The Brat (Oakwood Legacy #1)

1. Shower 1 - Maxim 0

ONE

“Your obsession will be the end of you.”

My desk chair teeters and crashes to the floor as I jump up, grab my brother by the lapels, and pin him to the wall.

One second, Misha is sputtering for air, and the next he has a knife kissing his Adam’s apple.

“My obsession is the beginning.” And the fucking end.

He smirks. “Asshole.”

Flicking Misha an annoyed look, I release him so I can return to watching the front foyer’s security stream where Victoria, my pchelka, is studying the space as if it’s one of her college textbooks.

I ignore his huff as he straightens up and fiddles with his shirt collar.

Misha and I have been in a mood with one another since I moved out of my penthouse apartment.

He liked me up in the sky, forty stories high.

“Harder to kill, brat,” he’d say when I’d stare at the city skyline. “We don’t want to make it easier for you to die.”

It’s taken a lot of assassination attempts for me to accrue power, to stabilize my position as shukher, the head of the Russian faction in NYC, so I understand why he’s afraid I’ll die.

But I won’t let that stop me from living.

Another reason he’s pouting at Victoria’s presence in the brownstone I bought for her.

She tilts her head at a Picasso I purchased last year and installed in the front hall. The very fact that she isn’t shocked and awed by it is what makes her so intriguing to a street rat like me.

Victoria was born to be a queen.

I had to kill to be her king.

“Stop drooling,” Misha scorns as I grow tired of merely watching my future bride. “Victoria is a liability.”

“What liability?” I deride.

One of the staff squeaks when I open the door before she can knock. In a flood of apologetic Russian, she tells me I have an unexpected guest.

Unexpected—damn straight.

Victoria has never sought me out before.

But she’s here.

In my house.

She brought herself to the tiger’s den…

I tamp down the quiver of excitement that realization stirs.

“Maxim!” she greets when she hears my soft footfall on the Arabescato Corchia marble tiles that run throughout the property.

A perfect foil for her coloring, the coffee brown makes her blonde hair gleam like spun gold.

That blonde tips her lashes and brows, and the silk of her skin is the faintest of creams. With her unusually dark-as-pitch eyes for one so light, she has no way of knowing that this house is fitted for her.

As she turns to face me, her eyes widen in stunned surprise. Her lips part. Her throat bobs. And she grows still.

Maybe it was unfair of me to approach her like this, but I never said I was a saint.

“You’re staring, pchelka,” I tease lightly, withholding a groan as I bask in her glory—the widow’s peak, the softly sloping brows, the button nose, and those full lips I want to devour.

She has the face of a model and—around me, at least—the timidity of a nun.

Talk about a distraction.

My teasing has her jerking to attention. A cool mask swallows the earlier surprise, and I find myself missing it. “Where’s your suit?”

I hear the accusation.

“I don’t live in a suit, Victoria.” I stride over to her, aware that the top half of my gi flaps open.

I could yank on my black belt to cover up, but why would I?

This belongs to her, after all.

As much as her beauty is mine.

“Is that a…?”

“A gi.” I grit my teeth when her gaze remains locked on my face, not dropping to my chest, to the planes of skin she’s never seen before. “For Jiu-Jitsu.”

Blyad.

She doesn’t react to the information, simply continues staring into my eyes.

Perhaps there is a compliment to be found in this mask she’s wearing like a shield.

She can’t help that I’ve spent a lifetime waiting for her to look at me this way and, in turn, for the ability to look at her like the woman she now is.

When I first met her, she was a child.

And I am no pedophile.

A boy reared on the streets, preyed upon by the predators in orphanages and the scum who sought to take advantage of my family’s poverty, would never sexualize a child.

It’s why I’ve grown comfortable being on the outskirts of her life. Ensuring her safety. Protecting her from afar.

Somewhere, somehow, she’s morphed from the bratty teenager I ferried around the city to the breathtaking woman who’s seeking me out tonight.

The fact that she’s willingly entered my lair changes everything…

And in that dress no less.

As much as my lack of a suit is a declaration, I have to reason that her outfit is one too.

She’s always demure—aside from when she drives me crazy and goes to clubs—but this dress is the exact opposite.

The square neckline runs incredibly low. A little deeper and her nipples would be on display. The thinnest of straps keep the confection decent. Barely. The silk cups her waist in a way that makes my fingers crave to touch her, and it cuts off an inch above her knee.

Nonexistent strappy heels complete the look.

Nothing else adorns her.

Not a purse or a necklace.

Her hair sweeps freely over one shoulder, a tumble of curls that appear effortless.

Another tease.

Victoria’s heels clack against the marble as she takes a hesitant step forward.

“Maxim?” Her hand hovers over my gi, right above my heart. “When did you get that?”

Bitter satisfaction floods me at her proximity, until I frown down at my chest where I realize what has her so horrified—one of the dozens of scars I’ve accumulated over the years.

“Does it matter?”

“That one’s red,” she protests. “It looks recent.”

I tip my head to the side. “Why are you here, Victoria? To study my scars?”

Temper flashes in her eyes as she tosses her hair off her shoulder. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

Even more confused—and aroused, dammit—I demand, “What do you mean?”

“I’m yours, aren’t I?” she thunders. “You warn off any other guy who comes close. Inessa never sees you with a date at the galas you attend—”

“Are you jealous, pchelka?” The idea’s laughable.

Why would I settle for anything less than my queen?

“I don’t know why I bothered!”

When she twists on her heel, I snag her wrist in my hand. My thumb settles above her pulse to find it racing.

Her mask is crumbling.

“Tell me why you came to my home.”

The order has her bristling but, eventually, she meets my watchful eyes and holds my stare. “I needed your help.”

My brows lift at the past tense. “And the dress?”

“Is it against the law to look good now?”

“We both know you look more than good, Victoria.” At her sniff, I chuckle, then coax her to calm by stroking my thumb over the tender flesh of her pulse point. “Are you going to a party?”

“No.”

“Don’t lie,” I chide.

“I’m not lying,” she half-spits, wrenching her arm from my hold. Her hands punch the air on either side of the hips I long to cup. “Is it so hard to believe I wanted—”

When she falters, I let the silence fall between us until, breaking the stalemate, I rumble, “Wanted what?”

“I’m not a child anymore, Maxim.”

“Ah, so this is proof? You having a tantrum in my foyer?”

“You bastard,” she croaks.

I tsk. Snag her hand again. But this time, I press a kiss to her knuckles and gently squeeze her fingers. “Wait here.”

I amble over to a small closet tucked away beside the entrance and retrieve a box from inside.

When I pass it to her upon my return, she frowns but dislodges the lid.

Her soft gasp is music to my ears. “Mine?”

“Of course.”

Her lips part as she untucks the embroidered silk slippers from the paper shrouds that protect them. “They’re lovely.” The box tumbles to the tiles as she clutches them to her chest. “Thank you, Maxim.”

Amused when she grabs my arm and uses me for support, giddy now where she was spitting and hissing moments before, I watch as she kicks off one heel then the other and drops down a good four inches. Sliding her feet into the ballet flats, she coos and tips them this way then that and beams at me.

Literally beams.

I feel that smile all the way to my soul.

“The box?”

“The staff will take care of it.”

She tuts, picks up her shoes and the box, and has me nursing a semi. Not at the sight of her bending over, but when she retreats to the closet I just dipped into and stores her things in there.

Like it’s her fucking home.

Wordlessly, I slide my palm over hers upon her approach.

She follows, without question, as I guide her down the hall to the gym.

One glimpse and she sputters, “What—”

Only when I draw her into the bathroom does she tug on my hold. I release her, though I’m not happy about it, and after untying my belt, I drag it off.

“Maxim?”

Her husky voice hits me in the solar plexus. I use the need for fresh underwear to hide my expression in the connecting closet. After tossing them onto the vanity, I shrug off my uniform and pause under the rainfall showerhead.

“You want to talk to me, Victoria, so talk.”

I hear the sharp intake of breath when I drop my pants and kick them aside as I turn on the water.

From the corner of my eye, I can see her hover by the doorway. I half-expect her to back off, to run out of the bathroom at my impromptu test, but she doesn’t.

She stays there.

Even as my dick reacts to her presence, to what it signifies, she takes a hesitant seat on the toilet.

She remains silent.

When I rub soap over my chest and pivot so she can see what that dress, what Victoria in that dress, does to me, she rewards me with a gasp.

But I’m destined for disappointment.

Gasp or not, her phone has made an appearance in her left hand.

Where the hell she put it in that dress she poured herself into is a mystery to me.

Hiding behind the screen, she cloaks her reactions well, but my experience was earned over a lifetime on the streets—I can read her like a book.

As she watches someone’s story on her socials, her phone a shield, I note every minute flicker of her eyes at me as I shower. She’s better than most at hiding her microexpressions, but then I suppose she learned at a young age after growing up in that monster of a father’s house.

Turning off the water, I face her again.

While I wanted a reaction and I’m peeved she didn’t give it to me, I find myself proud of her—she’s grown up. Thank God.

“Victoria?”

When she returns her attention to me, there’s no fear in her eyes and not once does she look down at my erection.

Which tells me, nude or not, she knows she’s safe here.

She knows I will protect her.

Even from myself.

“Talk,” I repeat.

“What?”

“You wanted a favor and I wanted a shower. Now, I’m clean. So, talk, zaya.” This, I say gently.

As fierce as her mask is, I sense she’s overwhelmed until she manages to curb it.

Her gaze remains locked on my face as I towel off.

A glance at her feet shows me how she’s maintaining the rictus of her features—her toes are curled up like claws as she struggles to contain herself.

That she feels the need to, that there isn’t a whisper of the coquette or a hint of flirtation in her being, has me wondering if she could still be a virgin.

I did what I could to keep her safe from the red-pill-sucking swine her age, but as much as my guards inveigled their way into her life, not even I could stop horny teenagers from doing what horny teenagers do.

Then, there’s the fact she’s rooming with a guy in college.

Family, but not by blood.

Weirder shit happens every day.

Pulling on a pair of boxer briefs seems to act as a catalyst:

“Do you know what the Veronians are?”

Pausing en route to the vanity, I grimace. “Unfortunately.” When she decided upon Oakwood College, my men investigated the university. Thoroughly. “The old boys’ club at your school. What’s the frat called? The Roses or something moronic like that?”

“The frat is a front,” she confirms. “But it’s not just the Rhos who can join.”

I retrieve a razor from the cabinet. “Since when?”

“Since they entered the twentieth century and figured out women can be assets too.”

Ah. Power. She seeks power.

Fascinating.

“You want to join?”

She dips her chin.

“Why?” When I think of all the many and varied ways in which I work to protect her… I pinch the bridge of my nose. “In fact, don’t answer that.” Knowing will just increase my blood pressure.

“Maxim, will you help me?”

My hand hesitates for a heartbeat over the shaving foam. That she approached me and not her family is clue enough that she knows this is a bad idea.

But, blyad, she came to me.

That alone deserves a reward.

“What do you need?”

Those sinful lips part at the swiftness of my response. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”