Chapter 16
Maksim
Ipull her into my room with every intention of interrogating her.
What was she thinking, eavesdropping on Roman's men? Getting that close to dangerous conversations? She could have been caught. Killed. Disappeared like so many others who've crossed Roman.
But the moment I have her body pressed against mine, her back to my chest, my hand over her mouth to keep her quiet—everything changes.
The fear in her body. The way she fights until she recognizes me. The smell of her hair, her skin, familiar, despite all the reasons it shouldn't be.
My body remembers what my mind has been trying to forget.
I should step back. Should put distance between us.
"What were you thinking?" My voice comes out a harsh whisper. "You could have been caught—"
"I was trying to hear—"
"You were being reckless." I'm still pressed against her. I can feel her heart racing. Or maybe that's mine. "Do you have any idea what Roman would do if he found you listening to private conversations?"
"I wasn't afraid—"
"You should be." My hand finds the wall beside her head, caging her in. "He's killed for less."
Her chin lifts defiantly. "Don’t act like you're worried about my safety. Not now."
She's right. I should have let her get caught. Should have let Roman's men handle her.
Except the thought of anyone else touching her makes me want to commit murder.
"This is a mistake," I say, even as I lean closer.
"Everything between us is a mistake." Her breathing picks up. "Hasn't stopped us yet."
I should walk away.
Instead, I kiss her.
It's not gentle. Not tender. It's the familiar rage and grief and need compressed into something that feels like violence and salvation tangled together. It happens whenever I’m near her.
I hate her. I love her. I need her.
Her hands pull me closer instead of pushing me away. She’s just as desperate for me. Her mouth devours mine. She whimpers and moans, clawing at me.
We're past caring about anything except this connection. This need that won't die no matter how much we try to kill it.
She pulls at my clothes with shaking hands, both of us fighting fabric until there's nothing between us but skin and scars and the truth we keep trying to deny.
"Tell me to stop," I say against her throat. "Tell me you don't want this."
"I can't." Her nails dig into my shoulders. "God help me, I can't."
I lift her against the wall, her legs wrapping around my waist automatically.
"Maksim."
"I hate you," I say against her mouth.
"I hate you too." Her hands tangle in my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt. "So much."
I position myself at her entrance, feeling how ready she is for me. How her body betrays every protest she might make.
Her nails rake down my back, leaving marks I'll feel tomorrow.
I thrust into her in one brutal stroke. The sound she makes—half gasp, half moan—nearly undoes me.
She's tight and wet and perfect. Just like I remember. Just like every night in that cell when I'd close my eyes and pretend I was anywhere but there.
"Look at me," I demand, gripping her jaw. "I want to see your face."
Her eyes open. Love and hatred and desperate need all tangled together.
I start to move, each thrust harder than the last. Punishing us both for this weakness. For needing each other despite everything between us.
"Is this what you wanted?" I'm breathing hard, my control slipping. "Is this what you've been missing?"
"Yes." Her head falls back against the wall. "God, yes."
I capture her throat with one hand—not squeezing, just holding. Possessive. Claiming.
"You're mine," I say through gritted teeth. "No matter what happens. No matter who you marry. You're mine."
"I'm yours." The admission breaks something in both of us. "I've always been yours."
I change the angle, hitting deeper. She cries out. I cover her mouth with mine, swallowing the sound before anyone can hear.
We can't be quiet. Can't be careful. This is too raw, too desperate.
My hand slides between us, finding her clit. She's close—I can feel it in the way she's clenching around me, the way her breathing changes.
"Come for me," I order against her lips. "Let me feel it."
"Maksim—" Her body starts to shake.
"Now." I circle her clit with more pressure, driving into her harder. "Give it to me."
She shatters. I feel her orgasm ripple through her entire body, her inner walls clamping down on me so tight I can barely move.
The sight of her coming undone destroys what little control I have left.
I bury myself deep and follow her over the edge, my release hot and violent.
We stay frozen like that, both of us trembling, breathing hard against each other.
Slowly, I lower her legs until her feet touch the floor. But I don't step back. Can't step back. Not yet.
She's looking at me with those eyes that see too much. That see the man I used to be underneath all the rage and pain.
"This changes everything," she whispers.
"It changes nothing." But the words lack conviction.
"You're lying." Her hand comes up to cup my face, thumb tracing the scar through my eyebrow. "We’ll never be finished, Maksim. You are my soul. And I am yours.”
I step back finally, retrieving my shirt from the floor.
"Get dressed. You need to get back to your room before they notice you're gone."
She pulls on her panties and the bra that is far too sexy. "What are we going to do?"
We. Not I. We.
I have some weak protest I should offer up. We can’t do it again. We need to stop.
All bullshit.
Because I will never stop wanting her. She could drive a knife into my heart while fucking me and I would die a happy man. The woman has cast a spell over me. I can’t escape. It’s different than the prison I spent all that time in. There is no way out.
I’m forever bound to her.
And it will kill me.
"Viktor and Roman's people were talking about you asking questions. About 'eliminating the problem' after the wedding."
"I know." I finally look at her. "I've been expecting it."
"Then why—" She stops, studying my face. "You're investigating Roman. That's why you believe me now. You found proof."
"I found enough." I lean against the wall, suddenly exhausted. "I spoke with your father. He admitted to nothing, but something felt wrong.
"My father is weak. Not evil. He wouldn’t be able to plan anything."
I push off the wall. "He swore you didn't know."
"So, you finally believe me." She doesn't sound triumphant. Just tired. "Only took you destroying everything I built first."
The accusation lands like it should. "I didn’t say I believe you. I said I spoke with your father. He would of course lie to protect you.”
She groans and shakes her head. “You are a stubborn, stupid, obstinate man, Maksim. Your stupidity will get you killed. But I’ll meet you in hell because we both know I will be sent there very soon at the hands of my husband.”
“I’m cautious,” I reply. “Last time I trusted someone, it nearly got me killed.”
Her shoulders slump and she wraps her arms around her middle like she’s just remembered she’s basically naked.
"Why do you keep doing this?" she asks quietly. "Having sex with me. If you hate me—if you want to destroy me—why can't you stay away?"
The question I've been avoiding.
Because I don't hate her. Haven't hated her for days now, maybe longer.
Because every time I touch her, it feels like coming home.
Because six years of torture didn't kill what I feel for her, and neither did weeks of trying to destroy her.
But saying any of that out loud makes it real. Makes me vulnerable.
"I don't know," I lie.
"Yes, you do." She sees through me like always. "You just won't admit it."
"What do you want me to say?" I turn away. "That I don't hate you? That I might have been wrong about everything? That being with you feels right even though it shouldn't?"
"I want you to say the truth." Her voice breaks.
"Just once. Instead of walking away. Instead of pretending this is just sex or revenge or anything but what it actually is. I’m marrying Roman, Maksim.
You know I will be killed. I will be tortured.
You will never touch me again. Just let me have this one thing before I go to my death. "
I know what she wants to hear. That I love her. That I never stopped loving her. That every moment of hating her was just love twisted into something ugly.
But I can't.
"Get out of my room," I say instead.
She flinches like I slapped her. Her eyes are filled with tears. I wait for her to cry and beg. But she doesn’t. She blinks away the tears and her lips press into a thin line.
The Ice Queen is back.
She starts to leave, then pauses with her back to me.
"When you're ready to stop being a coward," she says without looking back, "you know where to find me. I'll be the one in the wedding dress marrying your pakhan while you watch and pretend you don't care."
Then she's gone, leaving me standing in the wreckage of what we just did.
I sink onto the edge of my bed and put my head in my hands.
She's right. I am a coward. I’m not brave enough to admit I love the woman I keep destroying. I finally admit the truth to myself, even if I can't say it to her:
I don't hate Kira Markov. I never did.
I just hate that loving her might get us both killed.