Page 5 of Silent Ties (Ruling Love #1)

Russet

I married Maxim on a Friday. That night and all of Saturday and Sunday I was his to do whatever he pleased.

He tortured my nipples, slapped my pussy, made me come over and over and over again.

I took everything and more, half-hating myself for wanting the orgasms he expertly coaxed out and desperate for more.

At one point I begged him for a nap, my skin damp from the repeated ministrations.

A few hours later I woke up to him stroking my nipple, my back against his chest. The bastard knew when I woke and his hand lowered, starting a new round of delicious torture.

Now it’s Monday and Maxim is back to his regularly scheduled life.

Turns out he’s working on an MBA, leaving me to go to class while I stayed in bed, dazed and confused as to what my new life will be like.

The good news is Marissa helpfully shipped a few suitcases. I found them in the ostentatious foyer. Without Maxim’s presence, it’s easier to inspect every nook and cranny .

My first impression is why does any single guy need a penthouse like this? It’s decorated nicely, no doubt with professional help, but it appears more like a celebrity house in Architecture Digest than a home for a twenty-five-year-old guy.

Sure, there’s plenty of alcohol in the kitchen, but the place is strangely clean, not a thing out of place. Outside of lamps and throw pillows, there aren’t any ‘things’. No knickknacks or photos.

Only books.

There’s a library with his desk and a computer, one wall filled with bookshelves. And in the living room, built-in bookshelves are also filled to the brim. But they’re all stuffy textbooks or history paperbacks. Memoirs and biographies about war generals.

I pass on those and pluck a red spine out. It’s in Russian.

The elevator dings and an older woman, her face sagging with wrinkles and caramel hair brushed into a chignon, pauses in the foyer. Her eyes flick from the suitcases to the book in my hand. And here I thought, Maxim was the personification of unimpressed. No wonder this is his maid.

I snap the Russian book closed, slipping it back onto the shelf. “Hi. I’m Russet.”

“What is all of this?”

“I’ll move it.” There’s no telling what Marissa decided to pack but I’d love to make sure she included my cell phone. Not that I think there will be any messages, but it’d be nice to have one thing of my old life somewhere.

“You don’t.” The woman speaks in stilted English. If I had to guess she’d have no trouble reading the Russian book.

Outside of hotels, I’ve never dealt with maids. The woman doesn’t look pleased but she grabs a bag and starts to haul it. “It’s heavy.”

“Let me help.” I take the strap .

“You do nothing,” she says with a slight subtext of you are nothing .

Well, this is going nicely.

“I’m Olga,” she introduces and then stops at the threshold of the bedroom. “I’ll wash the sheets.”

Cheeks flaming, I drop to my knees, unzipping one of the two suitcases.

“I’ll do that.” Olga already has an armful of sheets, but motions for me to move away from the bags. She’s serious because thirty seconds later, she tries to shoo me away from my own personal items.

“My job.” There’s something about Olga’s tone that makes the words sound robotic and mean at the same time. She motions to a set of pajamas. “We already have these.”

In the closet, there’s everything I could need and more. Pajamas, jeans, lacy bits of underwear. Things from magazines I would love to wear but I’m not sure I could pull off. But it’s all there in this penthouse of a place.

I’m playing dress up.

“Do you see a phone?” I ask Olga.

She makes disgruntled noises under her breath, but points. “Table.”

I pass no less than three side tables, before coming to the correct one in the foyer.

A black iPhone sits on the entry table next to a key and a designer bag.

It gives the hall a lived-in quality that comes off as discombobulating.

Even worse when I tap the screen, I see the phone is already on and the wallpaper is now a shot of Maxim and I’s first kiss.

By all accounts, we look like a happy couple, but I can’t help but wonder if this phone is bugged.

Of course it is you, stupid bitch.

Maxim and his family showed no signs of concern at Marissa’s stunt.

They didn’t bat an eye. But they’re not stupid enough to welcome me to the family without an extensive background.

While Maxim fucked me within an inch of my life, his father probably spent the weekend uncovering every detail from the past twenty-six years of my miserable existence.

Luckily, I cleared their security clearances, otherwise, the breath play Maxim likes would have taken a different turn.

They transferred my number to a new phone, syncing everything over. There are the same text reminders about having rewards at my favorite coffee shop and a stream of memes from Daisy. The only new message is a photo from Marissa. Yet another photo from the wedding.

One from the reception, from our ten-second interaction, before Maxim hauled me here.

I’m looking up at him, staring into those serious eyes.

It’s raw and candid and a bit artsy since it’s in black and white.

The dress did look fantastic and I guess Olga will find it and deal with it.

But other than noting that for once I don’t have a double chin, the photo leaves me with nothing.

Just another day of dealing with Marissa’s shit.

Marissa: They say love is the greatest blessing. Sending you all of mine for your future!

For my future.

My hands curl against the phone, wishing I could crush the steel. It’s not my future I care about.

I know better than texting Marissa back.

I press a button, the private elevator doors opening. A bulky, bald guy in a suit stands at attention.

He nods his head, though, I suspect he’s surprised to see me. There’s a package in his hand. “Mrs. Zimin.”

Right, that’s me.

“Can I help you with anything?”

“A walk in the park,” I request.

“It’s very cold. ”

“A movie.”

“I don’t think there’s any good releases.”

“Grocery store.”

Olga appears at my elbow. “I do that.”

Passing the security clearances doesn’t grant me free-range privileges.

Olga openly watches me as I unlock my phone, scrolling through my contacts knowing a new number’s been added. I pause my tapping and a second later the maid walks off with the package the man delivered but she doesn’t go far.

Russet: Am I your wife or your captive?

Maxim: Both.

Maxim: Rest. You’ll need it for tonight.

What the fuck is wrong with me because my cheeks heat at the insinuation.

Russet: I’m sore.

Maxim: Is that a compliment?

Russet: That type of joke makes you sound like a teenager.

No dots appear and he never responds. Either my new husband is a terrible texter or my sarcasm has already pissed him off.

“I make you a salad for lunch,” Olga says as I pass through the living room.

“Okay.” More like give me a pizza and let me stress eat, but sure, salad sounds great.

The suitcases are gone from the bedroom, and the linen on the bed is fresh. A few toiletry bags sit on the bathroom vanity, Olga knowing better than to come between a woman and her makeup products.

But I’m not searching for lipstick or my favorite mascara. Instead, I untwist a cap off a blue tube and dab some cream onto my hand.

It’s dark outside, the bedroom’s floor-to-ceiling windows letting in a picturesque view of the lit-up city skyline, when Maxim comes home.

He’s not in a suit, but his trousers are black, his shirt a button-down.

My stomach tightens at how pretty and soft his black hair is, the strands just slightly curly.

It’s the only boyish feature. The rest of him is that same marble, hard and unyielding, from the past few days.

I lift my hand. “Did you give me a disease?”

The first few buttons of his collar are undone, but he’s much too polished. I’m a take my pants off immediately once I’m home type of girl, but I guess the walk from my front door to closet was much shorter in comparison to the grandiose floorplan he’s got.

“Did you give me an STI?”

It’s definitely my sarcasm pissing him off.

His hands remain in his pockets, his jaw clenching. But his eyes dip to the red, angry patch on my hand. “What is that?”

“It won’t stop itching.” It’s an absolute bitch.

“It’s a rash.” He unbuttons his shirt, his lean, tight muscles tensing.

That’s his entire being. When he wasn’t fucking my brains out this weekend, he was on the phone discussing business.

Not that he talked anywhere near me, but I noticed the tight shoulders and the way his body remained tense when he returned.

Maxim needs to learn how to relax.

“It’ll probably go away.” He folds his shirt—actually folds it—and places it on the dresser drawer. I assume Olga will deal with it tomorrow. “Come shower with me. ”

My stomach tightens. “Don’t you want to introvert? It’s been a long day.”

“No,” he simply says, going into the bathroom. The shower runs, steam rising. We shared several showers over the weekend, but I’m not in a sex haze. I don’t doubt it’ll get there, but right now Maxim is mechanical as he washes his hair.

“I should go to a dermatologist.”

He picks up a washcloth, motioning for me to turn around. He’s big on directing me to do stuff without even talking.

“A dermatologist.” I don’t finish the thought, my teeth sinking into my bottom lip when he rubs between my pussy. “I’m still sore.”

His touch gentles, but there’s a whisper of a promise. Or a threat.

The cloth soothes over my skin, down my arm. I’m puffy and red from the steam, but the spot on my hand stands out.

“I’ll get something scheduled,” he says.

“I’ll get something scheduled,” I reply. He lets me take the cloth and I begin washing him. Either I’m a really good actor or absolutely crazy.

“I’m sure my mother knows of a dermatologist.” He must be confusing dermatologist with plastic surgeon.

“I already have one. I can go back there.”

Water streams down around him, but he hardly notices. I already know he could be in the middle of a hurricane and come across as unaffected. Coal eyes, even darker in the dim bathroom lighting, warily study me.

“You think I’m a spy.”

“Are you?” he asks back.

“I’m not Marissa’s spy.”

He places a large hand over mine, directing my hand to his raging erection .

“I’m not jerking you off just to get a trip to the doctor’s.”

Amusement lines his eyes.

“Seriously.”

He says nothing.

“Is this what it’s going to be like as your wife? Made into a sex toy and never taken seriously.”

He gently pushes a strand of brown hair off my face. “I don’t know. I take my sex toys pretty seriously.”

I shove his hand away, his eyes narrowing.

“I’m not a sex toy. I’m a twenty-six year old woman who’s tired of fighting to have her medical concerns taken seriously.”

He takes up most of the space under the spigot of water, my nipples peaking in the cold. Or maybe it’s due to how he openly stares at me.

“My brother thinks you’re a psychopath.”

I swallow. “What?”

“I admit, I’m inclined to agree. Why else would you help Marissa with this stupidly absurd plan?”

Their reaction to Marissa rattles me. While she’s gloating, thinking she’s gotten one over the Zimin’s, they act like she’s nothing but a gnat. This is just a funny chapter in a long drawn-out game.

Steam halos around him, the bastard nothing but a statue. A god made out of porcelain, his power radiating.

The complete opposite of the cold, wet, and confused girl in front of him.

“I owed Marissa a debt.” He’s too clever not to have figured it out by now, but I confirm it anyway.

“What for?”

I shake my head.

“Save us both the trouble and tell me.”

“You know Marissa.”

When she was eighteen, she married a small-time crook.

The story went he was a weak, ugly man who beat the shit out of her.

But while he puffed out his chest and acted like a rising star in the criminal world, Marissa waited for her chance.

Bashed his head in, and took over his operations.

Slowly, but steadily, she became a figure people couldn’t keep ignoring.

She’s not a woman’s woman. She’ll pimp you out and sell you off and do whatever helps her bottom line.

Don’t get mixed up in Marissa’s shit. It’s the cautionary rule in my neighborhood. One I kept to. But Daisy didn’t and now I’m here. On her behalf.

I’m sure they saw that stream of memes on my phone but I’ll be damned if the bratva gets close to her. If I’m going to keep her safe from Marissa then I’ll keep her safe from them too.

“So you really were just one of her whores.”

My already red cheeks, flame.

He runs his thumb down my cheek, the pad digging into my lips. “It’s okay, I already know how talented you are.”

I push him back with more force than I thought I had. For a second I tense, but while his jaw ticks he never lifts a hand. It’s the opposite. He cups my cheek, more gently than before, and leans into my ear.

“I don’t care what dermatologist you go to, but you will behave.” He nips my earlobe for good measure. And then pushes me to my knees.