Page 100 of Santa Daddy
Boots hit marble, heavy and fast.
Maksim didn’t register it in time. He was too busy trying to peel my shirt down off my shoulder.
Konstantin’s voice cut across the kitchen like a blade.
“Maksim.”
Everything stopped for half a second. Maksim’s fingers froze on my skin.
Then something big and furious slammed into him from behind.
His arm was ripped off me. The grip on my torn shirt vanished. I spun, stumbling back against the island, one arm flying up to cover my chest.
Konstantin had both hands in his cousin’s coat, dragging him away from me like he weighed nothing.
He drove him straight into the refrigerator.
The impact shook the metal, rattling something on the shelves inside.
Konstantin didn’t pause.
He hit him again.
And again.
His fist cracked into Maksim’s face, ribs, gut—wherever he could land it. The nice suit crumpled under the blows. Wine and blood smeared across stainless steel and wool.
“You touch her,” he snarled, accent thick enough to break the words, “in my house?”
Maksim tried to cover up. Tried to get a hand on Konstantin’s arm.
Konstantin slammed his forearm across his throat, pinning him to the fridge, feet scrabbling for traction on bloody marble.
“With my shirt on her,” he spat. “With my ring on her hand. You think I let this go?”
“She—” Maksim choked, face mottled. “She attacked first?—”
Konstantin punched him in the side of the head. “Do not speak,” he said. “I do not care who threw first glass. I care who put hands on her.”
His knuckles were split, skin torn on bone. Blood ran down his wrist.
“I will kill you,” he said, low and terrifyingly calm. “Right here. Right now.”
“You can’t,” Maksim rasped. “Blood. In your house. Father’s will. Council.” He coughed, red bubbling at his lip. “You shoot me here, they strip you. They hang you. They take everything from her too.”
It was the only thing he had. He used it like a shield.
For one long second, I thought Konstantin would do it anyway.
His jaw worked. His forearm pressed harder across Maksim’s windpipe.
“Look at me,” Maksim gasped. “Think. You want them to say, ‘He lost control over pussy’?” His eyes glittered wildly. “They already think you weak. This proves it.”
Something in Konstantin’s expression shifted—not softening. Calculating.
“Don’t say that word,” he said, voice going dead.
He yanked Maksim off the fridge and hurled him sideways. Maksim crashed into the end of the island and slid to the floor, gasping.
