Page 30 of Bound in Possession

I blink in surprise, looking from the massive shoes to him. I reluctantly slide my feet into them. They are absurdly huge, my feet swimming in the rich leather, but they are warm from his skin.

Maksim picks up my ruined footwear in one hand. Completely barefoot, his dark socks pressing directly against the cold, rough concrete of the pavement, he walks right beside me, matching his pace to my clumsy, oversized steps all the way to the open door of the car.

We slide into the backseat of the car, and the heavy door thuds shut, sealing us back into that familiar, suffocating leather bubble. The engine purrs to life, pulling us out into the dimly lit streets. I immediately kick off his ridiculously oversized shoes and tuck my bare feet up onto the seat, my entire body vibrating with residual anger.

"I am so tired of this," I bite out into the darkness of the car, the silence finally snapping. I turn to glare at his silhouette. "I am tired of the noose around my neck. I am tired of you hovering over me like I'm a prisoner waiting for execution, showing up at the restaurant just to flex your power."

Maksim doesn't look at me. He just stares straight ahead, his jaw locked tight as he loosens the top button of his shirt. "I told you why I was there. You ignored my calls. In my world, a missing fiancé who isn't answering her phone usually means a corpse or a hostage."

"I was with my sisters!" I snap, throwing my hands up. "The only person threatening me right now is Viktor, and you refuse to tell me anything. What is Viktor planning? Give me something, Maksim. It's my life on the line."

He finally turns his head. "It's better if you don't know."

"Better for who? You?"

"Better for your safety, Camilla," he says, his voice dropping into that flat, dangerous tone that leaves absolutely no room for argument. "I handle Viktor. You focus on surviving the wedding. That is the end of the discussion."

I let out a sharp, frustrated huff, the sheer arrogance of his response making my blood boil. Without another word, I slide as far away from him as the leather seat allows, pressing my shoulder against the door and staring blindly out the window.

Let him think he's won this round. I don't care that we are getting married in less than forty-eight hours. I don't care if I have to stand at an altar and say vows to him in front of the entire underworld. I am never speaking to him again. Not a single word. He can spend the rest of his life married to a ghost. The arrogant, controlling bastard.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

MAKSIM

The next morning, the sun streams through the high windows of the dining room, but the atmosphere inside is freezing. We sit at opposite ends of the long mahogany table, the quiet between us so thick you could cut it with a knife. Camilla hasn't spoken a single word to me since we got back into the car last night.

Stubborn woman.

I cut into eggs, deliberately matching her silence with my own. I have no intention of breaking it first. Part of me finds her icy little tantrum incredibly cute; it shows the sheer fire hidden beneath her high-society breeding. The other part of me is highly amused, completely content to wait and see exactly how she plans to handle this silent treatment during our wedding in two days. Let’s see if she refuses to speak her vows at the altar.

The heavy silence is abruptly shattered by the sound of hurried footsteps.

I look up to see the head of my perimeter detail entering the dining room. He carries a sleek, matte-black box in his hands. He approaches the table with a tense, rigid posture and sets the box down right beside my plate.

"This was left at the front gates, Pakhan," the guard swallows hard, his voice tight. "We swept it for explosives. It's clear. But... we don’t know what's inside."

Camilla’s eyes shift from her plate to the box, her fork freezing halfway to her mouth, her silent mask cracking for a fraction of a second.

I pull the box toward me and flip the latch, lifting the lid.

Resting inside the velvet lining is a crumpled piece of laminated cardstock. It’s the number placard Camilla wore pinned to her dress on the auction block in Sicily—the one that had probably ripped off and fallen to the bloody floor during our frantic escape through the gunfire. I don’t fucking know.

Number 102.

Only now, the white card is heavily smeared with dark, dried blood.

Tucked neatly beneath the placard is a small, heavy piece of parchment. I pick it up, unfolding it to reveal a message written in a familiar, jagged script.

You bought only time, Sokolov. Not ownership. She is mine.

- V

Viktor.

A sharp, ragged gasp pierces the quiet of the dining room. I snap my head up, my eyes instantly locking onto Camilla. The stubborn defiance she wore like armor just seconds ago has completely evaporated. Her face is stark white, her eyes pinned to the bloody placard inside the open box, staring at it as if she’s looking at a ghost.

I slam the lid of the black box shut, cutting off the sight, and slide it out of view.