Page 26 of The Crimson Lily

I have this file in my hands and I’m standing by the massive oak desk I uncovered just a minute ago.

It’s some kind of medical report with the name and signature of a certain Jean-Michel Legrand, from Maison Blanche—literally: the White House—a psychiatric institution.

I searched on Google for the name and discovered that Jean-Michel Legrand used to be a renowned psychiatrist specializing in…

personality disorders. I don’t dare open the file because Maksim Kavalyow , his last name in the Belarusian form, is also written on the front page, and I know what that means.

I know I’m about to breach into Maksim’s past, to a part he probably doesn’t wish for me to see.

To a part that might explain who he is now.

But I just have to know.

I take a deep breath, set my anxiety aside, and open the file.

It’s all in French. I turn the pages one by one, looking for words I recognize.

Tendances sadiques

Sadistic tendencies.

N’éprouve aucun remords ni sentiment de culpabilité

No remorse or sentiment of guilt?

Agressivité intense

Intense aggressivity.

Ressent certaines émotions

De l’amour pour ses parents

Something about emotions like…?love for his parents?

I close the file, feeling extremely guilty for stepping into a place where I’m not welcome.

I’m about to put the file back where I found it when my eyes lock on Maksim, who stands by the entrance of the room, the front door still open wide.

I didn’t hear him get back home. His glare betrays no emotion.

I want to explain. I want to ask for his forgiveness for my intrusion.

I want to give him my reasons. I’m just about to surrender when he speaks.

“Having fun snooping around?” he asks humorously.

“Is this yours?” I murmur, feeling dumb for asking such a stupid question.

He doesn’t respond. Of course this is his. I feel scared, or perhaps curious to hear more. I don’t know what it is; maybe I’m just very intrigued.

“Is this why…?you do the things you do?” I ask, opening the file again and pointing at the term sadiques , my lips trembling.

He takes a deep breath. “They misdiagnosed me,” he declares in a firm tone. “I just do what I feel like.”

He begins pacing toward me. I put the file down and walk around the desk to come closer to him.

I lean back against it, just within his reach, and he lays both his hands around me, on the desk, to confine me.

My spine slowly crystallizes, a chill from my pelvis to the nape of my neck.

I briefly ponder why his parents consulted with a Parisian psychiatrist, and how many different psychiatrists they saw, in New York or other parts of the world.

I wonder how long they strived to solve the Maksim riddle before they…

“Where are your parents?” I wonder out loud, imagining all kinds of scenarios of what could have happened to them.

I assume they aren’t Bratva. I assume they’re out of the picture. The house hasn’t received visitors in a long, long time. I assume the worst. Maksim doesn’t answer. This is none of my business, and I already went too far.

“Maybe…?you…” I stutter, looking down at my feet. “Maybe you should…” I can’t believe what I’m about to request. “You should punish me…?for prying.”

“You look scared,” he whispers, his voice ending in a soft growl.

“I’m not,” I retort, meeting his eyes. “I know you don’t really want to hurt me.”

His gaze, glowing with an intense silver color, sharpens in a warning signal. “I want to hurt you.”

That last part arouses me so much more than I want to admit. I raise my chin at him, giving him a challenging smirk I didn’t know I could make. “Do your worst, then, Maksim.”

“You should stay away.” He growls louder. “You don’t want to see my worst.”

“I’ve seen what you’re capable of,” I reinforce. “I’m not scared.” I’m really not anymore.

I shouldn’t have said that.

He grips my shoulders and hurls me to the ground. I land on my back, stunned, attempting to cower away from him. He’s unbuckling his gray trousers. I know what’s going to happen. I ache for it.

Maksim leans above me, his knees planted between my legs. He pins my body down, crushing me beneath him. Then, with a furious scowl, his hand swipes at me in a flash. A loud clang, and my cheek starts to burn.

Now he’s tearing off my clothes. I try to hit him. I beat his chest with all I have. It doesn’t even affect him one bit. It’s like he’s possessed by one simple idea—force himself on me—and nothing else will make him budge.

I’m still throwing my fists at him, screaming, his palm pressing my lips shut.

Despite this, despite my struggle, I don’t want him to stop, even if I beg him to with frightened squeals.

This is an act, a game, a twisted one for that matter, but I’m loving it.

Here and now, I realize he could kill me if he wanted to, and that idea turns me on far more than it is reasonable to admit.

“Get off of her!” I hear a distant shout.

A shadow latches onto Maksim’s shoulder, pulling him away from me. I see that shadow throw a punch at him. It’s Béatrice.

“Wait!” I scream. “Béatrice, stop!”

I crawl away and stagger to my feet. My shirt is ripped open, my chest is bare, and Béatrice is staring at me, her eyes widened in fright.

Maksim, on the other hand, storms out of the room—in anger or shame, I don’t know. I just start to run after him as he heads into the hallway.

“No, Maksim! Don’t go!” I beg.

But he slams the door behind him.

I collapse to the floor, desperate, leaning against the cold marble of the stairs. Béatrice rushes to me, still confused, but focused on comforting me.

“What happened, Liliana?” she asks as I take loud, repetitive breaths through my mouth and nose at the same time.

“We were just…” I can’t speak.

“He was raping you!” she yells.

“No, no, no, he wasn’t!” I look at her, my eyes burning. “I don’t know how to explain this! It was like…?an act.”

She shakes her head. Her eyes flare with distress. “It didn’t look like it. He was hurting you.”

“That’s what I like!” I shout, this time with anger boiling in my blood.

Not directed at Béatrice, no, but at how fucked up all of this is.

How fucked up my entire situation is. “I like it when he roughs me up! I like it when he makes it hurt,” I admit.

I admit to all of it, to my darker kinks.

My voice slowly dims and turns into a severe echo.

Saying it out loud feels good. “I like it when he just…?makes it hurt. That’s how I like it, okay?

And you can’t change that.” I think of what to say next.

“Now he left, and I think he’s really furious. ”

Béatrice falls silent. She looks sorry. She takes me in her arms and slowly begins to stroke my hair. I keep on panting, feeling this hole in my heart because Maksim is gone now, and it feels like he’ll never come back.

Béatrice had heard thumps and screams as she climbed the stairs to Maksim’s apartment. She raced to the door and found it open. Her thoughts then were only to rescue me from this madman. She waited until I was dressed again to tell me why she came here.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” she concedes.

I look into the hallway mirror close to the kitchen to check on the mark around my neck.

It looks much better than yesterday, at least. Béatrice, too, looks much better.

She needs to head to work, so I decide to accompany her to the nearest metro station.

I can’t stay locked up in this place—I need some air.

I walk with her to the Pont de l’Alma metro station without saying a word.

She doesn’t really mind, as she’s deep in thought, like me.

I have little idea what’s going on in her head, but the sole thing I can focus on, other than Maksim, is William de Loit, especially how this whole thing sounds fishy at best. It can’t be that easy.

A storage house on Quai d’Orsay? No way.

William letting someone like Alejandro overhear him? There’s no way it’s that easy.

Béatrice gives me a warm hug before taking the stairs down to the metro line.

She tells me to be careful, warns me not to take it too far.

She says I should head back to Maksim’s apartment and wait for her—she’ll come back to check on me tonight.

I get a little annoyed by her persistence, but I know she means well.

She wants the best for me. She’s my best friend, after all.

I still love her for it, and I really can’t imagine what I’d do without her in my life.

The second I lose sight of her, I take the Bratva phone I still have in my purse and begin brainstorming a thousand ways to contact Maksim.

I still have his number from the last text I received from him a few days ago.

I’m not sure he’s still using it. Oh, what the hell…

?I start typing. Something. I just need to say something that’ll get his attention.

Maksim is still a closed book to me; I really don’t know what to say to compel him to answer me. Hence, I call. I call and I call.

No answer.

I’m getting desperate, still ambling aimlessly along the Seine, on the sand-colored gravel, looking at boats, people, and pigeons. I seize my other phone in my hands and call him again. Maybe he won’t answer the Bratva-bugged phone, but he’ll respond to this one.

Nope.

I want to cast my stupid phone into the river and let the Bratva phone join it. This intense feeling of hopelessness makes me want to throw a fist at the nearest tree. I just want to get a hold of him, to give him a reason to answer me.

What do I know about Maksim?

I begin enumerating everything I know about this Belarusian man. How Maksim almost solely responds to direct questions. But also, how Maksim never answers stupid questions. How he never replies when something isn’t my business. How his eyes sharpen whenever he?—