Page 33 of Bound in Possession

From growing up under my father's roof, I know how these men operate. There are documents for everything. Men like them always keep records—ledgers, intelligence files, dossiers on their enemies. They never trust their memory alone with an empire this size. And Maksim’s private office is the heart of this entire fortress.

I slip out of the lounge and quietly navigate the grand, silent corridors of the mansion, making my way toward the west wing where his study is located. My heart hammers against my ribs, each step echoing too loudly in my ears, but the burning need for answers pushes me forward into the lion's den.

I arrive at the heavy, double oak doors of his office. I glance down the empty hallway, take a steadying breath, and turn the brass handle. It yields with a soft, expensive click.

Stepping inside, I quickly shut the door behind me, immersing myself in the scent of rich leather, mahogany, and Maksim’s distinct, dark cologne.

I immediately head toward the massive executive desk dominating the center of the room. My fingers tremble as I pull open the first drawer. Files, standard business contracts, and tech schematics look back at me. Nothing about Viktor.

Frustration mounts, hot and sharp in my chest.

I begin to search his study in earnest. I rifle through the heavy drawers one by one, shifting stacks of financial ledgers and property deeds. I check the surface of the table, flipping through the leather-bound blotter, searching for a stray note, a printed dossier, or any mention of the name that is hunting me.

I move to the bookshelves, running my hands behind the leather volumes, checking for hidden compartments or wall safes. I scan the adjacent filing cabinets, my heart beating in my throat with every second that ticks by.

Nothing. Not a single tangible piece of intelligence on Viktor.

"Come on, Maksim," I whisper under my breath, running a hand through my hair in pure frustration. He’s too smart to leave a war map sitting in the open, but there has to be something here. I refuse to give up, digging deeper into the desk drawers, my eyes scanning every scrap of paper with desperate intensity.

Just then, the distant sound of deep, heavy voices echoes down the hallway, heading straight toward the west wing.

My heart leaps into my throat. I freeze, my breath catching as the footsteps grow louder, accompanied by the distinct, commanding rumble of Maksim’s voice. They're right outside. I rush to my feet, panicking as I look around the room for an exit, but before I can even take a step toward the adjacent lounge door, the brass handle of the main door begins to turn.

I let out a sharp gasp and do the only thing my panicked brain can think of—I dive beneath the massive mahogany executive desk, pulling my dress tightly around my legs and shrinking into the shadows of the kneehole.

The heavy oak doors swing open.

From my cramped position beneath the desk, my vision is restricted to the floor, but I can clearly see the legs of the people who just walked in. Four pairs of polished leather dress boots and structured trousers step onto the plush Persian rug. It’s Maksim, Dmitri, and two other heavily built men from his inner circle.

The air in the room instantly turns thick, vibrating with a tense, dangerous energy. They sound mid-argument, their voices low and tight with lethal frustration.

Right at the threshold, Maksim stops dead in his tracks. "Stop," he commands.

The single word drops like an iron anvil. The other three men instantly go quiet, the sudden, absolute silence in the room filling with a suffocating pressure. My heart pounds so violently against my ribs I am certain they can hear it echoing through the wood of the desk. My hands grip my knees, my knuckles turning stark white as I try to blend into the shadows.

"Leave," Maksim says, his voice flat, completely devoid of emotion.

I frown slightly from my hiding spot.

"Pakhan, the coordinates for the Queens warehouse—" one of the men start, but Maksim cuts him off with a low, dangerous growl.

"Out. All of you. Clear the corridor."

I hear the rustle of fabric as the men bow their heads, their heavy shoes turning around and stepping out of the office. The massive double doors click shut with a heavy, definitive thud, sealing the room off from the rest of the house.

For a long, agonizing moment, there’s just silence. The kind of silence that precedes a thunderstorm. Through the gap under the desk, I see Maksim’s unmoving leather shoes standing a few feet away. He doesn't walk toward his chair. He doesn't move a muscle.

Then, his deep, rough voice cuts through the quiet, sounding entirely too close.

"Come out, Camilla."

My heart thuds, skipping a desperate beat. He knew. Of course, he knew.

Realizing the futility of hiding any longer, I swallow the massive lump in my throat. I slowly creep out from beneath the dark safety of the mahogany desk, my limbs stiff as I straighten up to my full height. I smooth down my rumpled gown, lifting my chin defensively to meet his gaze as I stand before him.

Maksim stands with his hands casually tucked into his trouser pockets, his dark suit jacket pushed back just enough to reveal the leather holster beneath it. His face is an unreadable mask of cold, sharp angles, but his eyes burn with a dark, intense heat as they track my movement.

"Rifling through my personal drawers and hiding under my desk like a common thief," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that sends a sudden, treacherous shiver down my spine.