Page 20 of Silent Ties (Ruling Love #1)

Maxim

“ A re you trying to ghost me?” Dad asks over the phone.

“You know I dislike it when you use language you think makes you sound young.”

“I thought it was clever,” his suave voice answers, “considering it’s regarding the Ghost after all.”

There’s no point sighing, but I stifle something inside. My dad got to where he is because of his ability to handle multiple crises at once. Until recently I thought I had the same ability. See a fire, put it out. Quick and efficient.

But lately, things in the city are shifting. At first, I thought I was imagining it. But the more I speak to my father, the more I wonder if others feel it too.

“Ren’s silence means he said no.” Follow-up texts aren’t her forte. If she’d called requesting a meeting, it meant she successfully brought the Ghost to the table.

“Ask again,” Dad demands.

It’ll do nothing. But being the good son I am, I tell him, “I’ll grab lunch there tomorrow.” Make Ren’s day while I’m at it .

Noise bleeds into the background, something like a fridge door shutting.

“Are you eating?” I ask. The great crime lord Lev Zimin getting a late-night snack.

“Your mother is on this kick,” he replies. He switches his voice just slightly. He now speaks as my dad and not my boss. “But I’m not a fucking rabbit.”

I stay silent but don’t fight the smile on my face. Mom eats a handful of almonds and calls it a day. The men of the family prefer meat and potatoes.

“How is Russie?”

My smile twitches into a frown. “What?”

“Russie?”

“Why are you calling her that?”

“I don’t know Maxie, because that’s what people do. Use nicknames.”

“Elijah doesn’t have a nickname.” I called him Eli once when we were kids. I wore a cast on my right arm for six weeks.

“Elijah came out of his mother’s womb in a three-piece suit.” Things rattle in the background, probably the cutlery drawer. “His hatred of shortened names should be the least of our worries. Now answer the question and tell me your wife is okay.”

“Of course she’s okay.” Why wouldn’t she be?

“She still goes to lunch with your mom?”

My frown deepens. I know Mom and Dad aren’t as close as other couples, but they’re normally aware of each other’s schedules. “Yes.”

Humming under his breath, he doesn’t respond. A sports game wavers through the line and I picture Dad hunkering down in the kitchen, watching the game with his sandwich in front of him.

“You should bring her around more,” he says. “She’s gotta feel cooped up in that penthouse of yours. ”

“She’s fine.”

I’m tired of people acting like I’ve locked her up.

She gets coffee every day. I know because she’s started to send me text messages. When we first married, she’d shoot off texts at every annoyance. I often didn’t respond and it died off but recently she’s started back up again.

My brothers tease me for being old, but phones annoy me. I’d rather read a physical book than scroll through an app. If my phone rings I know it’s in regards to business.

Now if I don’t get a message by nine in the morning I wonder if she’s okay.

It’s what prompted me to call her this morning.

It’s another way we differ. I’d rather call than text and she seemed suspicious of my intent.

I felt foolish when I heard the noise of the coffee shop in the background.

I should’ve gone with my gut and contacted Sergei about her whereabouts instead of kicking up a fuss.

My dad makes another incoherent noise under his breath. “The secret to a good marriage, son, don’t ever stop learning about your wife.”

I don’t know what that means and I’m not inclined to ask for further details. My father is hiding in the kitchen, scrounging for a second meal. Even if I needed advice, I wouldn’t go to him.

Dad signs off just as the sports game kicks off in the background. The SUV angles into the underground parking garage. I’m walking to the elevator when I spot a guard outside, away from his normal post.

I tightened security after Marissa went further off her bat-shit rocker.

Normally, it’s Sergei, but there’s a family obligation that sees him clock off early. As my longest-serving guard, it’s never been an issue, but now I wonder about the loyalty of his replacement.

With the semester winding down, I only went to my evening class to drop off a paper since the professor adamantly expected a hard and electronic copy. With the strap of my bookbag dangling from my shoulder, I carefully step out of the elevator.

TV blasts from the living room. There’s a pair of brown Italian loafers in the foyer. My hand balls into a fist because I know the pretentious bastard who wears them.

Dropping my bag by the front entry table, I creep forward. The lights are off, except for the kitchen, and plastic-looking women argue on the TV. It’s so loud I strain to hear the conversation between my wife and brother.

Russet’s feet are propped on the TV and she’s eating pizza. There’s an ease around her I’ve never seen before. Elijah lounges, his arm on the back of the couch.

“She got the last Hermes bag when they flew to Italy,” Russet says around the pizza, her legs wiggling as she stares up at the TV.

Elijah, the wanker, bemusedly watches. “Surely not the last Hermes bag.”

“Not the last, last one.” She sounds like an exasperated child explaining. “But the It Bag of the season. So now they hate one another.”

The women on the TV jab fingers at one another, spewing vitriol over a handbag.

“And this is what you want to watch?” Elijah asks.

“Favorite show ever,” she confirms, not looking away.

“That’s what you said about the last stupid reality show we watched.”

Last show they watched? As in they’ve watched multiple ones.

I take a deep breath, analyzing the situation. The way they sit near one another and trade easy remarks, plus the fact that grease smears Russ’s lips, tells me this is not a one-off.

“What’s going on?”

Russet jumps in her seat, the pizza dropping to the plate. Elijah’s calmer. He rolls his head toward me, barely acknowledging my presence.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

He checks his watch. “You’re home early.”

“Out.” He doesn’t move. “Now.”

“He just—” One look from me and Russet shuts up.

“Come and join us brother.” Elijah crosses an ankle over his knee, leaning back.

“Get the fuck out of my home.”

He sighs and turns toward Russet. “Looks like our Thursday dinner dates are a thing of the past.”

Part of me realizes Elijah is saying and doing everything in a bid to push my buttons. He wants to piss me off. Normally, I’d ignore him, but tonight. . . tonight I might kill him.

And the shit-eating smirk on his face tells me he knows it.

Standing up he bends over, his lips inches from Russet’s forehead. The floor creaks when I step forward, my knuckles cracking. He straightens, placing his hands in his pockets nonchalantly. “Goodbye, then.”

Shouting females fill the living room. The door shuts behind Elijah.

Russet’s chest rises and falls. She’s wearing sweatpants and a crewneck. If she’d been in that tiny silk nightgown of hers this would’ve been so much worse. She doesn’t move, her lips parted and eyes wide.

She knows she’s fucked up.

“Get up,” I order.

“It was just pizza.”

“Up.”

She scrambles, almost bumping into the glass coffee table. I grab her elbow when she’s not quick enough and shove her over the arm of the couch.

I force down a lungful of air. Russet likes acting like a brat, but tonight if she thinks any pleasure will come of it, she’s sorely mistaken.

“What were you doing?” I ask, tugging her sweatpants down. “Damn it, Russet, you’re not wearing any underwear.”

We’re both shaking for different reasons. She trembles in my grasp, trying to lift her torso off the couch. I shove her down.

“Did my brother take them off you before he fucked you?” The thought of it brings murder to my mind.

“No!” She does everything she can to lift up. I tangle my hands in her hair, pulling. “That’s not what happens.”

“What happens? Let me get this straight. I’m off trying to further my education while you entertain my brother.”

A strangled cry catches in her throat.

“Oh, Russet.” She trembles against me. “This is going to hurt.”

“No. . .”

I shove her down, the slap ringing. “Count,” I order.

She begins to sob, my dick hardening at the waterworks like always. I own her pain just like I own her pleasure and I get off on the thought almost as often as the act.

“Count,” I demand. She can barely talk, her voice muffled against the couch and the tears.

“Please,” she begs after I get to ten.

“You’ve been letting my brother sneak in here.”

All this time I’ve been waiting for the shoe to drop. Just when I start to trust her, to think maybe she’s finally settling into this marriage she pulls something like this.

Why does she text me? Why did she order all those sex toys, goading me on?

It’s worse, knowing it’s gone on for weeks. Elijah and Russet sitting on the couch, eating pizza together, shouldn’t haunt me like it does. But it’s always easy for the bastard to cut through people's defenses .

I’m pissed at him for setting the trap and I’m pissed at my wife for getting caught in it.

I slap her ass, over and over again. She stops wiggling, but her chest heaves against the couch. I love how messed up she is, her hair wild around her, her ass red. Her arousal coats her upper thighs and I tease a finger against her wet pussy.

Her breath hitches but I chuckle darkly. “Nah.”

I slap her ass one more time and back away from her. Her muscles sag into the couch, her body folded over the couch arm.

“Get up,” I tell her. “It’s not over. Not even by a mile. For fuck’s sake, Russet, it’s not going to be like last time.”

The box of toys, from her bratty behavior the other night, is child’s play. I’m not always into whips, but the thought of blood against her smooth skin is a demanding want thanks to the anger and annoyance I feel.

The sobs subside, but she doesn’t move.

“Sweetheart.”