5. Aria #3
He’s so much bigger than me—six-three to my five-two—and this close, I’m reminded of just how physically imposing he is. “It was enough. That’s all you need to know. Now get away from me.”
“No.” His hands come up, gripping my arms. It’s not hard enough to hurt, but it’s firm.
He’s holding me in place. I can feel the heat of his palms through my thin shirt, and I feel the strength in those scarred fingers.
“No, that’s not enough. I’m done with your games, Aria.
I’m done with your half-truths and accusations.
Either you tell me exactly what you saw, or I’m going to assume you’re lying and you ran for no good reason.
That you subjected you and our son to eight years of poverty out of pure spite. ”
“Spite?” The accusation is so unfair that my temper ignites. “You think I did this out of spite? You think I wanted to struggle? To watch Daniel go hungry? To live in fear every single day that you’d find us?”
“Then why?” He shakes me slightly, frustration rolling off him in waves. His gray eyes are dark, pupils dilated, and there’s something wild in them I haven’t seen before. “Why run? Why hide? Why not just talk to me?”
“Because I couldn’t!” The words are anguished. “Because I saw you—” I stop myself, biting down on the truth that wants to spill out.
“Saw me what?” He’s so close now I can feel his breath on my face, warm and sharp with vodka. “Finish the sentence.”
“I saw you do something horrible.” My voice drops to a whisper. “I saw what you’re capable of. And I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t risk Daniel growing up around that.”
“That’s it?” He stares at me like I’m speaking another language. “You saw me do something and you ran? Without asking questions? Without giving me a chance to explain?”
“What explanation could possibly justify—” I stop again and shake my head. I won’t finish the sentence.
“Justify what, Aria?” His grip tightens, and I can feel each individual finger pressing into my skin. “What did you see? What did I do that was so unforgivable?”
I shake my head.
“This is bullshit.” His voice is raw with frustration.
“You’re keeping secrets and making accusations and acting like you’re the victim when you’re the one who stole eight years from me.
Eight years with my son. Eight years of his firsts—his first words as a toddler, his first day of school, his first lost tooth, his first everything.
Eight years of watching him grow up.” The look he gives me is full of loathing.
“You took that from me, Aria. And you won’t even tell me why. ”
I try to get out of my his grasp. “I had a reason—”
“Then tell me!” He shakes me again. “Tell me what you saw. Tell me what I did. Tell me the fucking truth for once in eight years!”
“No!” I scream, suddenly sick of this conversation. “I won’t! I saw you do something horrible and I wanted no part of you after that. That’s it. Stop fucking asking me!”
Silence crashes down between us. Maksim stares at me, his eyes wild. His hands loosen slightly on my arms.
“I have no regrets about running,” I tell him coldly. “I would do it again and again if it meant keeping Daniel safe from you.”
The barb doesn’t land the way I wanted it to. His dark brows knit together. “There’s more to that story,” he says flatly. “And we both know it.”
“I don’t care what the story is.” I try to pull away, but his grip doesn’t loosen. “I saw enough. I saw what you are.”
“What I am?” Something like fury flashes in those eyes. “You don’t know anything about what I am. About what I do. About why—”
“I don’t want to know.” I’m close to tears now. A few more minutes and I’ll break. “I don’t want to know the reasons or the justifications or whatever story you tell yourself to sleep at night. All I know is that I couldn’t let Daniel grow up around that. Around you.”
“So you let him grow up hungry instead,” he says icily.
“You let him live in dangerous neighborhoods with criminals and drug addicts. You let him hoard food and learn what it feels like to go without. You denied him his family. You kept him from knowing he’s a Sokolov.
All because you saw something you didn’t understand and jumped to conclusions. ”
I gasp in outrage. “I understood enough—”
“You understood nothing.” He pulls me closer, and suddenly there’s no space between us at all.
I can feel the hard planes of his chest against mine, and the heat radiating from his body.
“You saw one moment of my life and decided you knew everything. You decided I was a monster, and with that you took my son and hid him from me. Eight years, Aria. I spent eight years thinking something happened to you. I grieved for you. I’ve been alone for eight fucking years because I couldn’t move on from a woman who disappeared without a trace. ”
I refuse to allow him to make me feel guilty. His face is inches from mine now, and I can see the pain in his eyes mixing with the anger. It’s written in the lines around his mouth and in the hardness that wasn’t there before.
“I did what I had to do.” My voice is barely a whisper and I swallow heavily. “To protect him.”
“You did what you wanted to do.” His grip on my arms is almost bruising now. “You ran because you were scared and didn’t trust me even though I’ve never given you any reason to not—”
I don’t know which one of us moves first.
Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s both of us, pulled together by weeks of fury.
His mouth crashes into mine, hard and furious. It’s not gentle or sweet like his kisses used to be. It’s anger and frustration and eight years of loss compressed into one brutal kiss.
I should push him away and slap him silly, telling him not to touch me ever again.
But I’m kissing him back just as hard.
My hands are fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer even as my mind screams at me to stop.
His hands move from my arms to my hair, fingers threading through the strands and gripping tight, tilting my head back so he can deepen the kiss.
The kiss is teeth and tongue.
I can taste the vodka on his lips, sharp and burning.
He walks me backward, and my spine hits the bookshelf hard enough to rattle the volumes.
Books tumble to the floor around us with soft thuds, forgotten.
His body presses against mine, all hard muscle and heat, and I can feel every inch of him—the broad chest, the powerful thighs, the unmistakable evidence of his arousal against my stomach.
“I hate you,” I breathe against his mouth, even as my hands are pulling at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin.
“I know.” His voice is rough. He bites my lower lip hard enough to make me gasp. “I hate you too.”
His mouth moves to my neck, teeth scraping over my pulse point.
I arch into him, my head falling back against the bookshelf, and he takes advantage, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.
His hands find the hem of my shirt, and he yanks it over my head with impatient movements.
For a moment, he just looks at me.
His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and there’s something feral and possessive in his expression that should terrify me but instead makes heat pool low in my belly.
“Eight years,” he says, his voice barely recognizable. “I’ve thought about this for eight years. About you.”
Then his mouth is on me again before it falls to my collarbone, the swell of my breasts above my bra, the sensitive skin of my ribs.
His stubble scrapes against my skin, rough and perfect, and I’m gasping and whimpering, his name falling from my lips.
I make sounds I can’t control and I don’t want to. It’s been so long since I’ve felt my blood warm like this.
The last time had been with Maksim.
My fingers work at his belt, clumsy with need and anger. He doesn’t help me, too busy marking my throat with his teeth, leaving evidence of this moment that I’ll see tomorrow.
Finally I get it undone, and my hand slides into his pants.
He groans against my skin when I wrap my fingers around him, and the sound goes straight through me.
He’s hard and thick and I remember the weight of him, the way he used to fill me so completely I couldn’t think.
“Aria.” My name is a growl and his hand covers mine, gripping hard enough to hurt. “I’ve waited eight years for this.”
“Then stop talking.” I pull him closer with my free hand, nails digging into his shoulder through his shirt hard enough to feel the muscle beneath. “Don’t talk. Don’t think. Just—”
He doesn’t let me finish. His mouth crashes into mine again, brutal and demanding, and his hands are already yanking at my jeans.
He’s rough about it and impatient, jerking the denim down my hips along with my underwear in one harsh movement.
I have to brace myself against the bookshelf to step out of them.
Then his hands are on my thighs, and he lifts me like I weigh nothing.
The display of strength should frighten me, but instead it sends heat pooling between my legs.
I wrap my legs around his waist, and he slams me back against the bookshelf hard enough that more books tumble down around us.
The edge of a shelf digs into my spine, but I don’t care. I can’t care about anything except the feel of him pressed against me.
“This is what you ran from,” he says against my mouth, his voice harsh. His hand grips my hip bruisingly hard while the other positions himself. “This is what you gave up.”
I can feel him pressing against my entrance—hot and hard and demanding—and I’m already wet for him even though I know this is wrong.
He enters me in one brutal thrust without asking for permission, and I cry out at the sudden invasion.
It’s too much, and I’m not quite ready for him.
The stretch burns and borders on painful, but he doesn’t stop. He drives in to the hilt and holds himself there, buried deep inside me.
“Maksim—” His name is a half gasp, half sob.
“You wanted this,” he growls against my ear. His breath is hot and sharp with vodka. “You’ve wanted this since I found you. So take it.”
He pulls out almost completely and slams back in, and I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming.