Page 22 of Silent Ties (Ruling Love #1)

Russet

F or a week Maxim and I float around one another.

I expected the eventual fallout from Elijah’s pizza dates. Not that I’d tell my husband that’s how I refer to them.

They were coming to an end anyway, with only a few weeks left in Max’s semester. I hadn’t thought about it much because I didn’t want to admit how much I’d miss them. It’s not just the greasy, cheesy goodness of the pizza. Or the way Elijah humors my reality TV show addiction.

The only thing I’ve wanted my whole life is to have a home. Not the crappy, piece of shit house I grew up in. Where the electricity shut off on a regular basis and I hid from the men my mother brought home.

On Thursday nights after Elijah left, for a moment I could pretend the space belonged to me.

There’s no mistaking Max’s love for this penthouse. His pride is subtle, but it’s there. I doubt this is his first venture into real estate but he treats it like his pride and joy.

But for me, it’s a cage. A gilded one, but a cage no less. I can’t leave it without an armed escort and if I’m honest I’d prefer that to staying inside with That Olga Bitch as I like to refer to her.

Something changes, though, when the house is empty. I’m not that much of an introvert, but I breathe deeply, and freely when I’m alone.

I can pretend all I want—we might get on great inside the bedroom, but outside we’re the same old disaster.

I assumed Max’s old soul persona would hate mindless TV so I never turned it on because I knew he’d sigh and side-eye me. That’s all he does. He doesn’t want to talk to me. To tell me about his day or goals. Worse, I think he gets annoyed when I chat and merely puts up with it.

Really, all he does is put up with me. He thinks sugar is wrong but he holds his tongue at my baking.

He holds me after sex, as in he wraps one arm around me.

That’s it. No gentle touch, or rubbing my back.

It’s the same with the text messages I send in the mornings.

I’ve never had a boyfriend who doesn’t text me hello in the morning.

Max, on the other hand, asked if I needed to send him a daily picture of my caramel macchiato.

Why yes actually , I wanted to grumble, holding my tongue. Because it’s funny that the barista took my name down as Rust and who else am I going to show it to?

I’ve learned what devastates me, though, is realizing Max isn’t a substitute for Daisy’s companionship.

It’s not the first time I’ve complained about it before, but each time I acknowledge it, the hurt digs a little deeper.

I’m lonely without my friend and I’m cautious about making new ones. Lennie is nice each time I interact with her, but Max doesn’t even want me to hang out with his brother.

His fury came off of him in waves. The smoldering eyes, glowed, fire flaring in the coal-colored irises.

I couldn’t sit the next day, thanks to my sore ass. But honestly, it was a relief to feel something, instead of the gnawing empty in my brain.

Even though I entered into this marriage blindly, I tried to forge a partnership. He’s never cared about anything other than owning me.

But there are still parts of me he hasn’t worn down.

He demanded I explain what I meant when I said I’d gotten slapped around. At first, I tried to shrug it off, saying the words amounted to angry venting. His burning eyes seared into me, seeing through the lie.

I didn’t tell him about Yelena. I don’t think he’d believe me anyway and I’m not going to embarrass myself any further. There’s no point in stirring up something that would only cause a problem with the whole family anyway.

Especially since I have enough of a problem with Max.

If I thought he was silent before then I was wrong.

He made me stand up that night and applied cream on my sore backside. He took a shower while I waited in bed, curled up on my side. The bathroom door opened and the bed dipped but the divide between us couldn’t be wider.

It’s been like that every night for a week. He leaves in the morning without a word and crawls into bed at night. There are no soft touches or words.

I thought there’d be another punishment because that’s what we do. Our thoughts and feelings always wrapped up in the intimate act of sex.

But even that’s off the table.

Elijah texted me once.

Elijah: I hope my dear brother hasn’t been too much of an asshole. Tell him next time he’s invited.

I didn’t respond. He clearly has a death wish .

Russet Smith used to be much warier about getting played. All I do these days is step into traps.

Pavel’s driving me to lunch, Sergei by his side, when he points at something. “The reviews for that one are good.”

I lean my head against the window. It’s a cute little coffee shop.

Pavel has lived in the city for two years but remains shy about speaking in English. He used to remain quiet, occasionally having Sergei translate for him. Lately, he speaks up, taking his time to think out a sentence.

It makes me smile, the way he’s started to point out interesting spots. Turns out, in his spare time he’s constantly on blog sites, still acting like a tourist despite living here for the past few years. Since he knows I love coffee and sweets, he keeps an eye out for spots I might enjoy.

Warmth weighs my chest down at the kindness. Both have picked up the vibe the past week and while they keep quiet on it, I know it’s the reason they went out of their way to drive me to a new bakery in SoHo.

Maybe it’s because they noticed my lack of appetite for treats the past week. Stress eating is my favorite coping mechanism but I’m not even interested in that lately.

The black SUV pulls up to the front of the restaurant. Pavel lingers in the car, but Sergei opens my door.

My heels dig into the ground and I wiggle so my skirt straightens. It’s a blustery late spring day that hints of summer just around the corner.

“You know—”Sergei surprises me by speaking—“I can always create a fake emergency.”

For a second I don’t understand. He’s a tough-looking, bald guy.

Broad-shouldered with a naturally wary face.

His spine is straight, his mustache and goatee groomed.

He often won’t meet my eye, keeping his face neutral when he talks, in a direct and to-the-point manner.

I can’t say I’ve interacted with a lot of bodyguards but he takes professionalism seriously.

Today, it’s the same. Standing tall, with his hands clasped in front of him. His black suit impeccable. But he explains. “If you need out, you tell me and I come and grab you.”

Another surge of warmth surrounds me. Perhaps the absence of kindness makes me notice it so sharply in the words and actions of Pavel and Sergei.

I’ve been so focused on trying to create something with Max that I didn’t think about building myself a team.

The Zimins got to where they are because they chose their alliances carefully.

I know my enemies—Marissa, Yelena, and Olga.

I never thought about my allies.

It takes a second before I can form words. “Thank you.”

The door is held open for me. There’s a larger lunch crowd than normal, even at the early hour. At this point, I know exactly which table we’ll be seated at, but I don’t walk toward the main room.

I step up to the glass display case of desserts. Most of the time, I don’t let myself look at them, or else I get annoyed. I’ve thought about having Sergei order me some to go, but it felt a bit too ridiculous.

There’s the usual staples: the tower of macrons, the giant slices of layered cakes, and tiramisu cupcakes. I lean closer trying to figure out one of the creations.

People mill around behind me. A little girl giggles and steps echo against the floor. I note a presence at my side but ignore it.

All these happy people around me will associate this place with good memories.

“Which one are you getting?”

My spine stiffens at Max’s voice.

He’s right beside me looking perfect as always.

Strong jawline with a bit more stubble than normal.

His dark hair is trimmed at the sides, the longer strands on top curling just the slightest. I’m biased because I love his body, but the tailored jacket reminds me how attractive he is in any setting.

He turns his eyes from the display case to look at me. “Which one do you like to get?”

I shake my head, breathless.

He raises a brow like he can’t believe it. “You don’t get anything?”

I shake my head again.

He turns back to the display case but my gaze stays on his profile. What is he doing here?

“Well, we’re getting something today,” he declares.

“W-we are?” I dread these lunches, wishing every time I had someone with me. Someone to protect me from Yelena.

I think in some ways Max does try to protect me. It’s why Sergei never leaves my side. And it explains his anger toward Elijah, who managed to infiltrate his way into the penthouse. I thought Lev told me Max worried about Paublino to talk his son up, but I saw his nerves that day.

A secret part of me likes his worry.

I grew up trying to pay the bills my mother couldn’t. Keeping Daisy out of harm as best I could. I killed the creepy bugs in my apartment. If somebody needed to call the electricity provider, I had to do it.

Me, myself, and I.

Max’s protection is a buoy in an otherwise swirling ocean. I hope for it, cling to it, and wish I could do the same for him.

“Why are you here?” I ask softly.

I’m prepared for the silence, knowing him too well. He takes his time, eyes studying the glass case.

“Come on.” He takes my hand, intertwining our fingers, and pulls me through the main crowd.

Yelena blinks in surprise, lifting from the chair and kissing her son. Words are exchanged in Russian and I swear I’m seeing things or does Yelena actually stumble on her heels as she backs into her chair?

I know, thanks to the nifty language app I use, that all Max said were pleasantries. At least the words I could pick out. I suspect Yelena is thrown off by this new playing field especially when her son holds out my chair for me.

“You never join us,” she says neutrally. A waiter serves us water. She never once flicks her eyes to acknowledge him.

“Thank you,” Max tells the waiter. “I finished my final paper for one of my classes so my afternoon was open.”

He looks at me when he says, “So I decided to meet my wife for lunch.”

A blush creeps along my cheeks.

Yelena clicks her tongue. “No love for your mother?”

“Yes, that too.” But his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Next time bring Roma.” Yelena smiles and talks idly, more animated than I’ve ever seen her.

Damn Max, but his presence brings to light how Yelena really doesn’t see her children that often. Elijah’s never hidden his contempt for his stepmother. Roma is more like my brother-in-law on paper so I doubt he’s stopping by his parent’s house on a regular basis.

I don’t like this compassion lapping at me, but it’s possible Yelena is starved for company just as much as I am.

Turns out the only difference between us, is I don’t use ‘being a bitch to everyone’ as a coping mechanism.

Max ponders the menu, leaning into me. “What are you getting?”

Um, salad?

Yelena watches us like a hawk, eyes narrowed. Max is oblivious, though.

“If I get the burger you can have my fries,” Max offers.

I discovered a while back that Max doesn’t like French fries. I think it’s a travesty, but he’s unbothered by it.

“Unless you don’t want them?” he asks.

“Get the truffle fries,” I whisper. I’ve seen waiters parade them around and I always wanted to try them. A bit desperate, I touch his thigh so he understands the seriousness of the request.

His eyes crinkle further and he grabs my hand, pulling it up and pressing a kiss to the back of it.

I nearly melt.

You silly girl.

We’re currently the definition of toxic. We haven’t talked to each other in days and now one little chaste kiss and I’m over it.

But he squeezes my hand, continuing to hold it.

Max is stone. Hard to read and stony silent. But he isn’t just some rock. He’s a mountain. Vast and awe-inspiring. He doesn’t chip away under pressure. He remains strong and resilient and perhaps if I can manage it, I’ll eventually start to see more of who he is.

When the waiter comes for our order, Max orders the burger and in a last-minute decision, I ask for the pasta dish. When it arrives I don’t think anybody understands how much of a triumph it is.

At least until I look up and spot Gia Akatov a few tables over.

She winks and I smile back.

Throughout lunch, Max keeps touching me. Running his hand up and down my thigh. When the waiter takes our plate he asks for the dessert menu.

“That’s so unnecessary.” Yelena wrinkles her nose. “And you’ve never enjoyed sweets.”

“The olive oil cake is more savory, sir,” the waiter helpfully supplies .

“A slice of that to go please.” He hands him the menu.

My mouth waters for a slice of the pistachio cake but I wilt, thinking he’s going to leave early.

Yelena senses it too. “Work leaves you stretched thin.”

“Hardly.” His eyes slide to me. “Will you give me a moment with my mother.”

I don’t know who’s more surprised—me or Yelena.

His shoulders remain straight and he smiles softly. But the fire beneath the coal eyes sparks and wariness creeps into my throat.

“It’ll just be a moment, sweetheart.” He presses a kiss to the back of my hand, the dismissal clear.