Chapter 20 MAKSIM
MAKSIM
The blood on my fingertip looks black in the moonlight.
I stare at it. Then at Victoria. Watch emotions cross her face in rapid succession. Confusion first, her brow furrowing as she tries to understand what she's seeing. Then comprehension, her mind working through the evidence. Then panic.
Pure, undiluted panic that makes her whole body tense like a trapped animal preparing to flee.
She makes a motion to slide down from the piano, and I know with absolute certainty that if I let her leave this room, I will lose her.
I hold her in place. Gentle but firm. My hands on her hips, keeping her seated on the keys that still carry the evidence of what we just did.
"Talk to me," I say, voice rough. "Why didn't you tell me you were a virgin?"
She won't meet my eyes. "Maksim, let me go."
"No." The word comes out harder than I mean it to. I soften my grip, try again. "Please. Talk to me."
"There's nothing to talk about." She's still trying to slide away, still refusing to look at me. "It doesn't matter. Just let me—"
"It matters." I catch her chin, tilt her face up until she has no choice but to meet my gaze. "It matters to me. I need to understand."
The words reach her. She stops struggling. Stops trying to escape. But her expression is shuttered now, walls rising so fast I can almost hear them slamming into place.
"Why?" she asks, and there's an edge to her voice. "What difference does it make?"
"Because I just—" I stop. Swallow. Try to find words for the horror coiling in my chest. "Because I was rough with you. Because if I'd known, I would have been gentler. Because I might have hurt you and I can't—"
My voice breaks. Actually breaks, like I'm a boy again instead of a man who's killed without flinching.
"I can't stand the thought of hurting you," I finish quietly.
Her expression shifts. Vulnerability flickering through before she shuts it down.
"You didn't hurt me," she says. "It was... good."
"Then why didn't you tell me?"
She tries to pull away again. I hold her in place. Not roughly. Not with force. Just persistent presence, refusing to let her run.
"Victoria. Please."
The crack when it comes is total.
"Because I didn't know!" The words explode out of her, fury and frustration tangled together. "I didn't know I was still a virgin, alright? I thought I wasn't. I thought—"
Her voice breaks. Her whole face crumples. And then she's crying.
Not delicate tears. Not the performative weeping of a woman who wants sympathy. These are ugly, wrenching sobs that shake her entire body, tears streaming down her face faster than she can wipe them away.
I gather her into my arms, lift her from the piano, cradle her against my chest.
"What are you doing?" she manages between sobs, trying to wipe her face.
"Taking care of you," I say simply. "I was too rough for your first time. Let me take care of you now."
I carry her out of the piano room, through the corridor that connects to my private suite. She's light in my arms. Fragile in a way she never lets the world see. The moonlight follows us, casting silver shadows across her tear-streaked face.
My bedroom is dark, only the moonlight entering. I don't bother with lights. I carry her straight through to the bathroom, set her carefully on the marble vanity.
"Stay," I tell her, then turn to start the shower.
I strip off my clothes while the water heats. When I turn back, I catch her looking at me. Her eyes travel down my body with undisguised appreciation, and despite everything, despite the tears still drying on her cheeks and the seriousness of what just happened, heat stirs in my blood.
"Don't look at me like that," I say, voice low.
"Like what?"
"Like you want me to fuck you again." I step closer, brush a strand of hair from her face. "Since it was your first time, you must be sore. If you keep looking at me like that, I won't be able to stop myself from taking you again."
She blushes. The color rises from her chest to her cheeks, visible even in the dim light.
When the water temperature is right, I pick her up again. She wraps her legs around my waist instinctively, and I carry her into the shower.
The water hits us like absolution. Hot and steady, washing away sweat and tears and the evidence of what we did on the piano.
We stay like that for a long moment. Her clinging to me, her head on my shoulder, the water cascading over both of us. I can feel her breathing slow. Feel the tension gradually drain from her muscles.
I slide her down my body until her feet touch the tile. I'm hard again. Can't help it, not with her wet and naked and pressed against me.
She notices. Her hand moves toward my cock, and it takes everything I have to step back.
"Better if you don't touch me right now," I say through gritted teeth.
She looks up at me, water streaming over her face. "I've never touched a man before."
I hold my breath. Count to ten. Try to regain control over the primal instinct roaring inside me that wants to claim her, mark her, make sure no other man ever touches what's mine.
"I'll let you do whatever you want with me," I finally manage. "Later. Right now, I need to take care of you."
I reach for the body wash. Squeeze some onto a soft cloth. Begin to wash her with slow, methodical strokes.
Her shoulders first. Then her arms, her hands, each finger individually. Down her back, over the curve of her ass, along her legs. I kneel to wash her calves, her ankles, her feet.
When I stand again, I wash her front with the same careful attention. Her collarbone. The swell of her breasts. The flat plane of her stomach. Between her thighs, gentle and thorough, making sure she's clean.
She stands still through all of it. Lets me care for her without protest. When I'm finished, I turn off the water and wrap her in the fluffiest towel I own.
Another towel for her hair, squeezing out the excess water with careful hands.
Then I lead her to my bed.
The sheets are cool against our skin as we lie down together. I pull her close, her head on my chest, her leg draped over my hip. Hold her like she's precious. Like she's breakable. Like I'll die before I let anything hurt her again.
We're quiet for several minutes. Just breathing together in the darkness.
Then she starts to speak.
"It happened when I was twelve."
Her voice is barely a whisper. I tighten my arm around her but don't interrupt.
"My father was having a party at our house. Business associates. It was common, he hosted them all the time. But this one was different." She pauses. "It was a masked ball. Venetian masks. Beautiful ones."
I feel her swallow against my chest.
"My twelfth birthday had been the week before. I thought I was so grown up." A bitter laugh escapes her. "Father told me to stay in my room. It was an important party. But I'd seen the women arriving from my window. Their gowns, their masks. I wanted to see them up close."
She shifts against me, and I realize she's trembling.
"It's alright," I say quietly. "You don't have to tell me tonight. We can—"
"No." Her voice is stronger now. Determined. "I need to tell you. I need to say it out loud. So it doesn't have power over me anymore."
I press my lips to her hair. Wait.
"I snuck out of my room," she continues. "I was hiding near the ballroom, watching the party, when I saw my father coming in my direction. I panicked. Ran to the library to hide."
Her fingers curl against my chest, nails biting slightly into skin.
"There was a man in the library. By the fireplace. He was wearing a black mask that covered his whole face. When I came in, he... he smiled at me. Called me by name."
I feel my whole body go rigid. Force myself to stay still. To listen.
"I asked who he was. He laughed and said 'the Phantom of the Opera.' I remember..." She pauses, and I hear the self-recrimination in her voice when she continues. "I remember I wasn't afraid. I should have been afraid. A strange man in a mask, calling me by name. But I wasn't."
"You were a child," I say, the words scraping out of my throat. "You couldn't have known."
"He was drinking whiskey," she says, as if I haven't spoken. "He asked if I wanted one. Said I was already a young woman." Another bitter laugh. "I felt so flattered. So grown up. I said yes."
My hand finds hers where it rests on my chest. I lace our fingers together and hold on.
"He went to the cart. Poured me a glass." Her voice is barely audible now. "I don't remember anything after that."
I feel wetness on my chest. Her tears on my skin.
"The next thing I remember is waking up in my bed the next morning. My shirt was pushed up. My pants were pulled down. And there was..." She stops. Takes a shuddering breath. "There was residue white and dried on my belly. I knew what it was. Even at twelve, I knew."
Rage erupts inside my chest, hot, violent, demanding blood and vengeance. I want to find the man who did this and tear him apart with my bare hands. Set the world on fire until there's nothing left but ash and justice.
But this moment isn't about me. There will be time for vengeance later. Right now, Victoria needs me to be her anchor. Her safe harbor. Her protection against anything that might hurt her ever again.
I hold her tighter. Let her cry against my chest. Don't say anything because there are no words adequate for this horror.
"I thought I'd been raped," she whispers. "For years, I thought... But tonight, with you, I realized I was wrong. I was drugged. Used. But not..." She swallows. "Not all the way. I know that doesn't make it better. But somehow, knowing... It helps. A little."
"Do you know who it was?" The question comes out calm. Measured. Completely at odds with the murderous rage burning in my veins. "The man in the mask?"
"No." The word is small. Defeated. "I told my father. The next morning, I told him what happened. What I found when I woke up."
"What did he say?"
"He said I must have dreamed it." Her voice is flat now. Empty. "And then he shipped me off to boarding school."
Arthur Ainsley.
The name rises in my mind like a curse. The father who sold her to me. The piece of shit who dismissed his twelve-year-old daughter's assault as a dream and sent her away rather than face the truth.
Maybe I'll let Ramiz Krasniqi do whatever he wants to the man. Or maybe I'll do it myself. With my brothers beside me, making it slow and painful and lasting.
"Rest now," I tell her, voice thick with emotions I can barely contain. "You're exhausted. We can talk more tomorrow."
I feel her body growing heavier against mine. Her breathing slowing as exhaustion finally claims her.
She's almost asleep when she speaks again. The words barely audible against my skin.
"All I remember about him," she whispers, "was a tattoo on his hand. A wolf with a dagger between its teeth."
I go completely still.
Her hand rests over my heart.
Over the scar where my own matching tattoo once lived before I burned it from my flesh.
And in the dark, with her heartbeat against my chest, I understand the truth I never saw coming.
The man who destroyed my life is the same man who destroyed hers.