Page 41 of The Crimson Lily
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 termsadiques, 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. “Iwantto 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.
