Chapter 8 Keep Your Mouth Shut, Malaya #2
I slipped into the bathroom and locked the door behind me.
The light was too bright. It exposed everything I didn’t want to look at—my smeared mascara, the faint red marks blooming along my throat, the way my hands still shook when I lifted them. I gripped the edge of the sink and stared at my reflection like I couldn’t believe I was alive.
Lera was alive.
That should have been enough.
And yet my mind kept circling back to him.
How had he known?
The thought slid into me slowly, insidiously. We had chosen that club precisely because it wasn’t ours. Because it was low, forgettable, tucked into a corner of the city where no one who mattered ever went.
So how?
The thought should have terrified me. Was he stalking me? Maybe he always knew where I was, where I went, who I was with. Maybe that was how he appeared at the exact moment everything went wrong.
I pressed my palms flat against the cool porcelain and imagined him watching me, waiting, tracking my movements through the city like I belonged to him… the thought didn’t make me feel hunted.
It made me feel chosen. Protected. Wanted.
Clothes came off without hesitation. I let them drop in a messy pile by the sink—every piece of fabric that felt like it belonged to someone else. I wouldn’t wear them again. Not after tonight.
The water steamed quickly, fogging the mirror as I stepped under the spray. I reached for the first bottle I saw, unscrewed the cap, and froze.
The scent hit me instantly.
Clean. Sharp. Masculine. Something like pine and smoke and metal. I lifted the bottle closer, inhaled again, slower this time, letting the smell sink into my skin, into my lungs.
This is him.
There wasn’t much else in the bathroom. No clutter, no decorations. Just three identical bottles of the same shower gel lined up neatly—one opened, two still sealed. A bar of plain soap. Two folded towels stacked with military precision.
I washed myself with his soap, letting the scent cling to me, sliding down my spine, between my breasts, along my thighs. My body reacted before my mind could catch up, heat pooling where it had no right to.
When I stepped out, wrapped in one of his towels, my legs felt steadier than they should have. I dried off, pulled his t-shirt over my head, and froze again.
It smelled like him too.
Not just soap—him. Skin. Heat. Something darker underneath. I pressed the fabric briefly to my face before I could stop myself, then dropped it like I’d been caught doing something obscene.
When I came out, the apartment was quiet. I padded out barefoot into the dim living room, unsure why I wasn’t going straight to bed. Maybe I didn’t want to be alone. Maybe I just wanted to see him again.
But he barely glanced at me as he passed, heading toward the bathroom himself.
“You done with my tiny bathroom?” he asked, voice laced with mocking irritation.
“Maksym—”
He didn’t even slow down. Just lifted a hand over his shoulder in a dismissive wave. “Good. Go to sleep.”
And then he was gone, disappearing down the hallway without another word.
I stood there, staring after him.
Great. I’d pissed him off.
Not gonna lie… he looked stupidly hot when he was annoyed like that.
Now sleep was completely off the table.
I let out a slow breath, already turning back toward the living room.
Fine. I’d wait. I’d fix it.
I walked over to the large window that overlooked the street below.
Parked cars lined the curb under the flickering glow of a streetlamp.
Occasional headlights sliced through the darkness in brief, fleeting streaks.
For a long moment, I just stood there, staring out, trying to breathe through the knot in my chest.
Behind me, the water shut off. A minute later, I heard him return.
He emerged from the bathroom—shirtless, barefoot, a pair of low-hanging sweatpants clinging to his hips.
Wet strands of dirty blond hair fell messily over his forehead.
His body was a canvas of muscle and ink—sleeves, ribs, chest, throat.
I couldn’t even focus. My mouth went dry. And then filled with saliva.
I was literally drooling.
He paused mid-step when he saw me still there. “You’re not in bed.”
I shook my head. “I’m not tired. Maybe... maybe we could have tea?”
He didn’t move. “No. I’m going to sleep. You should too.”
I was about to push back when my eyes landed on a tattoo over his heart. A name.
“Who’s Mila?”
His eyes changed. It was instant. A curtain dropped behind them. His entire face hardened.
“None of your fucking business.”
The coldness in his voice stung more than it should’ve. So I did what I always did when someone tried to shut me down—I provoked.
“One of your many whores?”
Wrong move.
He crossed the room in two strides. One hand wrapped around my throat—not choking, but firm. He walked me backward, forced me down onto the couch, and stood over me like judgment itself.
My breath caught. For a split second, fear fluttered in my chest.
“You insult my home. Then you insult the only girl I ever cared about.”
That line hit harder than his grip ever could.
The only girl he ever cared about.
My thoughts spiraled, heat rising fast and turning everything inside me sharp and restless. What about me? What about him stalking me, finding me, saving me?
Who the hell was she?
I hated her already. Hated that she existed in some deep part of him I hadn’t touched yet. Jealousy pulsed like venom through my chest, all tangled up with confusion and arousal and so much rage. My stomach twisted with it, but I still couldn’t look away.
His eyes burned into mine. Dark. Unforgiving.
“Keep that pretty mouth shut, Malaya. Or I’ll shut it for you.”
My stomach clenched. Heat pulsed low in my belly.
I looked up at him, defiant at first—but his gaze didn’t flinch. Just burned. “Too bad you’re not ready for what I’d do to you.”
He shoved me onto the couch and released my throat in the same breath, then turned without a word, strides heavy as he walked toward the hallway.
The air left my lungs.
Anger bloomed sharp and fast, searing beneath my breastbone.
I shot to my feet before the heat in my chest could cool. My steps echoed behind him, fast and reckless, catching him just as he reached his bedroom door.
“Of course,” I said, voice sharp. “Mila broke you, didn’t she? And now you can’t even fuck without picturing her, can you? Not unless Daddy’s watching and clapping in the background.”
He froze in the doorway.
“So much for the Reaper,” I sneered.
The words had barely left my mouth when he moved.
The bedroom door flung open with a sharp crack. Before I could blink, he spun and grabbed me by the front of the T-shirt I was wearing. His grip was rough, unrelenting. He dragged me inside, kicked the door shut behind us, and threw me onto the bed.
I barely registered the bounce of the mattress before his weight settled over me, firm and immovable. One hand stayed braced beside my head while the other reached for the nightstand drawer. A flash of metal. Cuffs.
Cold metal closed around my wrist with a sharp click. I had no time to react before the second cuff fastened, securing my other hand to the bedpost.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I hadn’t even processed what was happening.
And I was already his.
His eyes burned into mine—calm, terrifyingly calm. That kind of calm that only came before a storm.
“You just earned yourself a lesson in submission and I’m going to enjoy every second of it.”
His hands moved to the waistband of his sweats. No hesitation. No warning. He pushed them down without a word, moving straight to my punishment—and I froze.
My eyes widened.
Oh. My. God.
I blinked.
I’ve seen dick before, don’t get me wrong. But never this close. Never like this—right in front of my eyes, hard and intimidating as hell.
His cock was just as perfect as the rest of his body, but the size… Jesus.
Is that supposed to fit inside me?
Something primal shifted in my chest. Heat flooded my belly but it tangled with panic. This wasn’t teasing anymore. This wasn’t a game.
He was going to ruin me.
And I’d asked for it.
His size, his presence—it eclipsed everything. He knelt between my thighs, wrapped a hand gently around my jaw, tilting my face toward his.
“That tongue of yours?” he said, voice dropping. “I’m going to fuck it raw. And when you’re gagging on it, maybe you’ll finally shut the fuck up.”
My breath caught. My body betrayed me—burning with want even as my heart pounded with nerves.
He leaned in. His eyes locked on mine.
“Open.”
I felt the tremor in my muscles, the way my body went rigid even as it ached to be touched.
My lips wouldn’t part—not because I didn’t want him.
I had wanted him for a long time. Just not like this, with him punishing me.
He hadn’t been gentle and he hadn’t asked.
Yet the ache between my thighs only grew sharper, and heat kept spreading across my skin despite everything.
His cock hovered near my mouth like a dare, and suddenly all I could think about was what would happen if I choked, if I gagged, if he realized I had no experience with this. It terrified me almost as much as how badly I wanted it anyway.
His hand threaded into my hair, jerking my head back. His other hand gripped my jaw, forcing it open. “Open. You were mouthing off five minutes ago—don’t get shy now.”
Heat rolled through me like a wave and I parted my lips. Slowly. Reluctantly.
He exhaled sharply, satisfied.
“That’s it,” he muttered. “Be good.”
His hand stayed tangled in my hair, holding me steady, in control—but he hovered just close enough to make my breath hitch. The head of his cock brushed against my lips, teasing, slick and heavy.
“Lick it,” he murmured. “Slow. And don’t make me repeat myself.”
My heart stuttered.