Page 7 of Silent Ties (Ruling Love #1)

Russet

I n the month of being married to Maxim Zimin, I’ve spent more time in the bathroom than anywhere else in this lavish penthouse.

And not because I need the bathroom.

There’s no space for me here. Maxim insists I share the bed with him. There’s no spot for introverting, despite being here the majority of the time. The library and study are thoroughly claimed by Maxim, his books taking up the entire apartment.

Olga takes the rest of the house. She dusts and cleans. Cooks meals mainly consisting of vegetables because she can’t cook a carb to save her life. The kitchen is off-limits. I know because she makes passive-aggressive comments every time until I leave.

Never alone, but perpetually lonely.

This is my new way of life and the one time I have an event to prepare for I’m not sure I want to go.

“You can’t tell me anything else.” I sweep blush onto my cheek.

The bathroom is the size of my old apartment and there’s a vanity with a seat.

The lighting is fancy and the plumbing is all made out of gold.

Max walks out of the closet, buttoning up his shirt.

He sleeps naked so I’ve yet to see a pair of sweats or a T-shirt.

“There’s nothing to tell.” He fixes his cuff sleeves.

His parents decided to throw a party on our behalf. Not only are all of the Zimins invited, but so are the wider elite.

“What will it be like?”

He shrugs. “It’s a party.”

Full of bratva and other various criminal royalty. It’s ten times worse than the typical meet your parents which I’ve not officially done. His father, Lev, patted my shoulder, his amusement bright on the day of our wedding. Yelena, his second wife, never bothered to introduce herself.

I’m inclined to believe they don’t particularly care who I am. This is another chapter in a game, showing everyone that Marissa didn’t get to them. As far as they’re concerned, Maxim is happily married to what’s-her-name.

I took an hour doing my hair, not that it amounted to much. My brown hair is sleek but flat and as soon as I step out into the wind it’ll be a mess. Slowly and methodically, I applied my makeup, but I’m so-so on that front too.

Meanwhile, Maxim is runway-worthy in a pair of black slacks and a steel gray button-down. The longer strands of his hair are curled in that way that always enchants me. I’m still in my pajamas because I have no idea what to wear.

“Come on,” I whine. “Please give me something.”

But that would require him to talk to me.

He never does. The most talkative he gets is when he whispers dirty little things during sex.

Otherwise, it’s just silence. When I ask him about his day and what he wants Olga to prepare for dinner I get the bare minimum.

Good, fine, grilled chicken and veggies. He doesn’t bother to ask me anything.

Sometimes I push it saying the random thoughts that pop into my head.

What was it like growing up as a mafia prince?

Do you get along with your brothers? Why are the walls in this place so fancy (turns out it’s wainscotting).

His dark eyes slide to mine but my chatter never amuses him. It never opens the floor to discussion.

I am merely here.

Exactly where Marissa wants me to be.

Two days ago, I went through Daisy’s social media. She hasn’t posted much, but I went back through every memory, remembering where I was when it happened. Normally, right beside her. All our lives, that’s how it’s been. Whatever adventures we went on, we went together.

There’s a painful gap, growing bigger, now that she’s not here to talk to. I’m used to the constant flow of messages and various memes sent to one another. Venting about work and getting annoyed by people doing weird things on the bus.

I know if Maxim talked to me, it wouldn’t replace all the girlish gossip. But I can’t help but wonder if it would help.

Did he really want to get married that badly? What did he think it was going to be like? I doubt Marissa’s daughter, as meek as she’s known to be, would get ordered around like this.

But I’m not Marissa’s daughter.

Which is why when Maxim snaps his finger pretending to remember something my stomach knots.

Here’s the ugly truth. Maxim knows what he’s doing in the bedroom. Or maybe I’m just fucked up because I like the harder stuff. But still, there’s a line of dread every time that gleam comes into his eye. My panties shouldn’t instantly grow wet.

“You know what I do have something to give you. On your knees by the bed.”

My lips pop open. “We’re going to be late.”

He orders again, voice darker, “On your knees by the bed.”

I drop the makeup brush letting out a deep breath.

“Pants off,” he demands as he follows me through. “Ass in the air.”

Like always, I do exactly as he says. My chest presses into the side of the mattress, my fingers digging into the sheets. Something cold hits my ass and I jerk into the bed.

“Wait, wait, wait!”

He doesn’t. He spreads my ass cheeks and my fists twist into the sheets further.

“Relax.” The word is surprisingly gentle. It’s the one he uses in the middle of the night when his fingers trace my skin to wake me. The soft touches turn into something stronger, harder, working me up.

It’s the same now. He coaxes my body, his hand sliding around to circle my clit. I breathe deeply, falling into the sensation.

“Just like that, sweetheart.” His praises kiss me like a reward. “Relax.”

I sink into the mattress and he begins pushing the plug into my ass. The fullness, mixed with his hands on my clit, has me coming in seconds.

And just like that he kisses my forehead, smacks my ass, and stands up. Without his body propping me up, I fall backward onto the floor.

“Seriously?” I ask. For a second I return to the mouthy motherfucker I used to be. He scowls in response, fidgeting with his sleeve cuff. “Going to meet your parents with a butt plug in. How original.”

My stomach clenches, realizing the mistake immediately. Dark, cold eyes narrow as he unzips his pants. I’m still on the floor, but he takes me by the shoulder so there’s no mistake about what he wants.

“Now,” he demands.

Like the good girl that I am, I lean forward, licking from the crown to his balls. It’s not fast enough. A hand digs into my hair and I choke on his cock. He fucks me ruthlessly, his crown hitting the back of my throat .

I hang onto his thighs. He’s rough yes, but this is animalistic. My eyes burn and my lipstick smears.

“You had an opportunity to be a good girl.” Each word is accompanied by a thrust. My already sensitive pussy clenches. I’m nothing but one big mess. Lube on my ass, arousal sticking to my thighs and my perfectly placed makeup destroyed. “But admit it, wife, you don’t like being a good girl.”

My jaw hurts but he goes on, thrusting in and out. He’s actually angry or maybe he’s done a better job of hiding it the past few weeks.

“You like being punished.”

My thighs rub together. Fuck him for being right.

“Like having my cock fuck your mouth.” He won’t slow down and spit collects at the corners of my mouth. “My own personal dirty whore. Just how I like.”

His fingers painfully tighten in my hair and just when I think he’ll come his cock slips from my mouth with a pop.

The buttons on my pajama top pop off and his large hand wraps around himself, brutally jerking himself off. Cum streams across my chest.

I sit back on my heels, trying to catch my breath, my thighs squeezing together. His face is dark, his jawline sharp.

The fire in his eyes hasn’t diminished, though. “Is going to my parent’s house covered in my cum original enough?”

My mouth tumbles open. “You can’t be serious.”

He tucks himself into his pants, ignoring me.

“Maxim.”

He blinks.

Have I ever said his name outside of sex?

Other than his small pause, it holds no effect. He heads into the bathroom, washing his hands.

The reality falls around me. We’re already running late. I’m covered in his cum. I need to pick a dress that will hide it .

I can’t believe this bastard but my mind is already warped towards my situation. Don’t be surprised what happens when you play with the devil.

And that’s exactly who my husband is. . . the motherfucking devil.