn’t be the worst sound I’ve heard this week. "
Her laughter escapes in a breathless, melodic tone. "You think you’ve earned that?" she teases, a playful challenge in her eyes.
"I’ve earned more than that," I assert confidently, my voice a low rumble.
She gasps softly as I press two fingers between her legs, feeling the heat and wetness that await. "You’ve been thinking about this," I whisper, my words a gentle murmur against her ear.
She arches instinctively into my hand, her body responding eagerly. "I’ve been trapped in this damn house for days. What do you think?" she replies, a hint of desperation lacing her voice, her need as palpable as her touch.
I press down harder, my touch deliberate and languid as I stroke her. “I think you enjoyed it. Pretending to be a couple. Wearing my shirts like they were yours. Sleeping in my bed as if it were home.” Her head tilts back, sinking into the plush pillow beneath her.
“I liked the water pressure in the shower,” she replies with a playful smirk. A chuckle rumbles low in my throat, resonating through the room as I slide one finger inside her, followed by another, feeling the warmth envelop me. “You’re quite the talker tonight,” I tease.
“And you’re taking your time tonight,” she breathes out, her voice a sultry whisper.
I curl my fingers just right, finding that perfect spot, and she moans, the sound raw and unrestrained, echoing around us.
Her thighs clamp tightly around my waist, an instinctive reaction, but I withdraw before she can reach her peak.
“You’re absolutely wicked,” she gasps, a mix of frustration and desire in her voice.
“You married me.”
She grabs my face and kisses me hard, dragging me down on top of her. “Then fuck me like I did it on purpose.”
That's all the encouragement I need. I capture her wrists in my hands, pinning them gently yet firmly above her head. My hips shift, aligning perfectly until the tip of my cock rests tantalizingly at her entrance, teasing with promise.
"You want it rough?" I murmur, my voice a low rumble, charged with anticipation.
Her eyes blaze with challenge and desire, a daring glint dancing in their depths. "Do you think I can handle anything less?" she replies, her words a daring taunt that dares me to unleash the passion simmering between us.
I thrust into her, hard, burying myself in one stroke.
“Good,” I growl. “Because I’m not pulling out.”
She gasps when I slam into her, her back arching off the bed. Tight, soaked, perfect, she grips me like she’s trying to keep me there forever.
“Fuck,” I growl, dragging out and driving in again. “You were made for this.”
“For you,” she breathes, voice breaking on the words. “Just like this.”
I pin her wrists tighter, hips snapping forward with every thrust. The bed rattles under us, the headboard knocking the wall in rhythm. Her legs lock around my waist, heels digging into my back, and she takes everything I give her.
“You feel that?” I mutter against her throat. “That’s me—right where I belong.”
She whimpers, trying to move under me, to grind up against the pace I set. But I don’t give her control. I fuck her harder, my cock buried deep, her body already trembling around me.
“You wanted this,” I say through clenched teeth. “You started this. Now you’re gonna take every inch.”
“I am,” she gasps. “I want it—I want all of it.”
I release her wrists and grab her hips instead, pulling her into every brutal thrust. Her tits bounce with every stroke, nipples flushed and tight, and I lean down to bite one, sucking until she cries out, then I suck it harder and swirl my tongue around it.
She claws at my back, mouth falling open, her eyes glassy with need, and she continues to buck upward into me as I fuck her. Every stroke is pure lust, need that must be sated or I’ll go mad. Zoya is my drug of choice and I need a fix.
“Come on,” I growl. “I want you to come all over my cock.”
“Fuck… I’m so close,” she pants, and I growl against her skin.
“You’re like cocaine, woman… I can’t get enough. Now let that pussy milk me already…”
She shatters beneath me, her inner muscles clamping down with an intensity that matches the sharp, resonant moan escaping her lips as her orgasm crashes over her like a wave.
Her body writhes and bucks uncontrollably, yet I persist, thrusting into her with a relentless rhythm.
The sensation of her pulsing around me pulls me to my own white-hot release.
I drive in deeply, holding myself there, releasing with a guttural groan as my body tenses and I pour everything into her. My grip on her hips is firm, leaving marks that speak of our fervor, while my breath is hot and ragged against her neck.
We remain entwined, bodies slick with sweat and utterly spent. I rest my forehead against hers, a silent acknowledgment passing between us that something fundamental has shifted. She senses it. I sense it too, though the words remain unspoken.
"You're in my blood now," I tell her, my voice rough. "I don't care how this ends. I'm not letting you go. Not ever."
Zoya doesn't answer, but her fingers trace patterns on my chest, and I feel her breath against my throat. Whatever happens next, whatever price I have to pay for keeping her, it'll be worth it.
Because she's right. This isn't just about the mission anymore. It's about her, about us, about the life we're building in the spaces between the violence and the lies.
And I'll burn down the entire city before I let anyone take that away from me.