Page 42 of Shattered Crown

“Maxim is not the only powerful man in this city.” He puffs out his chest as if he can compete with Maxim’s raw masculinity and commanding presence. “There’s plenty that happens without his knowledge. In fact, as the mayor, I wield considerable power.”

“Maybe you can help me then…” I pause and give him my best sweet-and-innocent look. “I’ve always wanted to know what happened with Masha Antonov. She’s a relation, and I never really got a straight answer about how she died.”

“Ah, yes. Masha.” Pyotr’s hand comes to rest on my thigh again.

I swallow down my disgust for a hot minute because I need to hear his answer.

“It was a shame the way she was killed, wasn’t it.”

Impatience blasts through my veins. “How did she end up at that warehouse in the first place? Who lured her there? It had to be someone with considerable power to hide their involvement—” The words die in my throat as the mayor’s fingertips brush the inner seam of my panties.

I freeze, bile filling my throat.

“I’ll share what I know … but what will you do for me?”

"Nothing!" I try to push his hands away, but he holds firm. “I’m serious,” I gasp, struggling against his grip. "I’ll scream.”

“Just you try,” he snarls.

I sink my nails into his forearm and he bites out a curse, when the door suddenly swings open.

Maxim stands there, radiating an aura of barely-contained rage that drops the room’s temperature by several degrees.

"Get your fucking hands off my wife." Maxim's voice is a deadly whisper, each word dripping with menace.

Pyotr visibly pales. He withdraws his hand and scrambles to sit up straighter. "Belov, we were just discussing?—"

"How I’m going to kill you?" Maxim cuts him off, stepping further into the room, his tall frame casting an imposing shadow. “How, if I ever find you with your hands on my wife again, I will string you up by your dick and make sure you dangle there until it rips straight off of your body? Then I will personallyremove each and every one of your appendages with a hacksaw until you bleed out. Is that what you were discussing?”

I'm shaken, my stomach churning with nausea from everything that’s happened, yet there's a sliver of relief in knowing how fiercely Maxim is willing to protect me. But is it really about me, or a possessive claim over what he considers his?

Pyotr's face reddens with a mix of fear and humiliation. For all his bluster and bravado, the mayor looks ready to piss himself.

"Maxim—" I begin, but he stops me with a raised hand.

“Did he hurt you?” His eyes close, and he swallows hard. “Did he do more than what I saw?”

I shake my head, and a muscle in his jaw twitches. The stoic mask he always wears slips, exposing a rare glimpse of something deeper. There's a fierceness in his eyes, but it's not about possession. Could it be that he’s actually concerned?

“It was nothing,” Pyotr says hastily, getting to his feet. He takes a handkerchief from the inner pocket of his jacket and dabs at the sweat now running down his face. "You can’t be serious. Since when have you ever cared for a woman?”

Maxim smiles, and it’s frightening. “Since now.” His eyes flicker towards me, a softening in his gaze that contrasts the harshness of his words. “We’ll call this a misunderstanding. Now you know better.”

The mayor nods frantically, like one of those bobbleheads people put on their car dashboard. At least he’s smart enough to take the out Maxim is providing.

"In that case," Maxim continues, "we will bid you a goodnight." He extends his hand to the mayor to end the night with a handshake. It's a Trojan horse if I've ever seen one.

Unfortunately for Pyotr, he doesn't see the warning signs. As their hands meet, Maxim's clasp quickly turns from cordial tocrushing. His tightening grip is swift, ruthless, and calculated. Pyotr's face contorts in pain, his eyes widening in a mix of shock and agony as the unmistakable sound of bones crunching under the pressure echoes through the room. Pyotr's knees buckle, his other hand instinctively reaching out to cradle the one being crushed, trying to pry Maxim's fingers away. But it’s of no use.

My heart slams against my chest watching Maxim exact his revenge with a slow, icy smile. This is the cold-hearted predator that I’ve seen glimpses of. I wonder what would happen if we weren’t in Pyotr’s home with his wife upstairs, what Maxim would actually do. The thought causes a chill to travel down my spine, and it’s not in revulsion. There's an undeniable thrill in knowing that this ruthless, hard man would go to any length, even risking valuable alliances, to protect me.

And there’s a twisted sense of satisfaction in seeing Pyotr face the consequences of his vile actions.

Maxim finally releases his hold and Pyotr crumples, his now mangled hand trembling as he holds it close to his chest, his face ashen. But Maxim is no longer looking at his victim; his eyes have moved on to me.

“Let’s go,” he says, grabbing my arm. His voice, dripping with dominance, makes my skin tingle.

One part of me—the smarter part, I suppose—is telling me to shake his hand off me and give him shit. I was capable of putting the mayor in his place. But the other part of me? Feminism has completely left my body because that part is soaking her panties and allowing the beast I call a husband to escort me out of the room.

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