Page 15 of Broomsticks and Bloodstains
My cheeks heated. “Thank you.”
“Mr. Sokolov? Right this way,” the host murmured.
Sokolov. I filed that away.
Maksim rested his hand on my lower back as he gently guided me through the tables after the man carrying the leather-clad menus.
Though I held my chin high, I felt incredibly out of place in my skinny jeans, knee-high suede boots, and off-the-shoulder sweater. Except Maksim treated me like I was dressed in Chanel.
Lunch turned into a blur of expensive suits, exquisite appetizers, and sharp, all-knowing eyes across the table. In the restaurant he brought me to, the smell of money was as strong as the delicious scent of lavish food.
We were seated in a cozy alcove with floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, the city was all hustle and bustle, but we were nestled in a practical oasis where the sun warmed our backs and sent prisms cascading onto the pristine white tablecloth off the cut crystal glasses.
As I ate a lunch that likely cost more than I made in a night, he asked questions I didn’t want to answer and told me things I couldn’t tell if they were truths or lies. The way he watched me—like I was the only thing in the room that mattered—made me occasionally forget how to breathe.
And afterward, when he drove me home, it wasn’t a choice. Not really. His hand on my back, his mouth on mine before the door was even closed, the way I melted and burned and forgot every warning bell in my head.
We didn’t make it to the bed. Hell, we didn’t make it to the couch. The wall by the door bore the proof of that. Passionate wasn’t the word. It was wildfire. Possessive. Consuming.
“Fuck, Sofia,” he cursed under his breath as he filled me.
“Yes,” I moaned and dug my nails into his firm ass cheeks.
Every time I tried to remind myself this was wrong, that he was dangerous, his hands dragged me back into the blazing fire. And God help me, I didn’t want to find a way out.
By the time the sun went down, I’d stopped pretending it was simply a mistake.
I knew better, but I couldn’t help myself.
This wasn’t an ending. This was the beginning of something I had no control over.
And Maksim Sokolov wasn’t the kind of man you walked away from.
By the end of that week, I’d stopped pretending he was a mistake.
Maksim showed up everywhere. One day, he’d be outside O’Malley’s, leaning against the wall like he owned the sidewalk, or he’d be outside my building, waiting in that black SUV that seemed more sleek shadow than machine. Several times he was inside the diner across the street, nursing a coffee like he had all the time in the world.
He didn’t ask. He appeared.
One night he dragged me into the corner booth of a late-night café in Little Odessa, ordered for both of us in Russian that rolled over my skin like a caress, then spent the entire time watching me eat as though he needed proof I’d finished every bite. Another afternoon, he pulled me out of my shift on some excuse about needing me, took me to lunch at a posh little place where the waiters greeted him like royalty, and kept his hand on my thigh the entire time.
Every night ended the same—my apartment, his mouth, my body burning until I couldn’t remember why I’d ever wanted to run away from him.
“What’s going on with you?” Isabella asked me the night I filled in as the bartender for a small, intimate Halloween party for a famous designer on Park Avenue.
“What do you mean?” I asked, not making eye contact as I worked on the drink order she was waiting for.
“I haven’t hardly talked to you since the Popov party,” she huffed petulantly.
I laughed. “Girl, you know we’ve both been busy working and when you’re not, you’re up Weston’s ass.”
Her lower lip protruded and she crossed her arms. “I don’t like that you’re alone so much. What about Esteban? Has he reached out to you?”
“No, but it’s okay,” I replied with what I hoped was a nonchalant shrug.
She was quiet as I finished the last Halloween-themed cosmopolitan. When I set it on her tray with the rest, I saw her staring at me, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Who is he?” she finally asked with an arched brow.
