11. Torture via wardrobe coming up
ELEVEN
TORTURE VIA WARDROBE COMING UP
When I wake up, he greets me with morning wood.
“Did I star in your dreams?”
“You always do.”
His voice is all gravelly and husky and, better still, in Russian.
Happily, I cuddle into him.
I associate Russian with intimacy because I only ever speak it with family. Which is fitting for him, I think.
Still, I grouch, “I have class.”
“I’ll get you there in time.”
He sighs and falls quiet.
I do too.
The sun doesn’t shine through the windows because he closed the blinds last night, but even though the room isn’t east-facing, light peeks around the edges, revealing our proximity to dawn.
But it’s restful and peaceful and cozy and warm.
I half-doze off, only to be woken with a soft kiss to the lips.
“You got dressed.” I immediately pout.
Sitting beside me on the mattress, he tucks my hair behind my ear. “Is that a complaint?”
“I like you naked.”
“Good to know. I’ll use the information to distract you in the future. Now, korovka, you can sleep another couple of hours or I can drop you off back at your place. The decision’s yours.”
“Who’ll drive me if you don’t?”
“One of the guards.”
I sulk. “I’ll shower.”
“One day.” He taps my nose. “I’ll leave you in this warm, sleep-worn bed with a vibrator inside you and I’ll wake you up that way when I’m on the road.”
“That’s so mean! You can’t go out without saying goodbye to me.”
His eyes beam with glee. “Not the vibrator, though?”
“I suppose it’s technically nonconsensual touching, but not if I agree to it the night before.” I waggle my eyebrows. “Is this pre-marriage or post-marriage spankbank material?”
“Set a date.”
I smirk at him.
His thumb moves over to my mouth. I tense a little, surprised by the touch, then relax when he runs it back and forth over the soft skin.
“When we’re outside these walls, you know I can’t show weakness, kotik.”
I just nod.
He pulls down my lip a little, then toys with it. “You understand?”
I understand entirely.
He’ll eradicate any softness or indulgence from our interactions.
He’ll turn into the big, bad Shukher of The Forgotten Boys.
“Give me this side of you when we’re alone, Maxim, and I’ll hold my tongue when we’re not.”
It’s a massive concession and I know it relieves him.
“I never want to quell your fire.”
“I won’t let you.”
His smile lights up his handsome face and, somehow, I know I said the exact right thing.
Of course, he has a wardrobe waiting for me. Not a capsule one. Nope. A full walk-in closet just collecting dust until I can wear the clothes he bought for me.
I pick out a dress that’s soft and floaty, something that doesn’t make me think of my fem slayer skin like Shay called yesterday evening’s outfit, and I step into the bedroom and find him on the phone, looking out of the window.
His eyes glance over me and his lips firm as if I displeased him. Then, I notice he fixates on my tits.
Did I mention the dress has a deep V cut?
Nope?
Savoring his attention, I strap on the shoes I picked too—jelly flip-flops with a little ankle buckle that have me contemplating how in-depth Maxim’s interest was in the selection of my clothes.
I half-listen in on his phone call, grimacing as he tells someone to kill the man they’re holding, and then he hangs up.
“Wait a minute. Are you killing Harrington Sr.?”
“No. Why?”
“Oh, you said you were killing someone.”
“Little snoop,” he says fondly, stepping over to me so he can help me stand.
Because I need the help.
Surprisingly, I’m not even that sore. Which is soooo fucked up.
“Are you okay?”
“Sure?” I ask, confused.
“You killed a man last night,” he says dryly.
“Oh. Well, I might crash out later, but I’m fine now.” Maybe my words belie the truth because, like a flashback, I see Harrington Jr. in his Psycho pose.
I could so easily be dead today…
Jesus.
When I shiver, his gaze softens. “Call me if you’re upset.”
“I’ll be fine.”
He just hums. “I miscalculated how deep that V would fall.”
Loving that he chose this outfit, I peer down my cleavage and grab his hand. Turning it, I slide his knuckles over the V and goose bumps appear wherever they brush. His jaw tenses as he nudges the fabric aside and trails them beneath the hem so he can cup my breast.
He releases a hiss.
Slow and low.
I shiver, feeling my nipple pucker against his palm.
Yelping when he twirls me around like we’re dancing, I suddenly find my back pressed against his front once more. His face tucks into my neck so I can feel his breath, and his hand settles more comfortably against my breast.
“When will I see you again?” I arch my throat as I revel in this new intimacy.
We were naked in bed, and this is very different but lovely just the same.
“I’ll text you.”
Shit. That means not tonight.
He sighs like he heard my thought. “Tell me when you receive another invitation?”
“Is this one you can attend?”
“No.”
My shoulders slump. “Oh.”
His thumb caresses the peaked bud. “It’s nothing you can’t handle. You play chess, right?”
My brow furrows. “It’s a game of chess?”
“No. But it’s like it. A game of strategy, rather than one with any danger.”
“They want to see how our minds work?”
“Especially in a team.”
“Why?”
He grits his teeth, hard enough for me to hear his jaw pop. “They’ll pair you with someone who matches you. That could be your partner.”
“I’m not going to marry them, Maxim,” I grouch, hissing when he rubs my nipple again.
It’s not my first grope—that’s one of the reasons I figured I’d wait for a man who knew what he was doing with my burgeoning sexuality—but I like how he holds me, how his hand hasn’t moved. It’s both dominant and protective.
“The last rite is something that makes you dependent on that partner. If you can’t fulfill it, then you won’t join.”
“They cut the numbers during the second ritual?”
“Yes.”
“How many typically get through?”
“There’s no standard answer. It depends on what they determine about you in the second round.”
“Should I be scared?”
“No. There’s no need. You’ve already done enough. Now, play your little mind games—which I know you love doing anyway—and if there’s anymore blood in need of shedding, talk to me.”
I twist my head to stare up at him. “You’re talking like I won’t see you for a while!”
“I won’t be here every day,” he soothes. “But I’ll be back for the weekends. Set a date, Victoria.”
Moaning as he pinches my nipple in a sharp farewell, I pant once he releases his hold on me. “When’s the first gala you need me to attend?”
“Next week.”
“Okay.”
“Remember, this home is yours. You can sleep here if you want or you can stay with the boy—”
“Shay.”
“—whatever, this place needs to be decorated.” He passes me a credit card. “Do with it what you will.”
My eyes gleam as I accept the black card. “Will you still pick out my dress, or is it in the closet?”
“I’ll have it delivered to you.”
“Are you going to have me driven to the city?”
“Sometimes, pchelka, I will have no choice.”
I concede with a pout.
As we travel back to the townhouse I share with Shay, I already have a basic clue of what my first purchase will be…
And it won’t involve interior decoration, but a long-distance vibrator.
He leaves me with a soft kiss on my lips then, just as I’m about to hop out, drawls, “I counted six bruises, Victoria.”
Tipping my head over my shoulder to look at him, I frown. “Six?”
He simply nods.
“You counted?!”
“Would you like to see what happens to the men who touch you?”
“I killed him.”
“You killed the attacker, not the man who spawned the attacker. These things are generational, don’t you find?”
I’m not sure why, but that has me swallowing.
While I was thinking of which vibrator I’d buy to bring this morning’s fantasy to life, his mind revved over my bruises?
“I suppose,” I say warily.
“Don’t worry, korovka. I’ll make the world a better place in your honor.”
My throat bobs as I take in his calm expression. Then I hurl myself at him, straddle his knees, and pepper kisses over his face.
He doesn’t stop me. Just laughs.
Not mean-spiritedly. Amused. Indulgent Maxim is back.
“Why did I think you’d be my conscience?”
I nip his earlobe, knowing it’ll trigger the roll of his hips against mine. “You won’t make that mistake again, will you?”