Page 65 of Surrender: XXX Maxim
Chapter Sixteen
Hell doesn’t contain an ounce of fire. It’s just so fucking cold. Wet. There’s red everywhere. Painting the walls, sloshing over the floor, flooding the air with the scent of salt.
It’s blood.
Screaming, I try to swim as the level rises higher by the second—an ocean of violence, washing me away.
And I’m drowning in it…
“It’s alright,” a heavy voice drips into my ear, persistent over my cries. Patiently, the owner coaxes me back to a reality of silken sheets and a darkened room. “You’re safe. Wake up. Look at me, Francesca.”
For a twisted, painful few seconds, all I can do is struggle to breathe as I take stock of my limbs. I’m drenched—but the liquid isn’t blood, just sweat. I’m not in hell either. A nearby window displays a view of Fair Haven bathed in darkness, illuminated with accents of neon.
“You were dreaming,” Maxim murmurs, brushing his lips over my forehead with a rare gentleness. He’s beside me, his heat like an anchor, giving me strength against the tidal wave of fear threatening to swamp my thoughts. All those memories…
It’s getting harder to ignore them. Harder to keep them at bay.
I saw yet another man die in front of me. More than one.
Sooner or later, I’ll have to face that fully. I can’t hide from the horror forever.
“Sleep,” Maxim insists as if reading my mind. He eases his fingers into my hair, parting the sweat-soaked strands. “What happened changes nothing. You’ll meet with the realtor in the morning—”
“What if your family tries to attack you again?” I’m shaking at the thought of it, and more terrifying worries sneak into my brain. The constant danger. The crippling paranoia. It will always be like this with him. Always. “What if—”
“I will ensure you have a team of security on you at all times,” he says, raising his voice to gently overpower mine. He sounds different, though I can’t name how.Exhausted?As if what happened in the tub drained parts of him away. His cold baritone resonates warmer than usual as a result, and it sinks into my bones, easing my fear. “As you said, I do not spook easily,” he adds. “So sleep. If you trust me as you claimed to, then trust me now. No one will ever harm you again.” His eyes scan my face intently, hunting for any sign of doubt. When I finally start to drift off, he sighs, relieved. “I’m here…”
* * *
He’s gonebefore I wake up. The mass of sheets twisted around my body reveals that he didn’t lay beside me for very long. Just enough to soothe me back to sleep before rising again. Then I suspect he paced until dawn before the windows, mulling over the prospect of his kingdom in peril.
A gray dawn bathes said kingdom, and the room itself, in a soft, neutral glow now. It’s such a jarring contrast to the chaos of last night, but I know better than to enjoy it for very long. Instead, I rise from the bed and stretch to wake up my sore limbs. After grabbing a clean dress from the closet, I shower alone and leave the bedroom to find a plate of lukewarm food waiting for me on the dining room table, along with a note.
I will be gone until tonight.The realtor has a list of my preferences. I insist upon themall. — Maxim.
My lips twitch as I fold the note and set it aside. I don’t know whether to laugh at the rare attempt at a joke on his part, or…
Shiver. I suspect his “preferences” go far beyond a request for a particular architecture style or double sinks. The more I stress over what he could want, the more I start to second guess going out alone at all.
But intuition warns against the panic. Trust goes both ways. If I want him to include me in his life, I can’t attach myself to him forever. I can’t always kneel in his shadow.
I need to make a place for myself and determine my own rules as to what I’ll allow within it.
So I eat, and when the realtor comes, I’m ready. Hours later, we’ve explored every fucking mansion within a twenty-mile radius, and some of my previous confidence starts to wane.
Who knew that a “family home” was a foreign concept in this city? Sure, there are plenty of spacious mansions like the few Maxim’s shoved my family into before. They look beautiful, with plenty of space and “curb appeal,” according to the realtor.
But none of them seem…real. Stable. Like ahome, not that I’m a fucking expert on those. Even with money being no obstacle, I can’t bring myself to sign off on any of the sprawling, lifeless structures I tour with Jonathan, an Italian man who peppers nearly every sentence with architectural terms.
“As you can see, this atrium will provide your family maximum privacy while allowing in some sunlight and the allusion of the outdoors.” He beams at the plastic-looking trees and flowers cramped within the narrow space in the center of the last home on the list.
Suffice to say, it’s a no.
I’m exhausted when I finally return to the suite. I’ve spent my entire life in the slums, and yet a day touring fancy homes worth millions has somehow left me feeling filthier than I ever did in Horn Hill. Disgusted, I strip my clothing right at the door and head straight for the bathroom. When I finally emerge from the shower wearing a robe, I discover that someone is already in the bedroom, ripping a suit from his muscular limbs.
“You found nothing,” he says without looking in my direction. Am I surprised that he’s kept tabs on my progress?
Maybe not.
