HELL SENT TO DRIVE ME CRAZY
TWO
Why does he never do what I think he will?
The slippers?! SQUEAL.
The gi? HOT.
The scars? SEXY. (And they shouldn’t be!!)
The showering, which, OH. MY. GOD, how I didn’t faint is beyond me.
When he grabbed his dick, I had no idea where to look besides straight at him.
I’m not sure how I didn’t strip off and join him!
Talk? He expected me to talk when he was naked? TALK?!
Internal meltdown aside, his acceptance of me doing something that my family wouldn’t agree to—the reason why I came to him—does come as a shock.
I expected some push-pull, not immediate acquiescence.
Which is back to being hot.
I’ve gone so past overwhelmed, the whelm is whelming.
“Well? Talk, Victoria.”
Becoming a Veronian will help my best friend, Seamus, on his path to the presidency. And, my god, does this country need a man like him in the Oval Office.
Some might think Shay’s ambitions are a pipe dream, but he has backers—the Irish Mob. While they’ll make his goal a reality, he’ll still need as much bargaining power as possible, and I aim to give him that.
All of my reasons are on the tip of my tongue, then Maxim starts shaving.
And my purpose for being here goes out the window.
“I’d have thought you’d pay a barber to do that for you.”
I just side-eyed him washing his dick so this doesn’t embarrass me, but it catches my attention because I can look at him without losing my shit. Without turning into a blushing virgin.
The last thing I want is him associating me with immaturity.
Still, I’m curious.
A lot of kids probably grew up watching their dads shave—not me. There were twenty degrees of separation between Papa and his daughters… mostly because we had the audacity of being girls.
“And have someone put a blade to my throat?”
My nose scrunches, but he’s not wrong.
“Victoria,” he prompts again as the smooth slide of the razor cruises over his chin.
I’ve learned to appreciate his patience with me over the years. Now, I’m benefiting from it more than ever.
“I need you to hurt someone for me and give me proof.” My head mimics his as he shaves along the underside of his jaw. “A beating will help. With pictures.”
My family’s all for me joining the Veronians but if they know about this extra hoop I have to jump through, it’ll be game over.
He pauses mid-stroke. “Who?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll find out tomorrow.”
“Why not come to me tomorrow?”
“Because I might not have been able to get here. What, with the O’Donnelly guards I have on me and yours, it’s not exactly easy to sneak away. Plus, I have to return to college in the morning. I wanted to meet you in person to ask this of you.”
To ask this of you? What is this—1824?
His gaze drifts to me as I curse myself. “Does that annoy you?”
“Does what annoy me?”
“The guards.”
“It probably should.”
“That’s no answer.”
I huff at his cool tone.
Nothing about this meeting is going how I expected.
Nothing.
And, my god, it’s exasperating. As well as exhilarating.
Nobody makes me feel alive like this asshole does.
“No. They don’t annoy me.”
“Why not?”
“If anyone knows that safety is a relative concept, Maxim, it’s me.”
“So, you feel safe?”
“Not entirely. There are always gaps in security. Especially when I’m on a college campus.” I eye him. “I’m surprised you allowed that.”
“‘Allowed?’”
“Yes. Camille told me about your agreement with her.”
At the time, how I was a commodity to him, how he’d backed her into a corner, had pissed me off.
What bothered me the least was the fact that Camille had murdered our father.
Still, wasn’t that proof enough of how enemies, even those within the family, could always get to you?
“That agreement ceased to exist in my mind when you were taken.”
“Taken.” Fancy word for kidnapped. “Bullshit. You staked a claim on me—”
“Of course. But it was no longer about agreeing to hide her involvement in your father’s death. You became mine to protect when my enemies thought they could take you with no consequences.”
“So, your feelings for me are brotherly?”
His gaze lands on me. “Hardly.”
My fingers dig into my palms. Red-tipped nails, selected with him in mind, burrow into the tender flesh as I strive not to lose my patience.
Fuck, it’s hard.
Before Papa promoted him into his guard, Maxim used to be my driver. Low down the rungs. But he was playful, not creepy. He treated me like a child.
It was what had shocked me the most about his agreement with Camille.
I know full well there are men who want children. Maxim is not like that. Abramovicz, the man who’d “taken” me, was one such beast.
But this Maxim is different to “Max.” Max drove me to school and threatened a teacher for making me cry.
When a friend wanted me to wear a bikini for a pool party and I refused, then humiliated me—something he witnessed as my guard at the shopping mall that day—he got in her face and told her that kids should wear clothes for kids, not for women.
When he spoke on the phone, it was in brisk and loud Russian, peppered with curses and slang from the streets of Moscow.
Now, he speaks in English.
Collected English. Passionless. Curse-free.
He’s had elocution lessons…
In my mind’s eye, I see the years pass by. The handsome young man of before, a foot soldier, given orders he had to obey, becoming this inveterate general who doles them out now.
Control has turned his features into a hardened mask that I long to see crack…
Has it?
Was that what that shower scenario was about?
Did my dress work as I’d hoped it would when I’d picked it out for him?
They say to never pull a tiger by the tail, but I really fucking want to.
He’s so beautiful. Shay would say that men aren’t, but that’s because he’s two-point-four percent gay.
Now, with Max’s hair damp from the shower and the curl he normally tames twisting and turning atop his head, I want to run my fingers through it.
His olive-green eyes have amber striations that fluctuate when he looks at me. I never want him to stop. I want them on me forever.
A mustache sits atop his upper lip—something I tend to hate in guys, but not on him. I want to run my finger along it.
His jaw is as pugnacious as that nose of his. It amazes me that it’s still never been broken. Or if it has, he had it fixed straight. I want to kiss it.
As for his mouth, I want to bite that bottom lip and suck on it.
I am so ready for more.
“What do you expect in turn?” I ask formally, aware that for the first time, I lower my guard and allow the longing for his attention, for his mouth on mine, his hands on me, to ebb and flow into the question.
His head whips to the side, eyes lighting up with an unholy gleam.
His scorching hot gaze trips over me, along the deep square neckline, the tight corset-like bodice, the slimline cut of the skirt, and my slippers. Slippers that he bought for me to leave here, at his home. That are mine.
“I expect nothing,” he finally says once he’s thrashed every comeback he had for me into compliance.
Fuck. No!
“And I don’t expect favors for free.” Tipping up my chin, I warn, “Maxim.”
His smile turns smug. “Would you like to know my middle name, pchelka? So you can invoke it when you’re upset with me?”
God, he’s infuriating.
Indulgent.
But I don’t answer him.
Just continue staring at him, forcing him to accept that I want to do this.
That I have to do this.
Women repay their debts.
He concedes with a silken: “I need a date for a gala that’s coming up in my calendar.”
I almost sag with relief.
Toes curling to the point of pain, I refrain.
If anything, I sit taller.
“Will I need gems?”
“Yes. I will furnish you with those.” His gaze drops to, I hope, my tits. “And a dress.”
“Don’t trust me to pick my own?”
A nerve flicks in his jaw but he ignores my taunt. “There will be… repercussions for being seen in public with me.”
“And?”
Shaking his head, he brushes more shaving cream over his chin and jaw.
Intrigued, wondering how that would feel against my cheeks, how velvety his kiss would be, I lose track of our conversation.
Then freeze when his eyes lock on mine in the mirror.
Immediately, I shift to study the sharp but smooth strokes of the blade against his skin.
How he angles his head for better precision.
The sound of his breathing, unhurried and calm…
Lulled by his presence, I relax. But then, I’ve always found him to be refreshing. He doesn’t smother like my family does. He’s just there. A safety net.
When he’s done, I watch him towel off the foam remnants and rinse down the razor.
I’ve only ever seen him in suits before. To catch a glimpse of him in that martial arts uniform, then naked, and now in underwear, is a slice of intimacy I didn’t think he’d give me.
At least, not tonight.
He opens a door off the bathroom that reveals a large closet. Still uninterested in privacy, he faces me as he dresses in a pair of pants, buckles a belt on, then drags on a shirt.
Watching him fasten the buttons has my tongue cleaving to the roof of my mouth.
I know he wants a reaction out of me.
I just don’t know what.
I’m well aware that I’m watching a man who’s mine.
That body’s mine to caress.
That mouth is mine to kiss.
But there’s a gulf between us I don’t know how to breach.
Maybe it’s the pedestal he always puts me on. Or the fact that I was raised to be the wife of a powerful man who didn’t have to fight for his position, clawing his way up from the streets to the very top.
Whatever, that distance is something I need to eliminate.
When he struggles to fasten the button of his cuff, I quickly get to my feet. He doesn’t look away from the task, but that doesn’t mean anything. The small hairs at the back of my neck stand to attention, my whole being aware that an apex predator has me in its sights…
“Let me,” I offer huskily, fastening the cuff like I saw Mama do to Papa once upon a time.
His fingers don’t veer away, like he’s permitting the barest of contact before he moves them.
Inside, I sigh with disappointment. On the outside, I just fasten one cuff and then the other when he raises it to my waist height.
“Button-cover cufflinks?”
He points to a wooden case atop one of the dressers. “Lady’s choice.”
I open the red velvet box within the case and peruse the expensive pieces of jewelry.
He’s less flashy than I thought he’d be. These cufflinks aren’t blinged up but they’re platinum. I can tell from the shine and the brightness. The set I choose has a single emerald sitting dead center.
Seeing watches in the same case, I glance over the names.
Classic. Old. Vintage. Timepieces more than the heavy-duty divers’ wristwatches my uncles favor.
I select one with a black leather strap, then follow it up with the flashiest item of all—a tie pin in the shape of a tiger with its fangs bared.
My father’s.
An oskal.
“Fitting.” I peep at him. “I wondered where all his things went.”
“Most of it to thrift stores or sold off. It went into a trust fund for you.”
I stiffen. “What?”
“I asked them not to tell you. I didn’t need his possessions. Just his position.”
“The money should have been split—”
“They didn’t want it.” His lips kick up. “I think they hoped it would prevent you from falling into my clutches. Money is freedom, pchelka.”
That backfired on them, BIG TIME!
Agitated, I settle the pieces of jewelry on a porcelain dish atop the vanity. When he straps the watch on without question, his indulgence soothes the storm brewing inside me.
His heel nudges the closet door, exposing a rack of neckties. When he makes no other move, I know he’s leaving the choice to me.
I opt for the navy silk jacquard and use a Windsor knot to complete the look. Which is more fitting because that’s where the oskal used to sit… before. On my father.
His fingers prod it once I’m done. “I don’t know this one.”
“Mama taught it to me,” I tell him primly as I snap on his cufflinks. “She said it made a statement because no ordinary man would have the patience to bother with it.”
I stare blankly at the tiger until he taps the underside of my chin with his knuckles so he can stare me straight in the eye.
“I won’t wear it if it upsets you.”
“I’m not upset.”
His arched brow tells me he doesn’t believe me.
“It’s kismet,” I say eventually when he doesn’t relinquish the hold on my chin.
“Explain.”
“Now I know this is the right path for me because it’s one he’d have detested.”
Amusement blossoms in his eyes and with it, the only approval I truly seek. If he disapproved, I’d still go ahead with my plan, but I like that we’re on the same page.
“Until tomorrow?” he inquires.
“I-I’ll call you with the details. Do you have a time preference?”
His chuckle is like molten chocolate. “Pchelka, time is irrelevant for you. Haven’t you learned that yet?”