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“What does that mean?” I pressed, feeling more and more uneasy by the second.
He sighed heavily before looking straight into my eyes.
“My wife, Elena, died giving birth to my daughter,” he finally answered, his expression distant. “It was a complicated pregnancy, filled with risks we were warned about. In the end, the choice to go through with it was hers, and she did it for us—for our family. But she didn’t make it.” His voice dropped to almost a whisper, and the room seemed to hold its breath with him.
He paused, looking away and collecting himself before continuing. “I’ve never forgiven myself. It feels like I pushed her to make that decision. Like I prioritized having a child over her safety. That’s why it feels like I killed her.” His gaze met mine again, raw and open, as he shared a piece of his past that clearly still haunted him.
I lowered the photo, the anger seeping out of me, replaced by a hollow feeling of empathy. “I-I didn’t know. I’m sorry,” I stammered, unsure of what to say.
“You weren’t meant to know. That’s my burden to bear, not yours.” He took another step closer, his presence commanding yet still somehow vulnerable. “As for the armory, yes, I am a leader within my own bratva family. It’s a role I inherited, one that comes with responsibilities—to protect not just my family but those under my care, including you, Riley.”
“Why me? Why go through all this trouble for someone you barely know?” I asked, the picture still in my hand, now hanging limply by my side as he took several more steps toward me.
Maxim reached out and took it from me, gently running his fingers along the surface, the way someone would caress a lover before he placed it down on the table.
He was quiet for a moment before speaking.
“Because you belong to Daddy, moya malyshka, and it’s become painfully obvious to me that you need to be reminded of that,” he said, his voice so low that it was almost a whisper.
My stomach did the thing where it flip-flopped, and it was suddenly hard to breathe. My body started tingling. My nipples hardened and the heat between my thighs grew.
It was the most confusing sensation, and all I could do was watch him as he reached out and wrapped a single finger around the tip of the knife.
Then he plucked it right out of my hand.
And my heart leapt right up into my throat.
In the next moment, he reached out, gripped my wrist, and spun me around until my back was flush with his chest.
His body was warm and solid behind me. For a moment, I allowed myself to enjoy the feel of his hard muscles against me, but not for too long.
I began to fight.
With ease, he trapped my arms and pinned them behind my back. Then with one arm, he flipped open the switchblade and I froze.
Gently, he slid the tip beneath the collar of my shirt.
I held my breath.
Slowly, the tip slid up the fabric, the blade so sharp that the shirt parted like butter, leaving a line of exposed skin in its wake.
I couldn’t breathe. My heart pounded against my ribcage like it was trying to force itself out. A quiet whimper escaped my throat.
With meticulous care, he sliced through my t-shirt, baring my flesh bit by bit until the remains of it fell away from me in tatters.
Then he slid the edge of the knife beneath the strap of my bra and lifted it gently. The fabric split as if he were cutting through paper. One cup pulled away from my breast and then he did the same on the other side.
In mere moments, the remnants of my bra joined my t-shirt on the floor.
“Maxim, please,” I pleaded.
“Daddy,” he corrected.
“Please, Daddy,” I tried, and a low rumble of approval came from his throat.
“Such a good girl for Daddy,” he mused, and a shiver of pleasure raced through me at his words. “Now stay still, Daddy is going to cut away the rest of these pretty clothes.”
The blade was cool against my skin, and I gasped softly, feeling the edge of the knife begin to slice through the fabric of my yoga pants.
