Chapter 09
Anya
The house feels different at night.
During the day, it seems large and cold—the way rich people’s houses are supposed to be. At night, it’s still large, but in a different way. Lonelier.
Maksim disappeared after our toast.
He left me in the living room to deal with some work matter and tasked Olga with showing me the rest of the house I hadn’t seen yet. She pointed out the rooms with her chin, spoke little, and explained even less.
“The garden at the edge of the woods is forbidden,” she said flatly.
“Why?”
“It’s dangerous.”
Just that, nothing more. I don’t know what could be more dangerous than the people who lived and roamed this property day and night, but I wasn’t eager to find out.
I ate lunch alone and spent the entire afternoon the same way, alternating between reading a book, killing time on social media, and trying to figure out what I’m going to do with my life.
I’m married now, but I can’t spend my life as the trophy wife of a man who was home all day and still chose to avoid me.
I argued with myself, insisting it didn’t matter to me. That he didn’t matter to me. But that’s a lie. I know it is, because I catch myself waiting for him. I hate this. I hate feeling like I’m at someone’s mercy.
Everything about Maksim intrigues and confuses me. The way he struggles to communicate, choosing me as his wife when so many women would kill to be in my place, the fact that I found an entire side of his closet filled with new clothes in my size.
I marched to the kitchen in search of the only person who could answer my questions besides my runaway husband.
“Whose clothes are those in the closet?” I don’t bother being cordial.
“Ask your husband.”
She answers without even looking up, too busy rolling out small discs of dough to make pelmeni[13], I imagine.
“I’m asking you.”
Olga raises her head just enough to meet my eyes. Maybe I’m being ruder than I should, but I can’t help it. All this evasion is driving me crazy. My husband’s housekeeper, however, seems to appreciate my rudeness. God knows why.
“The master had them brought to the house when he left to fetch you.”
Another piece of information that leaves me confused. I leave the kitchen without a word, leaving Olga focused on her work, and head back to the bedroom.
The hours pass. I take a bath using the feminine products I found in the bathroom.
All excellent quality, nothing like the cheap crap I could afford at the market in Vysotsk.
I put on pajamas that are anything but sexy, despite finding several revealing pieces at my disposal.
I prefer something comfortable. After refusing dinner, I go to bed.
As I settle into bed, sitting with my back against the imposing headboard, my mind betrays me and drifts back to him.
Maksim. My husband.
I expected anything behind that mask. Severe burns, a ruined face, some kind of deformity.
The kind of thing that makes children cry in fear.
I’d thought through all these possibilities and prepared myself for any of them.
I couldn’t show pity, disgust, or shock.
I chose to be here without seeing his face, so I needed to stay composed, no matter what.
Then he took off the mask.
I was prepared for everything except that.
The pale skin, the result of years hidden behind the mask.
The square, well-defined jaw that made him look even more serious than I’d imagined.
The intense, cold eyes—an almost gray blue—staring at me with such interest that it was impossible not to feel seen.
His left eyebrow was split in half by an old, deep scar that started near his temple and ran down to the corner of his mouth, almost reaching his chin. The eye had remained intact, despite the brutality of the mark crossing it. The rest of his face was normal.
No. Nothing about that man could be described as normal.
Maksim has that magnetic, intimidating aura that makes my knees weak, and this time, I knew it wasn’t my bad knee giving out. The man is gorgeous. Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous. And he hides his face, I believe, because of that scar.
How has no one ever told him he’s gorgeous with the scar? Not despite it. And the lips. God, the lips. Full, well-shaped, and perfectly kissable, much to my horror.
In that whirlwind of sensations coursing through me, when I couldn’t help myself and caressed his face, running my fingers over the scar, I had only one fleeting second of clarity to hold back the words rushing to my lips.
I think you’re gorgeous.
I didn’t expect this.
Why do you hide?
I want to know everything about you, Maksim.
But I didn’t say any of them. Because I don’t know this man.
He killed his own father to take his place at the head of a criminal organization.
He bought me from my own father! Gushing like a teenager about how gorgeous I found him would be handing my executioner the only weapon I have. I won’t do that.
“Let him figure out on his own that I find him attractive,” I mutter to myself.
If he thought I felt repulsion or disgust at his appearance, let him keep believing that. Maybe it’s better this way. After all, I’ve already heard the rumors about him. Hell, everyone has. Stories whispered over drinks at the bar.
In Vysotsk, the old men used to tell stories about the Man in the Mask. The Pakhan who killed his father at nineteen. Just a story to keep rebellious teenagers in line, I thought. But today, it's no longer just a story.
The Man in the Mask has a face. My husband's face.
Fuck.
What should I expect from him?
I look at the empty bed beside me, the comforter smoothed with methodical precision. Maksim will sleep next to me. And I have no idea what he expects from me. From this marriage he claims isn't a facade.
The sound of his footsteps reaches me before he even enters the room.
Maksim isn't wearing the mask when he crosses the threshold.
I think it'll take me a few days to stop being surprised by his bare face.
He pauses for half a second, looks me up and down as if checking that I'm still here, still intact, then closes the door.
“You disappeared.”
“Had things to take care of all afternoon.”
I won't question him. Not because I don't care, but because I don't want to come across as some needy, abandoned wife. I'm not that.
He walks without hurry to the armchair near the window, takes off his jacket, and tosses it over the back. Now he's in just a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Tattoos peek out from under the fabric, covering his forearms all the way down to his hands, which are tattooed too.
Maksim seems to avoid looking at the bed. I still don't know if it's out of pure disinterest or respect. More likely the former. My thoughts keep racing, screaming against the uncertainty of everything that's going to happen from here on out.
“Maksim.” I call out to him. He responds with nothing but a grunt. “What do you expect from me? Here, in this room?”
The question comes out firmer than I expected. I learned early to harden my voice when my whole body was trembling. But my husband already knows me well enough—even after just two days—to know that if I'm asking, it's because I want an answer. And he takes his time giving me one.
Maybe it's naive of me to hope he won't touch me, but everything got confusing the moment he started talking about a contract marriage that wasn't a facade. A facade is a facade. It means nothing would happen between us. Now I'm not so sure anymore. And uncertainty is the worst feeling I know.
So far, even with all his criminal, intimidating, quiet aura, Maksim hasn't seemed like the type of monster who forces things.
But that kind of naivety isn't mine to indulge.
I've been a woman long enough to know that the man who smiles in the living room, surrounded by friends and family, can be very different from the man who walks into the bedroom.
This man is a stranger. One of the most powerful criminals in Russia. Drugs, weapons, and gambling must be part of his daily life. I imagine prostitution and human trafficking aren't far removed from his business either. What scruples could he possibly have?
Finally, Maksim lifts his gaze to me, having taken off his shirt and pants. He's standing in front of me in nothing but his underwear.
Just his underwear.
I want to let my eyes wander, to take him in fully. I want to know exactly what awaits me. I fight the impulse. I can't afford to miss any reaction from him. My life depends on it.
“You want to know…”
He takes a step. Then another. His blue eyes, cold, locked on mine.
“…if I'm going to fuck you, Svetlana?”
We're so close now that I can smell the faint scent of vodka, cigarettes, and cologne coming off him.
“I already told you not to call me that.”
“And I already told you I don't care,” he counters. “So, do you want to know if I'm going to fuck my wife?”
“I want to know if you're going to force me.” I raise my chin, facing the man who could be my monster.
The room seems to shrink, contracting under the weight of the tension between us. Neither of us looks away. My gaze stays fixed on his eyes, focused on catching any unspoken intention. His, though, dances across my face, moving from my eyes to my mouth, lingering there a moment longer.
“I won't touch you without permission.”
He takes a step back, putting distance between us again. There's no weight to his words, just a dry statement of fact. I let out the breath I didn't know I was holding.
“But,” he continues, “I'm not going to sleep in another room.”
“What does that mean?”
“That I'm not going to wait forever.”
This time I let myself take him in completely. The torso covered in tattoos, the chiseled abs, the black underwear with a sizable bulge straining against the fabric. I swallow hard.
Fuck.
“You're my real wife, Svetlana. With everything that means.” He moves toward the bathroom door. “You will give permission. You'll beg. And when that happens, I'm going to take what's mine.”
The bathroom door closes, leaving me alone to absorb the weight of his words.
Relief is the first thing I feel. I'm not one to put my faith in anyone—not after having a mother like Galina—but Maksim seemed sincere.
A man like him, in his position, doesn't need to lie to me.
He could simply take what he wanted, and I'd be defenseless.
As much as I hate to admit it, that's the truth.
But what infuriates me most isn't the relief that comes from knowing I really was afraid of him. No. What infuriates me is the desire I felt.
When Maksim got so close that his scent overwhelmed my senses. When he talked about fucking me and taking what was his, I felt my body heat up, my mouth go dry, and my heart race.
The sounds coming from the bathroom while he showered made the whole situation feel strangely domestic, and my mind began to wander to places it normally avoids.
When I lived in Moscow and danced at the Bolshoi, I slept with a dancer once.
Twice, actually. I lost my virginity the first time, and it was so bad that I agreed to do it again just to make sure the problem wasn't my inexperience.
The second time was equally bad. Not painful or violent, but unsatisfying.
After he finished, Chris—the dancer who'd just arrived from London—went to shower while I sat on the bed, accepting that maybe sex wasn't as interesting as everyone seemed to believe.
He showered, thanked me for the fuck, said goodbye, and left.
We kept working together normally after that, and I turned down all his invitations to do it again.
With him, I never felt anything close to what I feel now. The heat in my body, the desire, the wet panties.
Maksim is showering, and all I can think about is what his naked body looks like. How far do the tattoos go? Are there more hidden scars? How would he react if I went in there?
“Focus, Anya.”
I scold myself as I climb back into bed. It's one thing to have accepted this marriage for such a paltry deal. It's another thing entirely to grovel at this man's feet just because he's my husband now. Or worse, just because he's handsome.
Wow, you desire your husband.
How innovative!
I mock myself but go back to my original plan. I'm not going to give him everything for free. And certainly not all at once. Maksim already took my freedom with a contract he signed without consulting me. If he wants me, let him fight for it.
When he comes out of the bathroom, he's wearing only sweatpants.
No shirt. His abdomen is breathtaking: ripped, well-defined, without an ounce of fat.
The tattoos are completely visible now: an Orthodox cross over his left pec, eight-pointed stars on both shoulders, a series of other small markings, and one phrase—the most chilling of them all.
Никого не жалей
Have mercy on no one.
If Maksim notices my lingering, hungry gaze, he doesn't say anything. He just heads to his side of the bed, flipping off the overhead light on the way, leaving only the bedside lamps to light the room.
He lies down beside me and doesn't touch me, just like he said. I know he's there because I can hear his breathing, but he's not close enough for his body heat to reach me across the mattress. And then Maksim reaches over, turns off the lamp, and falls asleep.
That's it. He sleeps.
In less than ten minutes, the man who terrorizes so many grown men, who wears a skull mask and carries himself with unshakeable composure, just turned off the lights and fell asleep. Right beside me.
Muzhchina v Maske, the monster from all the Vysotsk stories, snores softly in his sleep.
Who would have thought.