Page 20 of Broomsticks and Bloodstains
His gaze sharpened. “Because of him.” Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping lower. “But you listen to me, Sofia. Once you step into my world, there is no leaving. Do you understand?”
He got to his feet and approached the bed like a prowling tiger.
Part of me wanted to scream that I hadn’t chosen this world, that I hadn’t asked for any of it. But the words stuck in my throat, drowned out by the way my pulse fluttered when his hand touched my ankle, sliding up my calf like a promise and a warning.
I was terrified. And yet I was drawn to him like I’d never been drawn to anyone in my life.
I nodded.
Midweek, the bar was practically empty when the door swung open and Konstantin Makarov and Dima Lebedev walked in like they owned the place. Maksim was already at the counter, a glass untouched in front of him, and the moment he saw the two men, his jaw locked.
Konstantin’s eyes flicked to me, cool and sharp, before settling on Maksim. Dima stood back and stared at me with cold, dead eyes. Konstantin slid onto the stool beside Maksim, ordered nothing, and spoke in Russian low enough that only they could hear.
But I caught the gist. I caught my name.
Then they started speaking in English, but they were quiet. How they could hear each other was beyond me. As I passed to drop off a beer to Benito, I overheard some of what was said.
“…Boris is asking if she’s an issue. He’s not happy you’ve been spending so much time sniffing after her. He thinks you’re losing your edge. He told me to remind you—she knows too much. If things go south…” Konstantin’s eyes cut to me again, like a knife sliding across skin. “…you’ll have no choice but to eliminate her.”
It became apparent why he’d switched to English.
The glass in Maksim’s hand shattered into two neat pieces, vodka and blood dripping across his knuckles. His voice was calm when he answered, but the rage underneath it rippled like a storm about to break.
“Tell Boris I know my place.”
Konstantin gave a humorless smile, tapped the bar once, and left as quietly as he’d come—Dima on his heels like an obedient dog.
Maksim grabbed several napkins to clean up his mess.
Maybe I should’ve given him a bar rag, but instead, I stood frozen behind the counter, pretending to wipe glasses, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might crack my ribs.
That night, Maksim came home with me.
We didn’t speak about Konstantin, or Boris, or the blood that already bound us together. We spoke with our bodies instead—rough, urgent, desperate like we both knew the world outside my walls was waiting to tear us apart.
Our conversation was the slide of our slick skin against each other, the panted breaths that mingled, and the groans that echoed in the small room.
Hours later, I lay awake, his arm heavy across my waist, his breath steady against my shoulder.
I stared at the ceiling, every muscle in my body aching with exhaustion, with satisfaction… and with dread.
It was one thing to fall in love with the idea of a man like him—the dark romance novels with the dangerous antiheroes, the whispered stories of the mafia and the Russian Bratva—stories filled with danger and power. It was another thing entirely to see the way that knife glinted in the alley. To feel another man’s hot blood splatter against your skin. To know what kind of brutality this life demanded if I chose Maksim.
I told myself I was still free to choose. That I could walk away.
But deep down, staring into the dark, I already knew the truth.
I was his.
And there was no leaving now.
Chapter 13
Maksim
No, Boris Volkov was not my boss. He was not anyone’s boss.
The Bratva wasn’t built with chains of command like the Army. It was a brotherhood—equals, bound by blood and oaths, each man carrying his own weight and wielding his own talent.
