Chapter 12 Maksim
Maksim
Walking away from Kira feels like dying all over again.
Every step away from the creek, I can still taste her on my lips. I'm destroying an innocent girl to satisfy revenge that's aimed at the wrong target.
I make it to my car before I have to stop and brace myself against the door.
What the fuck did I just do?
I had sex with her. Again. I can’t escape her. I can’t shake her. When I’m inside her, I feel human. All the feelings and emotions I buried deep in order to survive bubble to the surface when I’m with her.
I want to put my fist through the car window. Want to scream. Want to go back to that creek and either kill her or kiss her again. I'm not sure which impulse is stronger.
Instead, I force myself to get in the car and drive.
The taste of her won't leave my mouth. The memory of her hands tracing my scars—gentle, heartbroken, like each one physically hurt her—won't leave my mind.
The pain in her voice sounded real. Felt real.
The certainty I've held for six years is cracking, and I hate it. Hate the doubt creeping in. Hate that every time I see her, every time we touch, my conviction weakens.
I park my car in the garage of the estate and head inside, already planning to avoid everyone and lock myself in my room. Pretend tonight didn't happen.
Except Roman is waiting in the main sitting room, two glasses of scotch poured, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Maksim." He gestures to the empty chair. "Join me."
It's not a request.
I take the chair and accept the scotch, even though the last thing I need is alcohol. My control is already too fragile.
"You look..." Roman studies me with amusement. "Satisfied. Did you have a pleasant evening?"
The question is loaded. Does he know? Did he have me followed?
"Fine," I say neutrally. "Just needed some air."
"Of course." His smile suggests he knows exactly what kind of air I needed. "A man has urges. Especially after six years. Nothing to be ashamed of."
I force myself not to react. To sip the scotch and let him make whatever assumptions he wants.
"You know," Roman continues, leaning back in his chair, "I meant to apologize. For Kira. I know you two were engaged before... everything. It must be difficult seeing her with me."
The words are smooth. Concerned. Completely false.
"It's fine," I lie. "That was a lifetime ago."
"Still." He swirls his scotch. "I hope there are no hard feelings. I didn't plan to fall in love with her. But you were dead—or so we thought—and she was... well. You know what she is. Beautiful. Brilliant. A challenge."
Fall in love. The words make me want to laugh. Roman doesn't love anyone but himself and power. No one believes Roman loves Kira. He loves the idea of her in his bed.
"No hard feelings," I force out. "She's yours now."
"Exactly." His satisfaction is palpable. "And speaking of which, I've been finalizing the wedding details. Thought you might want to hear them."
I don't. But refusing would be suspicious.
He pulls out his tablet and starts scrolling through what looks like military operation planning disguised as a wedding. Security details. Guest lists. Contingencies for various scenarios.
"Two hundred guests," he says. "Every major family in Moscow. Show of unity and strength. Kira will wear white—I insisted. Something traditional."
I imagine Kira in white, walking down an aisle toward Roman, and my hands tighten on the glass.
"She'll be beautiful," Roman continues, either not noticing my reaction or enjoying it. "Though I'll need to break some of her more... independent habits. She's been running her own operations too long. Forgotten how to be appropriately submissive."
"She's not the submissive type," I hear myself say.
"Everyone is the submissive type with the right motivation." His smile turns cruel. "Which brings me to her dear sister. Anya. Sweet girl. Choosing between them is like choosing between dark and milk chocolate.”
My jaw clenches.
I force myself to relax.
“Did you know I chose Anya, but Kira insisted I marry her?” Roman smiles, like he’s amused. Like he believes Kira actually wants his nasty ass.
“I understood there was an agreement of sorts,” I reply.
“Ah yes, Kira playing the part of the martyr. She wants everyone to believe she’s making some great sacrifice by marrying me. Everyone knows that one is power hungry. She wants to be my queen. She didn’t like the idea of her sister filling that role.”
He’s a dick.
I say nothing and sip my drink instead.
“But why can’t I have both?” he asks.
“You believe the sisters would both want to marry you?” I ask.
“No need to marry both. I’ll marry Kira. She gives me stability, but Anya…”
He trails off with a lascivious look in his eyes that makes me sick.
"She's just a girl," I find myself saying. "Nineteen years old. Innocent."
"She's leverage," Roman corrects. "A tool. And tools are only valuable if they're used properly."
"Trotsky is a sadist," I say carefully. "Everyone knows his reputation."
"Precisely why I chose him." Roman's smile is satisfied. "Kira will know exactly what her sister is enduring. Every day. Every night. The guilt will eat at her. Make her more... manageable."
"And if Kira cooperates from the start? Is perfect?"
"Then we'll see." He shrugs. "Perhaps after a year of model behavior, we can extract Anya and send her to Paris after all. Assuming her husband hasn't broken her too badly."
The casual cruelty makes me want to reach across the table and snap his neck.
But I force myself to nod.
"Smart," I manage.
"I learned from the best." Roman raises his glass. "Your father always said: control what people love, and you control them completely. Kira loves her sister more than anything. So we control the sister."
We drink. The scotch burns going down, but not as hot as the rage building in my chest.
"You should get some rest," Roman says, standing. "Wedding is in twelve days. I'll need you sharp for the bachelor party. I've arranged some... entertainment. Very exclusive."
I don't want to know what kind of entertainment Roman considers exclusive.
"Looking forward to it," I lie.
He claps my shoulder and leaves. I'm alone with my scotch and my thoughts.
I should feel satisfied. Everything is going according to plan. So why do I feel sick?
I drain the scotch and pour another. Then another. Trying to drown the memory of Kira's voice.
I finish the drink and head up to my room. There’s no way I’m going to be able to sleep with Kira’s essence still clinging to me. I step into the shower and feel the sting from the scratches that cover my shoulders and back.
And then I close my eyes.
I’m transported back to a memory.
It was six years ago right here on this very estate.
It’s a party for some holiday I can't remember. Politics require attendance, so I'm here with my father, making rounds and playing nice.
Then I see them.
Kira and Anya in the garden, away from the crowd. Kira is trying to teach her little sister to dance—some formal ballroom thing Anya clearly doesn't know.
They're both laughing as they step on each other's feet. Anya looks at Kira with such pure adoration, and Kira is patient and gentle.
"You're doing great," Kira encourages. "Just feel the rhythm. Don't think so hard."
"I'm going to break your toes," Anya protests, but she's laughing.
"Then we'll both have matching casts. It'll be a bonding experience."
They spin, stumble, and nearly fall before catching each other. Both of them dissolving into giggles.
I watch from the doorway and picture Kira teaching our daughters to dance.
This is the woman I'm going to marry. She will be the mother of my children. The woman I grow old with.
Anya spots me first. "Maksim! Come help! Kira is a terrible teacher!"
"I'm an excellent teacher!" Kira protests. "You're just a terrible student!"
I join them in the garden, and Kira's smile when she sees me could light up Moscow.
"Rescue me," Anya begs. "She's going to cripple me before I can learn anything useful."
"She's exaggerating," Kira says, but she's already moving to my arms. "Show her how it's done?"
We dance while Anya watches and tries to mimic our steps.
"You're good with her," I murmur against Kira's ear.
"She's my baby sister. I'd do anything for her."
"I know." I spin her gently. "It's one of the things I love about you."
The three of us spend an hour in the garden, laughing and dancing and pretending the brutal politics inside don't exist.
I blink back to the present. The hot water is starting to cool. I turn off the water and step out, wrapping a towel around my waist. The scratches on my back sting. I welcome the pain. It's clearer than the confusion in my head.
I have to at least consider the idea Kira isn’t responsible. At least not entirely.
And if that’s true, someone else was involved.
Who?
I know manipulation. I've seen it perfected in that Georgian prison. I've learned to read people, to see through lies.
And I don’t believe Kira is lying.
The truth crashes over me like ice water.
She really didn't betray me.